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Formula 1 attracts exceptional people. That’s not marketing hype, it’s a statistical reality. When teams are hiring from a global pool of talent and can afford to be incredibly selective, the people who end up in those roles are, by any objective measure, outstanding.
But here’s what happens: when everyone around you is exceptional, exceptional starts to feel ordinary. You benchmark yourself against these colleagues and suddenly your own achievements, which would be impressive anywhere else, seem insignificant.
The sport’s high-stakes nature doesn’t help. When a car is being designed, developed, and raced on a timeline measured in days, mistakes are visible. Very visible. That pressure amplifies every moment of uncertainty you might feel.
It’s not just feeling a bit nervous about a new job. It’s a persistent belief that you’ve somehow fooled everyone into thinking you’re competent. It’s attributing your successes to luck, timing, or help from others, while believing your failures prove you don’t belong.
In an F1 context, this shows up in patterns:
You avoid asking questions because you’re convinced everyone else already knows the answer and you’ll look foolish.
You work twice as hard as necessary, convinced you need to compensate for some perceived deficiency.
You dismiss praise from colleagues and managers, assuming they’re just being kind or don’t see the “real” you.
You compare yourself not just to one person, but to the best aspects of everyone around you—his technical knowledge, her communication skills, their years of experience.
These patterns aren’t just uncomfortable; they’re unsustainable. They lead to burnout, disengagement, and eventually, people leaving roles they were perfectly capable of performing.
There’s a psychological mechanism at work here. We tend to judge ourselves by our internal thoughts and struggles, while judging others by their external performances. You see your own moments of confusion and self-doubt; you see your colleagues only in their competent, polished moments.
You don’t see the engineer who spent three days on a calculation that turned out to be wrong. You don’t hear the aerodynamicist’s internal monologue questioning whether their design is good enough. You don’t know about the sleepless nights of the strategist before a race.
When you deliver a project, get positive feedback, or contribute to a successful outcome, notice it. Not in a “I’m brilliant” way, but as data. You have evidence that you can do this work. That evidence is as valid as your internal doubts.
The only useful comparison is between where you are now and where you were six months ago. Are you learning? Are you contributing more effectively than before? That’s progress. And progress is what matters in a sport that’s constantly evolving.
The best engineers in F1 ask questions constantly. They don’t know everything, and they don’t pretend to. Curiosity is a strength, not a weakness. When you ask a question, you’re signalling that you care about getting things right.