Running in Afghanistan was an act of defiance. Now in Canada, I run to show others they can

This First Person column is the experience of Atefa Rahimi, who moved from Afghanistan to Saskatoon. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

It was still dark when my little sister and I got up at 2 a.m. to train before everyone else in Kabul woke up. I felt like I was touching the sky as we ran through the beautiful, towering hills that surrounded our city.

We were hungry and tired, but I didn't care. I felt alive. 

Running has filled me with joy and energy through the darkest parts of my life, first in Afghanistan and now in Canada.

I was only 14 when my mother died. I had no choice but to become a mother figure to my four younger siblings. I was a child, but I stepped into an adult's role. It was my job to take care of my siblings, our house in Kabul and everything else that came with it. It felt like life was collapsing on me. 

Through all that pain, sport helped me survive. I was introduced to kung fu in 2017, and a year later, joined a running team in the city. My family hadn't supported me in either activity. I'd had to fight with my relatives and a society around me that didn't believe that girls should do sports. 

There was no one I could look at — in my family, my community or beyond — and say, "She did it, so I can too." I had to become that person. 

I became the first woman in my entire family and extended relatives to become an athlete. There wasn't a single day when it was easy. But slowly, something started to change. My cousins started doing sports. Their families began to allow it, little by little, because they saw me doing it first.

In a place where I had never even seen a woman ride a bicycle, where the idea of a girl running through the streets was unthinkable, I was breaking through walls. 

I ran my first marathon in 2019 in Afghanistan, which drew runners — both male and female — from all over the world. That day will always stay with me. It wasn't just about the race. It was a symbol of everything I had overcome — the fear, the judgment, the loneliness. Every step I took was a step toward the person I wanted to become. The end of that marathon wasn't just a finish line. It was the beginning of something powerful. It was healing. It was proof that even when the world tries to silence you, you can still find your voice. 

I wasn't just doing one sport. At one point, I was doing kung fu, running and kickboxing, all while raising four children, managing a household and facing constant criticism and pressure. Imagine doing that in a place like Afghanistan, where girls weren't even supposed to be outside alone. 

Everything changed two years later with the return of the Taliban in 2021. 

Girls were banned from going to school and university. With videos of myself and my kung fu team out in the world, we were terrified we would be targeted. 

My team and our family members escaped with the help of the 30 Birds Foundation, which helped hundreds of Afghan women and girls come to Canada. They didn't just help us get out — they helped us start again. They've continued to support us in every possible way.  

When I moved to Canada, I thought things would get better. I believed I was finally free — free to run outside without fear and live without threats.

In many ways, I was. There was safety. There were opportunities. 

What I didn't expect was that life here would bring a different kind of challenge — one that wasn't louder, but heavier. | found myself alone in a new country, not knowing the language, carrying the weight of trauma, grief and fear. I had no one to lean on, and the silence of that loneliness was its own kind of pain.

I tried to keep going, joining the Saskatoon Track and Field Club and training for almost two years. But after I moved away from Saskatoon for university, something shifted. The grief and pain of the recent years over losing my mother and leaving my country caught up to me. 

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I didn't have that clear goal of being a role model to other female athletes that I once held close in Afghanistan. The fire I carried for so long started to dim. I was still running, still showing up, but it didn't feel the same. 

Then, in November 2024, I joined a program called the Wingspan Summit, organized by the 30 Birds Foundation, which brought together other Afghan women and girls. 

That changed everything. 

Surrounded by people with powerful stories who reminded me of my own strength, I felt my spark return. That fire in my heart — the one that kept me alive through the darkest moments — came back to life.

Now, when I run, I'm not just running for myself. I'm running for the little girl I was — the one who grew up too fast, who held a family together while chasing impossible dreams. I'm running for every girl in Afghanistan who is still fighting through the same darkness. 

I'm running for every woman in the world who is told she can't. I run because I can, and because I must — until they can too.

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