Run with me: A Kenyan’s race toward a dream

If you’ve ever watched a marathon, you know what they say: “Kenyans are born to run.”  Not me. 

The day I found myself on the starting line of a 1500-meter race, chasing a dream of studying in the U.S., I realized that stereotype had definitely skipped over me. Let me take you to a few months before that race.

I had just graduated from high school in Kenya when I applied to the Kenya Scholar Access Program, a college counseling program that helps students apply to universities in the United States. A friend of mine — a year ahead — had gone through it and gotten into Harvard. I thought, maybe this is my shot too.

The process had three stages. First, essays — I poured my heart into them. Then came interviews — filled with deeply personal questions that felt completely foreign. I’d grown up in the British system, where accomplishments spoke louder than emotions. Questions like “Tell us about a time you failed” felt almost invasive. But I made it through.

Then came the final stage: a 1500-meter race, because the program had initially started as a scholarship for athletes. And even though I had never run more than 200 meters — usually just in PE class — I figured: I’m Kenyan, right? How hard could it be? But I forgot everyone else applying was Kenyan too. So now it was important that I run this race and run it well. Getting into the program meant getting the help I needed to gain admission into college in the U.S. 

The day of the race, I stood on the track surrounded by other applicants. Some were stretching like professionals. I saved my energy. I knew I’d need all of it just to finish.

On your marks. Get set. Go!

We took off. The first 100 meters was fine. I felt the rush. The thrill. I wasn’t leading, but I wasn’t last either. By 400 meters, my legs began to protest. I tasted metal in my mouth — something I’d never experienced before. Were my gums bleeding? My heart pounded harder than it ever had. Meanwhile, the group had begun to spread out as the fast runners surged ahead. I tried to keep pace, but my legs were getting heavy. I was entering completely unfamiliar territory — physically and mentally.

By the end of the second lap, I was dragging. My chest heaved. My legs itched and stung. I was in real pain — and I was falling behind. The top runners lapped me. The crowd cheered — probably for them, I thought. I was close to last. That metallic taste was stronger now. My heart — God, my heart — I thought it might give out.

That’s when the voice in my head whispered: If this is the path to get to the U.S., then I don’t want it. 

Maybe I wasn’t meant for this dream. Maybe I should just stay. Go to the University of Nairobi. Be a doctor here. That wouldn’t be so bad, right? I was ready to quit. I started veering toward the edge of the track.

And then I heard cheering again. I thought, Oh man — they’re about to lap me again! I’d already made up my mind. I was done. The cheering, though… it kept going. And that’s when I saw her.

My mother.

She had been waiting on the sidelines. But now — she was on the track. Running toward me. Waving, shouting: “Don’t stop! I’m here. I’ll run with you. Let’s finish together.”

And she did. She ran — faster than I’d ever seen her run. Something in me shifted. At the very least, I couldn’t let her beat me. So I kept going. We ran that last lap together. She was beside me, matching my pace. Pushing me forward. Holding me up — without ever touching me.

I crossed the finish line second to last — gasping, aching, still tasting metal. But I finished. It turns out—I did get into the program and to the U.S. thereafter for college. 

But what stayed with me wasn’t the race. It was her. My mother — literally putting herself in my shoes. Running with me. Meeting me exactly where I was.

And that’s the kind of person I want to be — for my patients, for my friends and family, for anyone struggling to make it to their finish line. To them I say, run with me. 

Maryanne Waruiru Chege, from Nairobi, Kenya, is pursuing an MD and a master’s degree in epidemiology and clinical research at Stanford School of Medicine. She aspires to care for marginalized patients and to reimagine the systems that shape their health.

Knight-Hennessy scholars represent a vast array of cultures, perspectives, and experiences. While we as an organization are committed to elevating their voices, the views expressed are those of the scholars, and not necessarily those of KHS.