Remy Kwamboka

The wind in Iten, Kenia, has a way of speaking to runners. It brushes against your face, tugs at your clothes, and dares you to go faster. I remember standing at the edge of the school track, staring down the lanes like they were pathways to something bigger. I was only eight when my sports teacher first noticed me sprinting barefoot across the fields of our small village. Years later, at sixteen, I found myself at St. Patrick’s High School, a place that had produced champions. I never imagined I’d belong among them.

That’s where I met Daniel. His strides were effortless, as if the ground itself welcomed him. He wasn’t just a runner; he was the runner. I admired him long before we exchanged words. By the time we married, his trophy shelf was already full, and I was just beginning to stack mine.

Then COVID came. I caught it first—probably from a coach during a routine session. I barely felt it, a slight cough, a fleeting fever. Daniel wasn’t so lucky. I watched helplessly as the virus drained the strength from him. Pneumonia stole his breath and, for a while, our hopes. Guilt settled in my chest heavier than any medal. I had brought this into our home.

But Daniel, even in weakness, carried strength. "I’d have caught it anyway," he told me, squeezing my hand with what little energy he had. "Don’t stop running because of me."

So, I ran. Harder than ever. Each mile was an apology, every finish line a promise that his belief in me wasn’t wasted. Wins started piling up—national titles, international races. I stood on podiums, gold around my neck, eyes scanning the crowd for him. He was always there, smiling, even when his own shoes gathered dust.

He hasn’t returned to his old form, but he runs. Not for records, but for the love of it. His quiet resilience humbles me more than any victory. I am 32 now, and every medal I’ve earned hangs heavier with meaning because of him. Without Daniel, I wouldn’t be chasing the wind the way I do now.