Kat's journey From Sidelines to Start Lines

I’m Kenyan… but not that kind of Kenyan.

You know the ones from the Rift Valley who glide through marathons like gazelles on Red Bull? Yeah, not me. I’m from Central Kenya, where we take our carbs seriously and believe potatoes deserve their own food group. Athleticism didn’t exactly run in the family. In fact, no one runs in the family. At all. Diabetes? Now she is the real family heirloom.

See, in Kenya, running is basically a birthright; or at least it feels that way when you’re surrounded by Olympic medalists, high-altitude training camps, and school sports days that look suspiciously like an Abbott Major.

But me? I never ran. Not a single fun run. Not even a lap for laughs. Which is funny because I became a physiotherapist and spent my time treating some of Kenya’s most elite distance runners, rugby players, sprinters etc. I’d watch them fly down the track and think, good for them… that could never be me.

Then life happened. Marriage. Motherhood.

Postpartum was a storm I didn’t see coming. I lost myself. The weight piled on. I stopped recognising the person in the mirror and kept trying to fix it. Gym memberships. Fitness programs. False starts. I’d always give up when it got hard and fall right back into old patterns.

The turning point came in a hospital room. My son had just come out of theatre. He was groggy and in pain, calling for me. The nurse asked me to climb into the cot bed with him as he was wheeled to the recovery ward, but it couldn’t take my weight. I couldn’t be there for him. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I physically couldn’t. That moment broke something in me. I realised: the pain of changing my life would never be worse than the pain of letting my little boy down. So, I got help. I sought treatment for obesity. And I started again. This time with a ‘why’ that stuck. This time, I chose to do hard things, drastic and brave things to shock myself into the new person I was trying to become. That I desperately needed to become to save myself.

Becoming Her

One of the first things I did? I walked, breathless and terrified, into a CrossFit gym which felt like walking into a lion’s den with a baguette. I adapted quickly though. Turns out I love lifting. I was deadlifting up to 130kg and back squatting 115kg before long. But here’s the kicker: despite all that strength, I still couldn’t run a single kilometre without wanting to die. I realised then that strength alone didn’t mean fitness or health especially when I still couldn’t keep up with my son.

I joined a Couch to 10K program at my local club (shoutout Pinelands!). I started with 1-minute run/1-minute walk intervals. It was brutal. But 12 weeks later, I ran my first 10K. Me. A runner.

At CrossFit, I’d met people from Must Love Hills who kept encouraging me to join their runs. But they were all crazy fast and way beyond what I thought would ever be inclusive for me. From the outside, MLH looked intimidating, and I wasn’t sure I belonged.

But I’d already done the hardest part: starting. What was the worst that could happen if I gave it a shot?

I found myself huddled in the Foresters Arms parking lot, surrounded by a crowd of runners and Coach Mike giving his briefing. When he asked if anyone was new, I was lost in the sea of faces but raised my hand. The kindness of everyone around me hit me like a wave. Strangers offered to show me the ropes and made me feel welcome like I’d always belonged.

We set off towards Rhodes Memorial, and I was already out of breath before we even reached the tunnel. I thought, what on earth have I gotten myself into? But I kept going.

Five times 500-meter hill repeats.

It was the hardest running session I had ever had. I worked and dug so deep. At the end, I cried my eyes out; no, I wept. Not tears of sadness but a deep release, like my body and mind were letting go of so much. I couldn’t believe I’d pushed through. That I’d dug so deep mentally and physically. And by now, you can see the theme I had decided to stick to: doing hard things. I just knew I was going nowhere. Coach Mike gave me the biggest hug and actually ‘saw me’ and I realised just like that, I had found my people.

I belonged. MLH Became Home

The vibe? Electric. Every pace welcomed. Every runner cheered (or screamed at? Ha-ha). You don’t get left behind here; you get pulled forward. Everyone’s working their behind off, and that’s the great equaliser. It’s not about your speed, it’s all heart.

Naturally, I joined Track Thursdays. Full circle moment. I would stand on the sidelines as a physio, watching elite athletes do drills I never dreamed I could survive. And suddenly, I was the one running laps!

And the progress came fast. Like, really fast. PB after PB after PB in just a few months.

5K: 38:47 → 29:20

10K: 01:23:13 → 01:03:59

Half Marathon: 02:54:27 → 02:28:12

I shaved 26 minutes off my half marathon time in just 2 months and that was at high altitude!

There’s no way that would have been possible without MLH. The data speaks for itself. There is a method to the madness that is training with MLH.

Coach Mike. Coach Sindrino. Coach Coceka. They push you, but they also care. They notice when you’re off. They check in. They celebrate your wins like they’re their own.

And the crew? Man. The beers, the gees, the playlists, the sweaty hugs, the pizzas, the tears, the fights you can see that we’re all fighting in silence. It’s more than running. It’s a lifeline. For each one of us. Rain or shine, we show up and train our hearts out.

So here I am. A Kenyan girl who would get in trouble for bunking cross country in school. A new mother who thought she’d lost herself forever. A physio who once stood on the sidelines making the magic happen for the athletes behind the scenes. Now whole again. More present. More joyful. More grounded. There’s energy in my bones, softness in my heart, and fire in my stride.

Now running with a cult- yes, MLH is a cult- and no, I still haven’t bled yet (I’m ready, Mike, by the way).