Dream it. Wish it. Do it.

Seventeen-year-old Aanya stood at the edge of the running track, her heart pounding harder than it ever had before—not because of the race that was about to begin, but because of the one she’d been running for years.

Her journey hadn’t started with medals, coaches, or fanfare. It had begun on a dirt path behind her family's small house on the outskirts of Pune, India. There, barefoot and unnoticed, she had once run to chase the setting sun—not for glory, but for escape. Her family wasn’t wealthy. Her father worked long hours as a mechanic; her mother sewed clothes to support them. But dreams? Those cost nothing.

From the moment she had seen an Olympic race on the neighbor’s flickering old TV, she knew. It was more than admiration—it was a calling.

"One day, I’ll be on that track," she whispered to herself that night. "Dream it," she repeated like a mantra.

But dreaming was only the beginning.

The real journey began the day she asked her P.E. teacher if she could use the school track after hours. He looked at her dusty sandals and torn notebook, unsure whether to take her seriously. But something in her eyes—relentless, unwavering—made him say yes.

She ran every day, at first in borrowed shoes that were two sizes too big. She stitched them tighter with thread from her mother’s sewing kit. She timed herself using her father’s broken wristwatch, guessing the seconds by feel.

She ran in the rain, in the heat, through cramps and criticism.

"Wish it," she’d whisper to herself as she stood on tiptoe, peering over the school fence at the district athletes practicing.

People laughed.

“Stick to studies,” they said.

“Girls don’t run for a living.”

“No money in that.”

But she kept going.

Then came the district trials. She didn’t just qualify—she won. And with every race, she didn’t just improve; she became a symbol. A girl from nowhere, going somewhere.

By 16, she had a sponsor for shoes. A local coach started working with her in the evenings. For the first time in her life, people stopped underestimating her and started expecting things from her.

But expectations were heavier than doubt.

She started doubting herself when the timings plateaued. She started losing focus under pressure. “Talent will take you far,” her coach said, “but discipline will take you farther.”

So she trained harder. Earlier mornings. Stricter routines. No social media. No distractions.

She missed birthday parties, school events, even her cousin’s wedding.

Was it worth it?

That question circled her mind every night like a vulture. But each morning, she rose and answered it the same way—with her feet pounding the track and her breath steady as a drumbeat.

And now, standing at the edge of the national finals track, everything felt still. The stadium was buzzing, cameras ready, spectators shouting, but inside her—silence.

She looked down at the track. The same red lanes she’d seen in her dreams. The same curve she’d mimicked on the dirt road behind her house.

"Do it," she whispered.

The gun fired.

She launched forward, adrenaline carrying her like wind. The first 100 meters were smooth. Her body knew this. The next 200 were war—arms aching, lungs screaming. But this wasn’t new.

The final stretch—her moment.

She remembered everything she’d sacrificed, every tear she’d shed in silence.

And then—she passed the girl in lane four.

And then—she saw the finish line.

And then—she flew.

When she crossed it, she didn’t cheer. She didn’t cry. She just smiled, because she knew—she had already won long before the world was watching.

Later, when reporters surrounded her, asking for the secret to her success, she said only three words:

“Dream it. Wish it. Do it.”