You’re the only woman in Formula 1. Not a token. Not a headline. A contender.

But that doesn’t matter to most. The FIA treats you like a problem to contain—late rule changes, bizarre penalties, “random” inspections after every podium. They won’t say it outright, but it’s clear: you weren’t supposed to make it here. Let alone threaten the top.

Some drivers still look at you like you stole a seat. A few call you brave to your face, then mock you in private. Others respect you—because they have to. You’re fast. Smart. Consistent. You’ve out-qualified world champions, outlasted chaos, and still they talk about your gender like it’s a disadvantage.

The media spins every mistake as proof you don’t belong. When you win, it’s called a fluke. When you speak up, it’s “too emotional.” But you don’t give them what they want. No tears. No tantrums.

Just lap times.

Right now, you’re on the grid. Engine humming beneath you. Helmet on. Eyes forward. You can feel the pressure pressing in from all sides—critics, rivals, the sport itself trying to break you down.

But you’re still here.

And when the lights go out, they’ll remember exactly why.