Holding Out for a Supportive Kind of Hero

Everyone has been singing Total Eclipse of the Heart this week. Fair enough. It's one of the most iconic songs of all time, has been covered by many artists, and has been featured dozens of times onscreen in movies, television shows, and commercials. It’s seven minutes long and worth every one of them.

When Bonnie Tyler died on Wednesday, the 8^th of July 2026, the tributes came fast. The Prime Minister. Rod Stewart. Catherine Zeta-Jones. Every one of them talked about the voice. That gravel, and unforgettable roar. Rightly so. There was nobody else who sounded like her, and there probably will never be again. Bonnie was an icon engraved in Welsh folklore for eternity.

I read many of those tributes, and the one that touched me personally is one from another of my heroes, Rod Stewart. He didn't write an essay. Just a few lines on Instagram, white text on a black background. He said they had a similar way of singing, that she was a good pal, and that he sings It's a Heartache every night on tour. Then, the same day the news broke, he got up with Jools Holland and sang it for her. That's the part that tugged on my emotional strings and brought a tear to my eye. He's been singing her song every night for years anyway. He never needed her to die to start honouring her. Still, amongst all of these tributes, I was looking for two words that barely appeared anywhere – CEREBRAL PALSY.

Here's what most people never knew. From the 1990s, Bonnie Tyler was a patron of the Bobath Children's Therapy Centre in Cardiff, the charity now known as Cerebral Palsy Cymru. That's thirty years, give or take. In 2013, she campaigned for the centre to be recognised at the Pride of Britain Awards. She backed appeals and fundraising campaigns while touring the world. No press push or campaign video with sad piano music. She just kept on giving her unwavering support, raising much needed awareness, and making a difference with her unique voice.

I know all this because last October, on World Cerebral Palsy Day, I became an ambassador for the same charity. Her name was already on that page when mine was added. I won't pretend that it didn't mean something special.

Obituaries are a list of loud things. Chart positions, record sales, even Eurovision. The quiet things don't make the edit, and not because they didn't matter; they don't make the edit because they were never designed to be recognised in the first place.

There's a version of advocacy that's all noise. Placards, hashtags, arguments won on television. My whole approach has been to effect positive change by using words. It turns out one of the biggest voices Wales ever produced did her disability work the same way. The woman who could out-sing a hurricane chose, for thirty years, to whisper.

That kind of work doesn't get noticed. It's not meant to. There's just a therapy centre in Cardiff that kept its doors open, year after year, partly because a global star decided it mattered, and never made a fuss about it.

Total Eclipse of the Heart will be played forever. At weddings, at karaoke nights, at every solar eclipse until the end of time. The other thing she did never charted. It was never supposed to. The real chart-topper is that fabulous state-of-the-art therapy centre in the heart of Cardiff, and a child with cerebral palsy is getting therapy her name helped make possible. That child may never know the song, but that's alright. I don't think Bonnie was doing it to be remembered, but one thing I do know is that her legacy will never be totally eclipsed; it will shine bright endlessly, because at some point in our lives, we all need a hero.