I’m James Ramshaw, and I’m putting this event on because I owe something back.

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I joined the Royal Marines at 30. That’s late by most people’s standards, but it was exactly the right move for me. I served until I was 36, and in those five to six years the Corps did what it does best: it rebuilt me from the inside out. Not with motivational quotes. With routine. Standards. And people who don’t let you disappear.

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One of the biggest changes for me was sport. I threw myself into it, boxing and rugby, with lads in our battalions, all over the world. It wasn’t just about fitness. It was discipline you can’t fake. It was getting dragged up to the line on days you weren’t at your best. It was learning how to stay composed when your body is screaming and your head is trying to negotiate a way out.

 

And it was camaraderie,real camaraderie, the kind where someone notices you’re not yourself before you’ve even said a word.

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The Marines invested in me in practical ways too.

They even paid for my scaffolding ticket. That might sound like a small detail, but it isn’t. That’s the point. The Corps doesn’t just talk about looking after people, it does it.

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Then I left.

And if you’ve been there, you’ll know what I mean when I say: leaving can hit hard. The structure goes. The daily purpose shifts. The banter and the lads aren’t just “at work” anymore, they’re part of the framework that kept you steady. I got low. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just… flat. Lost. Like the map I’d been using had stopped working overnight.

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And this is the part people don’t always see,the Royal Marines reached out. I didn’t have to perform or pretend. They got in touch because that’s what we do, we look after our own.

 

Through that, I was supported by the Royal Marines charity, the same cause I’m raising money for now. They helped me when it mattered most. They gave me funding to requalify, and more importantly, they gave me something I hadn’t felt in a while: hope. A way forward. A reason to believe I wasn’t finished just because that chapter had ended.

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That’s why I’m doing this.

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Because the Royal Marines isn’t just a job. It’s a family. In the Marines, everyone looks after everyone. It builds your character. It gives you confidence. It makes you sharper, more disciplined, more organised. We’ve all got our own demons, every one of us, but the structure and the standards changed the way I lived. It made me better.

So now it’s my turn to carry something back.

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I’m taking on a marathon, 26.2 miles, carrying 30 pounds of weight.

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That weight is symbolic for me. It represents the speed-march weight, the kind of load you carry in service without complaint, because the job needs doing. But it also represents something else, the burden of poor mental health. The load you can’t always see on someone’s back. The silent weight that makes basic things harder than they should be. The kind of weight that can convince you you’re alone, until the right people step in.

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This run is my way of saying, I remember what that support felt like. I remember what it changed. And I want to help make sure it’s there for the next person who needs it.​

If you can support, donate. If you can’t, share. Either way, you’re helping keep that lifeline strong.​

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Because sometimes the difference between someone sinking and someone steadying themselves… is a community that refuses to let them go unseen.