Hearts, Horsepower, and Her: Shifting Gears Into Self-Belief

In my family, cars were never just machines; they were practically relatives, living and breathing through us. Formula One race weekends turned our home into a buzzing paddock — the living room echoing with engine noise, strategy debates over dinner, and wild cheers each time a dark horse stole the spotlight on a rain-soaked track. My elder cousins listed every F1 champion from memory, each symbolizing dreams yet to be chased.

I grew up immersed in this world where motorsport meant more than entertainment — it was the pulse of our household, a language of freedom, precision, and daring. Still, due credit to my own inhibitions I lived on the sidelines, soaking up the adrenaline without ever quite stepping onto the track. Every race weekend planted a new seed of longing. Yet, when the day came to claim my own license at eighteen, apprehension outpaced excitement. I watched my friends and family take off, their confidence in the driver’s seat seemingly effortless, while my own self-doubt kept me parked. 

Years of gentle nudges from my family became persistent persuasion. Driving school followed, but still, the magic didn't spark. The lessons felt rote — more like learning to walk when I wanted to fly. My hands turned the wheel, but my heart lagged behind, stuck in the pits. The glamour and rush I saw every Sunday never quite translated into the actual mechanics of the road.

Then came my first solo drive. One ordinary morning, I set out with nothing expected of me, just the horizon ahead. The road lay unspooled, wide and welcoming, echoing those famous circuits broadcast on Grand Prix evenings. Music humming from the speakers, I found myself suddenly part of a larger tradition — the joy of power at your fingertips, of making split-second choices, of slicing a path all your own. In that quiet, personal moment, I finally understood what motorsport lovers chase: it’s fierce independence, raw freedom, and the thrill that comes not from speed alone, but from taking control.

Of course, I’d grown up surrounded by reminders that women didn’t belong in the fast lane — that motorsport and driving were fields reserved for men. But the truth is this: the engines don’t discriminate, the roads don’t care as to who steers the vehicle. The exhilaration behind the wheel is a gift for anyone brave enough to claim it.

For years I let fear keep me in the shadows, but the lesson I learned is universal. Whether your passion is Formula One or the simple joy of driving through your city, the only genuine hurdle is the voice inside that says you don’t belong. If Sunday races thrill you, or you dream of the roar at Silverstone, don’t wait for permission. The magic starts the moment you’re willing to turn the key. Man or woman, old or young, every journey is waiting — and your race begins when you decide to go. What are you waiting for? WRITTEN BY, R MAHIMA RAM