Interview Relay

Interview Relay 2nd Run: Stories of “Connections Between People” Born Through the Tokyo Marathon

This time, we introduce a story of Kyanja, who wishes to run the Tokyo Marathon in memory of her son who had dreamt of visiting Japan.

Tokyo – the Gateway to the Dreams My Youngest Son Had Long Admired

In 1966, as a two-year-old toddler, I was on a ship pulling into the port of Kobe. Born in South Korea, I was emigrating with my family to a new life halfway across the world in Brazil. Japan was our brief stop, a few hours on solid ground before the journey continued. That moment exists for me not as a living memory, but as a yellowed photograph and the stories my mother would tell of our brief passage through the port: images and words that became my only window into a country I had touched, but never truly known.

I started running marathons in my mid-50s. In 2019, I completed the BMW Berlin Marathon, my first Abbott World Marathon Major. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t expected. The strangers cheering, the energy of the city, the sense that I was part of something larger than myself.

Then everything stopped.My youngest son was diagnosed with cancer. The years that followed were not about races or finish lines. He loved watching a travel channel that showed the deep traditions of Japan: the quiet “onsens” (hot spa), the traditional morning feasts, and the beautiful streets he dreamed of seeing one day. Tokyo was meant to be the gateway to that dream: the city where his journey would begin. I would have given anything to take him there. To step off a plane with him and walk into the country he loved on a screen. That never happened.

That never happened.
He passed away in 2024.

Running Through Tokyo Would Carry His Memory with Me

In 2025, I returned to running. Not because the grief had ended. But because I needed to honor him. To move forward, even when it hurts. I ran the Bank of America Chicago Marathon. I will run the Bank of America Boston Marathon this April, and the TCS New York City Marathon in November.

And now I am preparing for the Tokyo Marathon.

The Tokyo Marathon embraces the concept, “The Day We Unite.” For me, it would be more than that. It would be a return to a place that exists at the edge of my family’s story: the country I passed through as a child, the country my son dreamed of seeing. Running through Tokyo would carry his memory with me. Through Shibuya, where the course passes near that legendary scramble crossing: the same intersection my son and I watched come alive in Blue Period, the anime we shared together about a young artist chasing his dream in Tokyo. Through the streets he came to love from a distance. Through the city he wanted to know.

I know he cannot be there. But in a way, he would be. In every step. In every breath.

The little girl who passed through Japan in 1966 never imagined she would return decades later, not as a passenger, but as a runner. Not leaving, but choosing to arrive. Carrying the love of a son who never got to make the journey himself.

Tokyo, for me, is where loss and love and movement meet. It is where I run not just for myself — but for him.

Love and Connection Do Not End with Loss: They Simply Change Form

Before my son’s illness, my marathon journey was primarily about personal milestones and chasing the Six Star Finisher: a way to feel alive and test my own limits. But this connection to his memory and his dream of Japan has transformed my running entirely. I learned the hard way that life is right now, and that we must never postpone our dreams. That is why I literally run after mine. It changed me from someone running for personal achievement into a mother carrying her son’s memory across the finish line. It taught me how to turn the pain of loss into an act of love and forward movement, proving to myself that our bond continues with every mile I run.

The main message I want to share is that love and connection do not end with loss; they simply change form.

Life has taught me in the hardest way possible that time is fragile and we must never postpone our dreams. Through this story, I want to encourage people to stop waiting for the “right time” and to literally run after what matters most to them. Grief can be a heavy weight, but if we choose to, we can transform it into forward movement.

I hope my journey inspires others to realize that the people we lose are never truly gone as long as we carry their dreams with us. The marathon is a beautiful reminder that we are all connected: by joy, by loss, and by the courage to keep moving forward.