Freya arrived via emergency C-section, a sudden and terrifying turn when my partner was already 5–6cm dilated. Within hours of stepping into the hospital, our world changed forever. There was no time to process, no space for fear — only the urgent need to get Freya here safely.
The Fight for Every Breath
From the moment she was born, Freya fought. And we fought with her.
The first time I saw her, she was so impossibly small, her skin almost translucent, a tiny warrior in a nest of wires and machines. She could not breathe on her own — her lungs simply were not ready. A ventilator kept her alive.
Leaving the hospital that first night without our baby was something I will never forget. It felt unnatural, unbearable. But this was only the beginning.
For weeks, we lived in a cycle of one step forward, two steps back. We celebrated every little victory: moving from the ventilator to BiPAP (bilevel positive airway pressure - a non-invasive breathing machine), to CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure - a machine that uses air pressure), to high-flow oxygen — only to watch her fragile body struggle and slip back. We learned the language of survival: heel prick tests, ROP (Retinopathy of prematurity) screenings, heart murmurs, oxygen saturation levels. Some nights, we waited by the phone, dreading the call that something had changed. Other mornings, we called before sunrise, desperate for an update even as we rushed to her side.
Bringing Freya Home
The day we finally brought Freya home was one of the best, and scariest, moments of our lives. She was still on oxygen, which meant our relief was tangled with worry. How would we keep her safe? How would we manage all this equipment? How do you parent a child who has already been through more than most of us will in a lifetime?
And yet, here we are today, just months away from Freya’s third birthday.
She is unstoppable. She is funny, fierce, and full of life. She never slows down—unless she is singing along to Frozen (her princess era is in full force). She is, without a doubt, the strongest person I know.
Why I’m Running: For Ickle Pickles
This year, I am running the London Marathon 2025 for Freya, and for every baby like her who started life fighting for every breath.
We were lucky. But thousands of families every year face the same terrifying journey, and many need even more help. That’s why I’m raising money for Ickle Pickles, an incredible charity that provides life-saving equipment for premature and sick babies in neonatal units across the UK.
Without the incubators, ventilators, and care that Ickle Pickles helps fund, Freya —and so many others— would not be here today.
Right now, I’m eight weeks into training: three runs a week, somehow squeezed into the chaos of family life. It is exhausting. It is brutal. But it is nothing compared to what Freya and so many tiny warriors have been through.
Every mile is for her.
Every step is for the parents pacing hospital corridors.
Every donation is for the babies who still need a fighting chance.
Please support my journey and help Ickle Pickles continue their incredible work. Every pound raised helps save a life—just like Freya’s.
Freya is living proof that strength isn’t measured in size, it is measured in heart.
And that is why I’ll keep running.
Donate at: 2025tcslondonmarathon.enthuse.com/pf/jamie-mullins-ldn25