Faith Kipyegon makes motherhood look like a superpower

Sitting alone with a hot coffee at my favourite café, hidden snugly in a corner between the noisy Nairobi streets provides a rare kind of solace.

Here, the world moves a tad slower, conversations drip with more meaning, and every sip of my perfectly brewed drink seems to unravel another layer of the day's worries.

It’s a Friday afternoon, the city is roaring to the tunes of matatus and hawkers, but inside this café, there's an almost sacred hush, before revellers start streaming in and the ambience changes to a party vibe.

At the table next to me, two women are deep in conversation. Their words float over to me, carried by their laughter and the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.

One of them, a spirited lady with laugh lines that speak volumes of her years and joys, leans forward, her voice dipped in awe and respect as she says, “And then there’s Faith Kipyegon.”

Her friend, younger, with an infectious energy, nods vigorously, her earrings dancing with each nod.

“Imagine, breaking three world records after coming back from maternity leave. If that’s not a superpower, then what is?” she says.

They chuckle, but there’s a weight to their laughter—a recognition of the sheer magnitude of what being a mother entails.

The older woman stirs her coffee, her spoon clinking against the ceramic like a slow, thoughtful chime.

“You know, before delivering her daughter Alyn, Faith had never run a world record. Now look at her—sprinting through records like they’re mere checkpoints.”

“It’s like motherhood gave her superpowers,” the younger quips, her eyes alight with a mix of jest and genuine wonder.

I lean back, my own thoughts swirling. I've always seen athletes as demigods of sorts, striding alongside mere mortals, yet distinctly apart with their medals of glory and fame.

But today, these women paint a different picture—one where these athletes are heroes not just on the track but in the very fabric of everyday life.

As the journalist I am, I quickly remove my phone to fact check the information I had just heard.

True to it, I stumble upon an interview where Kipyegon gave her story of motherhood as an athlete.

Kipyegon, who broke three world records in 2023 and on top of that won the athlete of the year award, took a maternity break when she was expecting her daughter.

She had just come from being crowned the first Kenyan woman to win the 1500m at the 2017 World Championships.

Faith required an emergency caesarean section to deliver her daughter in June 2018.

I quickly return to eavesdropping on the conversation between the two women who had now become my ‘neighbours’ at the cafe.

“Do you know what inspired Faith?” the younger one says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce—another mom who made history by becoming the first mother and the oldest woman to win the 100m sprint,” she continues.

The older woman nods, her eyes reflecting a story of her own, perhaps one where she too had passed many unseen batons.

“It’s encouraging, isn’t it? Shows you that life doesn’t end where motherhood begins. It’s more... it’s like it starts a new kind of race,” she remarks.

Their conversation meanders from Faith’s victories to their own struggles and triumphs as mothers, as women who juggle a thousand invisible tasks every day.

Each story, each anecdote, feels like a thread weaving through the fabric of a larger, shared experience—an ode to mothers everywhere.

I find myself reflecting on my own mother, recalling her early morning hustles, her late-night consolations, and everything in between.

It wasn’t the world records she was breaking; it was the daily records of perseverance, love, and sacrifice. Maybe that’s where all superpowers start—from the quiet, unseen moments of everyday resilience.

As the conversation between the two women at the café winds down, the younger woman, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, brings up another exciting piece of news that ties the personal triumphs of Faith Kipyegon with a broader narrative of support and national pride.

"You know what else is amazing?" she says, pulling out her phone to show a brightly coloured poster.

"Tusker is sponsoring Team Kenya at the Olympics next year. It's going to be something else seeing Faith run, knowing she's got the whole country—and Tusker—cheering her on."

Her friend leans over, nodding appreciatively at the poster.

"That's true. It's not just about individual success, is it? It’s about how brands like Tusker step up to support our champions. Makes you proud to be Kenyan, doesn’t it? It's like they're not just brewing beer; they're brewing hope, courage, and dedication."

"They’re recognising the impactful people in our community," the younger woman adds, her tone serious now.

“Faith is not just running for herself; she’s running for all of us, to show us what’s possible with dedication and courage. And with Tusker behind her, it's a reminder that our best selves are achieved not alone, but together."

As the women prepare to leave, their laughter lingering in the air like a promise, I scribble down a few last thoughts.

Being a mother is, indeed, a superpower. It’s woven in the lullabies sung at midnight, in the cheering at school games, in the gentle push towards endless possibilities.

And as I leave the café, stepping back into the city’s embrace, I carry with me a renewed reverence for these everyday heroes—women like Faith, like the ones at the next table, like my own mother—who race through life with grace and grit, breaking records we never see.