Founder Pippa's Story

Born Into Sport

Running has always been in my blood. With two international athletes for parents and three older siblings who excelled in every sport, you could say I was born into a high-performance environment. Our family didn’t just attend school sports days; we dominated them. At home, mealtimes often felt like survival of the fittest, and it wasn’t long before I earned my place on the family podium. By the time I reached my teens, I was competing for Great Britain at the World Junior Athletics Championships and had secured a scholarship to one of the best NCAA Division 1 universities in the U.S.

From the outside, I was living the dream. I had the scholarship, the sponsorships, and the incredible privilege of waking up every day to do what I loved. But beneath the surface, I was fighting a losing battle with an undiagnosed disorder that would slowly unravel everything I’d worked for.

I started sharing my story in 2021, not just as a cautionary tale, but as a message of hope for the countless others navigating the all-too-common struggles of REDs (Relative Energy Deficiency in Sport). I spent the best part of my twenties searching for answers to what was happening to my body (and mind for that matter), bouncing between doctors, specialists, and endless tests, only to eventually discover that it all came down to something relatively simple: an energy deficiency. And yet, despite how concerningly common REDs is, it remains unbelievably under-recognised, poorly identified, and often misdiagnosed.

Recovery is absolutely achievable, and support is always within reach, if only you know where to look for it. My mission now is to raise awareness so athletes and exercisers everywhere can recognise the signs early and seek help before their health is compromised in the long-term. So, here are all the details about what happened to me, how I lost my way, the lessons I learned, and the path I ultimately took toward recovery. I hope it helps.

The Early Days: Strength Advantage

Growing up, I always identified as one of the “bigger” runners. It wasn’t a concern, just an observation. After years of keeping up with my older, stronger, siblings, I embraced filling out my formerly scrawny frame. So when race commentators called me “strong", I took it as a compliment. It was my strength that kept me injury-free and propelled me to podiums, scholarships, and international competitions.

But as I began climbing the ranks and competing at higher levels, something started to shift. Suddenly, being strong didn't seem like enough. I began to notice that the runners I admired, the ones dominating the long-distance races, looked a certain way: long, lean, almost weightless. And so, a seed was planted. I began to wonder if I, too, needed to look like them in order to succeed.

A Slippery Slope: Chasing the Athletic Aesthetic

When the opportunity arose to train in America on a scholarship, I seized it. This was my chance to go “all in” on running. To train harder, push further, and refine every detail, including my diet. But I wasn’t reckless. I knew about the dangers of becoming too thin, the girls who lost their periods, who fractured their bones, or spiralled into chronic fatigue. I wasn’t them. Or so I thought. But I also believed there was room for improvement in my nutrition. And that’s where it started.

At first, I exceeded my own expectations. With a new training program and a stricter, “clean” approach to eating, I started seeing results. My times improved, and I received compliments on my leaner physique. Studying the habits of successful athletes around me, I learned I didn’t need dessert after dinner, I could cycle instead of taking the bus, and if I wasn’t tired, I didn’t need a rest day. I felt in control, empowered by my discipline, and closer to the elite athletes I admired.

But behind the scenes, cracks were forming. My once-relaxed relationship with food became something much more obsessive, but I’d convince myself that this was the kind of discipline I saw in the top-tier athletes I admired. If they could sacrifice, so could I. And for a while, this mindset worked. I felt empowered by the control I had over my choices. The sacrifices seemed worth it when I saw results on the track. But soon, the consequences of my actions began to catch up with me.

Small Cracks, Big Warning Signs

The first warning signs were subtle, psychological, and I brushed them off entirely. I didn’t mind feeling a bit homesick, becoming increasingly preoccupied with hitting a specific weekly mileage, or feeling uncharacteristically low and irritable. As long as I was running well, I didn’t care.

I convinced myself that pro athletes thought about food all the time too. They didn’t indulge in unrefined carbs or 'treats' until the off-season, and that ‘clean eating’ was simply part of being the best. I was so determined to avoid the label of an ‘eating disorder’ that I refused to see my behaviour as anything other than commitment. I wasn’t skipping meals or making myself sick, so I convinced myself I was doing everything right.

It wasn’t until I returned home for Christmas that I started to realise just how much my behaviour had changed. Being back with my family, in the same relaxed environment I’d grown up in, I found myself rigid and anxious. The festive foods I’d always loved suddenly felt like obstacles. The joy I used to find in running with old friends had disappeared, replaced by solo sessions, where I could stay in control. Even as my family praised my new "athletic body", I felt hollow. Something was wrong, but I wasn’t ready to admit it.

Instead, I doubled down. I stuck to my strict routines, believing that any deviation would undo all my hard work. I took pride in my willpower. Skipping pudding became a badge of honour, and adding extra miles to my runs allowed me the occasional treat without guilt. I was still performing well in training, still getting faster.

As long as I was succeeding on the surface, I could push aside the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.

When the Body Fights Back

The turning point arrived when the physical consequences started to surface. At first, it was just fatigue, but more than the usual post-training tiredness, this was a bone-deep exhaustion that lingered even after rest days. I found myself dropping out of sessions, something I had never done before. Still, I convinced myself it was just a temporary slump, something that a few nights of good sleep could fix.

A blood test revealed my iron levels had taken another nosedive, a problem I’d dealt with on and off throughout my career. But this time, no amount of iron tablets or infusions seemed to help. My energy didn’t return. The exhaustion persisted, and with it came a host of other symptoms: constant colds that would turn into infections, niggling injuries, thinning hair, irritability, and a general feeling that something wasn’t right. Still, I pressed on. In the absence of any concrete answers, I was determined not to let a little fatigue or a dip in performance derail my plans. I had worked too hard to back off now.

The turning point came during one hot summer track session. My body had reached its breaking point, and for the first time, I couldn’t just push through. Strangely, amid the despair, I felt relief. I had no choice but to stop running. My body had forced me into the rest it so desperately needed.

Had I been diagnosed with REDs at this point, perhaps the next chapter would have unfolded differently. But no one, neither myself nor my coaches or members of my medical team, had ever heard of it. So I returned to the UK, still oblivious to what was truly happening to my body, and utterly exhausted.

Rock Bottom: Searching for Answers in the Dark

When I was finally forced by my body to rest, the rest wasn’t the relief I had imagined it might be. It came with a heavy weight of uncertainty and a deep sense of loss. Running had been my identity for as long as I could remember. Without it, I felt untethered, unsure of who I was or what my purpose was beyond the sport. I had always believed that if I just worked hard enough, if I just pushed through the pain, I could achieve anything. But now, my body had betrayed me. Or maybe, I had betrayed it.

I returned to the UK after graduating, hopeful that time off would be enough to reset and heal. I started to gain back the weight I had lost. Through therapy I learnt to embrace a more balanced approach to food, allowing myself to eat without the guilt that had begun to consume me. Mentally and physically I began to feel healthier, and on the surface, it seemed like I was on the right track.

But deep down, something still wasn’t right. Despite the rest and the weight gain, I still hadn’t regained my period, a glaring red flag that my body wasn’t truly recovered. My energy ebbed and flowed unpredictably, my gut was still a mess, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was living in someone else’s body. On days where I was able to train, it wasn’t the same. My performances were inconsistent, and I never felt like I was fully back to my old self. Yet every doctor and specialist I saw brushed it off as “normal,” explaining that missing periods and lingering fatigue were just part of the deal for female athletes.

I felt stuck, confused, frustrated, and desperate for answers. How could I still be so far from healthy, despite doing everything I was supposed to do?

The Breakthrough: Discovering RED-S

Eventually, I realised that if I was going to find answers, I’d have to look for them myself. When I first stumbled upon the International Olympic Committee's introduction to Relative Energy Deficiency in Sport (REDs, originally RED-S), I couldn’t believe something as simple as an energy deficit could explain the complexity of my symptoms. But as I read more, the pieces fell into place.

REDs occurs when an individual doesn’t consume enough energy to fuel both their training and basic physiological functions. Over time, the body goes into ‘preservation mode,’ disrupting hormones and affecting nearly every system. One of the clearest signs in female athletes is the loss of menstrual function, known as HA.

Suddenly, it all made sense. My fatigue, my gut issues, and my missing periods all traced back to a chronic energy deficit. Even though I had made some progress by eating more and reducing my mileage, I had never fully addressed the underlying energy deficit. My body had been in a chronic state of depletion for years, and my recovery had only scratched the surface.

It was a revelation, and a relief. Finally, I had a name for what I was experiencing, and more importantly, I had a way forward.

The Road to Recovery: Rebuilding Mind and Body

Armed with this new understanding, I set about doing what I should have done years earlier, properly fueling my body, reducing my training load, and learning how to embrace a more holistic approach to health, and life. It wasn’t easy. Years of conditioning had made it difficult to fully let go of the habits and mindsets that had got me into this mess, and I spent a while in an agonising cycle of partial recovery and relapse, stuck between my desire to change and my ingrained habits of underfueling and overtraining.

But as I slowly began to nourish my body and prioritise my health, relationships, and a more sustainable way of training, something remarkable happened: I started to feel alive again. My energy returned, my mood lifted, and eventually, after months - in fact years - of recovery, my period came back. It was a small but significant victory, the first sign that my body was beginning to trust me again.

With time, I returned to training, not with the goal of chasing an ideal body type or punishing myself for every sub-par performance, but with the aim of finding joy in movement and allowing my body to perform at its best. I learned that true strength isn’t about how 'healthily' you can eat or how many miles you can run, but about how well you can listen to your body and give it what it needs to thrive.

The Return: A New Approach to Running

As I eased back into training, everything felt different. I approached running with a sense of curiosity and respect for my body, knowing that my performance was now about balance, not sacrifice. This shift wasn’t easy. I had to retrain my brain to focus on how I felt, not just what the clock said after each run. But slowly, the numbers improved too.

I stopped thinking of food as something to be restricted or controlled, and instead, embraced it as essential fuel. All the things I had previously demonised or tried to reduce (namely carbs, fats, more carbs) became crucial tools in my recovery and, eventually, my performance. My workouts were no longer about proving I could push through pain or fatigue, but about building strength and endurance in a sustainable way. Recovery became as important as training, and rest days were no longer a sign of weakness but of wisdom.

And then, something remarkable happened: I started running faster than I had in years. My body, now properly fueled and rested, responded by giving me back the power and speed I had lost during my years of depletion. I found peace in running again, not just because of the results, but because I finally felt whole.

It certainly wasn't all smooth sailing. There were still hard days, moments when I slipped back into old thought patterns or pushed too hard. But now, I had the tools to catch myself before falling too far. I surrounded myself with people who understood my experience and who valued my health over any performance metric. And with their support, I finally found my way back to the sport I loved, on my own terms.

Beyond Running: Redefining Success

Perhaps the most unexpected part of my experience was the way it reshaped my view of success in life, beyond sport. For so long, I had equated success with achievement. Winning races, hitting targets, taking the physical form of what I thought an elite athlete should be. But through the ups and downs of recovery, I came to see that there is no glory to be found in pushing your body to unhealthy extremes, and how success isn’t always about speed; it’s about finding balance, health, and happiness along the way.

Success, for me, became about the relationships I’d rebuilt, both with my body and with the people around me. It was about learning to listen to what I needed, mentally and physically, and trusting that taking care of myself wouldn’t diminish my potential but enhance it. My victories in running, and in life, began to feel more meaningful because they were built on a foundation of respect, not punishment.

And, in rediscovering my passion for the sport, I also found a new goal: helping others avoid the pitfalls that had nearly cost me my health and happiness in the long-term. Through Project RED-S, I’ve committed myself to raising awareness of this pervasive, destructive, and worryingly under-recognised condition, promoting a healthier, more sustainable approach to sport.

Final Thoughts

If you've made it this far, it likely means that some part of my story resonates with you. Whether you're someone struggling with similar issues, a coach looking for advice on how to support your team, or someone just trying to find balance in a world that often validates extremes, I truly believe there is a way forward that doesn’t involve sacrificing your well-being.

I hope that by reading this, you might feel empowered to take the first steps towards recovery, whether it’s seeking help, taking a break, or simply listening to your body’s signals. The road may be long, but please trust me when I say that it's worth every step.