Sanya Wanjiru has one of those profiles that’s hard to pin down. Industrial chemist. Violinist. Music teacher. Biker. Runner. She moves through all of it without making a big deal about any of it.

Running is the one thing she didn’t plan for. It came later, during a period when work felt heavy and life felt crowded. She needed something simple—something she could do without asking for more time, more money, or more permission.

So she started jogging. Slow. Short distances. Nothing complicated.

It wasn’t about chasing a title. It was about finding a bit of quiet in a life that didn’t have much of it. And over time, the runs began to do for her what nothing else quite managed: they steadied her.

Sanya didn’t start running with a program. She started because she wasn’t feeling well and needed something to change. Two jobs, long days, no room to breathe. The gym wasn’t an option, so she picked the only thing that didn’t cost anything: moving her feet outside.

Those first runs were slow. Almost walking. But they got her out of the house and into her own head. No pressure. No expectations.

The real shift came when a friend signed her up for a 15K. She had never gone beyond seven. “I was like, 15 what?” she says. But she showed up. It took her two hours. She suffered. She finished.

That finish changed everything. She signed up for more runs. Short ones at first. Then longer ones. Running became part of her routine—something solid when everything else felt loud.

It helped her manage stress. Helped her think. Helped her avoid things she didn’t want to face. And sometimes it forced those same things to the surface.

“Sometimes you’re running away from something,” she says. “Sometimes you’re running towards something.” For her, it was both. And that’s what kept her coming back.

Her first real half marathon is the one she still remembers. Not for the distance, but for what met her along the way. The first part went fine. Then the emotions showed up.

Running has a way of pulling out what you’ve ignored. Family pressure. Money stress. Relationship wounds. All of it landed on her mid-race.

“I almost cried,” she says. She held back because she was with friends, but the feelings kept building. At kilometer 20, it broke. Her mind quit before her legs did. She told her friends she couldn’t keep going. One of them held her hand so she wouldn’t stop.

That moment changed something. She realized she didn’t have to carry everything alone. She could let some things go. She didn’t need to be the emotional anchor for everyone.

She crossed the finish line in pain, but lighter than she started.

“That’s when I got hooked,” she says.

Cape Town was supposed to be her big one. Fourteen weeks of training. Early mornings. Physio. Sacrifice. All for that race.

She woke up ready—bib on, gear set, selfie taken. Then she learned through friends, not the organizers, that the marathon had been cancelled. No direct message. Just a post online.

“I’d rather get dumped a hundred times over,” she says. “That feeling was worse than heartbreak.”

But she and a small group refused to waste the work. They went out anyway. It was meant to be a short run. It turned into 42 kilometers. Part of the race route. Part improvised.

She doesn’t call it a marathon. It didn’t feel like it. But it kept all those weeks of discipline from disappearing.

And she’s still processing it.

Sanya doesn’t always run alone. She has friends she meets—people who text early and expect her to show up. They’re the ones who got her through her hardest runs, including that emotional half marathon.

Running with others changes things. It keeps you accountable. It keeps you awake at 5 a.m. “When someone says, ‘We’re meeting at six,’ you get up,” she says.

It’s not about pace. It’s the shared effort. The shared fatigue. The shared relief when it’s done. It made running feel less like a chore and more like a rhythm she could rely on.

As she kept showing up, people noticed. Her musician frineds began asking questions. Some signed up for races. Others bought bikes. A few started talking about forming a running group for musicians.

She didn’t set out to influence anyone. But consistency is visible. When someone keeps lacing up, others start to imagine they can too.

A friend even discovered he could match her pace at a Kilimanjaro run. They joke about it now, but it gave her a new running partner—someone who pushes her in return.

She isn’t trying to lead anyone. But she’s becoming a connector without trying.

Running gave Sanya more than fitness. It gave her a way to hear herself think. She realized how much she carries—other people’s emotions, expectations, and problems she never asked for. Running forced those things out. Not softly—clearly.

It made her tougher in a practical way. If she can wake up at 5 a.m. to train, she can handle a hard day. If she can stay steady through a bad run, she can face things she’s avoided. The discipline spills into everything else.

She wants to run long after the finish lines fade—into her 60s, her 70s—moving through life with strength she has earned, step by steady step. Yes, she dreams big: a sub-3:30 marathon, a sub-1:30 half, Amsterdam in sight. But the real dream runs deeper. She wants to stay rooted, stay whole, live in a body that can carry her well past the years people expect. Running is her way of choosing herself, again and again.

Running also changed how she handles relationships. She doesn’t feel the need to carry everyone anymore. “I realized I don’t always have to hold everything together,” she says.

It also taught her something simple: most things are doable with a plan.

Cape Town still stings, but it didn’t stop her. She’s already preparing for the next race, already building the next routine.

Running isn’t therapy in the formal sense. But for Sanya, it works. It gives her space, clarity, and proof that she can take on more than she thinks.

And she keeps lacing up, because every run teaches her something new.

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