I’d been racing in the Challenge of the Americas (COTA) series for a while, and honestly? I was usually running mid-pack. This series operates on a different level—it’s packed with full-time homeschooled racers, national champions, and international talent. For me, COTA wasn’t initially about trophies; it was about learning how to race against the absolute best. Every lap was a brutal lesson in patience, defense, aggression, and adaptability.
This one weekend, though, started like most others. Wednesday through Friday practice: steady, consistent, but nothing special—definitely mid-pack. But then Saturday hit different.
Qualifying was split into two groups. My group went out first, and somehow… I nailed it. P2. I couldn’t believe it. It was the highest I had ever placed in COTA qualifying, and it ignited a fire I hadn’t felt before. When the second group went out and the times were merged, I was slotted around P9. Still, I was pumped. I fought hard in the heats and earned a P6 start for the Final.
At the green flag, I let the nerves get to me and lost a few spots. For a moment, I thought the shot was gone. But I regrouped. Found my rhythm. Got into my zone. And then I started charging.
One by one, I caught and passed the karts ahead. No crashes. No chaos. Just clean, hard racing. With a few laps to go, I made the move that put me into P3—and held it to the checkered flag.
My first national podium.
I earned it. Every lap. Every mistake. Every comeback. And that feeling—standing on the podium knowing, truly knowing, I belonged—is something I’ll never forget.
It wasn’t just a good weekend. It was the weekend that changed how I saw myself.