Glucose, Exercise and Neurotransmitters

Yesterday I attempted a 20k run as I’m training for the London Marathon. Near the end, I had to stop briefly at a crossroads traffic light and decided to refuel with a glucotab - 4g of fast-acting carbohydrate. A lot less than I actually needed, but until the recommended sachets I ordered arrive, it was better than nothing.

The pot was nearly empty and, as I tipped it upside down to get one tablet out, the bits of glucose spilled over me. I could smell it. White powder all over my black running jacket. Such a strange feeling, and one that connected me back to so many other moments.

How was I standing there, covered in the one thing we’ve relied on for six and a half years to save our child?

I know it’s 4g of fast-acting carbohydrate because we’ve had to calculate exact amounts to safely bring Casper’s blood glucose up whenever it was dropping quickly. Give the hypo treatment (much less than 1 glucotab in the beginning), wait 15 minutes, check his blood glucose. If it’s ok, emergency over. If not, give more. It became simpler once he had his CGM — unless it was faulty or lagging behind in its readings.

Glucose feels triggering to me. It connects the present moment to every hard moment we’ve had with low blood sugar.

The first time: holding Casper in hospital one night after his diagnosis. I’m told his blood glucose is low — we need to give him glucogel.

“Will it wake him up?”
“Yes.”
“Will he cry?”
“Yes.”

The nurse administered nearly half a bottle, doing her job safely and properly. I wish I’d known then what I learned just days later - that at one year old, Casper only needed a teaspoon.

Casper falling asleep in his pushchair at 18 months old felt peaceful. He looked calm and settled. At that time, we didn’t yet have phone access to his readings without a DIY workaround, so I had created a temporary way of seeing his blood glucose. He was dropping, but he was sleeping. I waited, hoping it would level out. It didn’t.

We had to wake him to give him glucose through a Calpol syringe. He cried and cried, completely distraught. We avoided walking back along the high road and took the quieter residential streets instead. Our happiness turned upside down in minutes.

And now here I am, needing glucotabs or energy gels to complete my long runs. Training for a marathon to raise money for Breakthrough T1D, the largest Type 1 diabetes charity. It feels ironic and strange.

Running makes me feel good — not when it feels forced, which it sometimes does right now with a set weekly distance and only two months to go — but often. Sometimes I finish a run and feel strong, capable, like I can really do this. Other times it feels impossible. But getting through those hard moments is no different from anything else in life. When I stay with it, when I shift my mindset, things feel better again.

Exercise can be medicine for some of us. A slow, steady dopamine activity. It gives purpose: to run further, to improve and to complete something, appealing to our reward circuits. There’s evidence that it helps regulate neurotransmitters such as dopamine and noradrenaline. Some have even called it “Nature’s Ritalin” (a phrase explored beautifully in The Running Week’s article, What Happens to an ADHD Brain After 30 Minutes of Running). It quietens loud thoughts, and supports new neuronal connectivity with increased blood flow to the brain.

Movement like running encourages neuroplasticity. The body even creates new capillaries in muscle tissue, improving oxygen delivery and endurance over time, which is why running further gradually becomes more possible. Running isn’t something I’ve ever done before. It’s something I’m leaning into now for my wellbeing as much as for the marathon itself. I always feel better afterwards. I feel accomplished. Like I’ve done something meaningful that I chose to do.

Setting small challenges allows the brain to grow. It settles restlessness whether internal or external.

When Casper was first diagnosed, I would always go for a short, fast walk after changing a sensor because it felt so traumatic. Movement has supported me for a long time. Now, being able to move while supporting a cause that means so much to us adds another layer of meaning.

If any of this resonates: the restlessness, the overwhelm, the need for movement, meaning or steadiness — and you’d like support in your own journey, I’d love to work with you. You can find out more about coaching with me below.