The weight of the last eighteen months—turbulent, challenging, and marked by moments that felt profoundly dark—had finally lifted. Speaking now, in the format of a podcast that allowed him to express himself fully, Carlos Sainz Jr. sat in a state of tranquility he hadn’t known for a long time. He admitted he enjoyed the podcast format; it gave him the opportunity to elaborate, to speak his mind a little better than a fleeting interview. This platform felt right for dissecting a period that had tested his character to its absolute limits.

“I’m in a very happy place right now,” he began, the contentment evident in his voice. That peace had been found at Williams, a team and a family united by a single, demanding mission: to restore the historic squad to competitive glory. Looking back, the last five or six months had been incredibly good, surprising more than a few people. This success not only brought him happiness but also the profound relief that he had chosen his future well.

It was a stark contrast to a year prior, when he was still struggling to envision his life post-Ferrari. He had options on the table, a difficult matrix of decisions to navigate, but if anyone had shown him this outcome twelve months ago, he would have been overjoyed. The trials of the past year, he believed, had forged him into a better driver and a more mature person. These challenging moments, like the one he faced, forcefully shaped one’s character. His biggest struggle had always been decision-making—it took immense courage to commit to a path. Sometimes, one waited for life to offer guidance, but there came a checkpoint, a moment when the decision simply had to be taken. Last year, that moment arrived, and he chose Williams. A year later, he was happy he did.

The path to that decision, however, began with a seismic shock.

The year 2024 was supposed to be different. It was late January or early February, and Carlos was deep in his pre-season training, optimistic about the coming year with Ferrari. He had poured everything into preparation, hopeful the car would be competitive. Meanwhile, contract negotiations had stalled, not suspiciously at first, but in a weird, prolonged way. They had been talking about renewal since October, yet the signing kept being postponed. He felt no alarm; every feedback loop told him the partnership would continue. “It’s going to take only a couple hours to agree to the economics side of things,” they assured him. He went into the winter with the mentality that it would all be sorted before the first race.

Then, in the middle to end of January, the phone call came. He received the news not from the team directly, but from a friend who called him. The news was that Lewis Hamilton would be joining, and Carlos was out.

The shock was total. “I went from believing I was going to be in Ferrari for a while still more to suddenly now I’m out of Ferrari. Lewis is replacing me. What am I going to do now?” The possibility had never occurred to him. It took a good week to process and accept the reality. He was typically level-headed, but this gave him a profound kick—a jolt that, paradoxically, made him a better athlete and driver. What emerged from him in the early months of the year—March, April, May—was arguably the best version of himself to date.

For anyone struggling with others’ opinions derailing their lives, Carlos’s mindset shift was simple and brutal: “If there’s nothing you can do, you need to move on.” At that point, the Ferrari contract was signed; he had zero chance of staying. The only logical next step was to look at his options, call everyone, and prove himself.

The universe, it seemed, had decided 2024 was his character-building year, hitting him hard in waves. After starting the season strong with a podium in Bahrain, his appendix decided it was the perfect time to make an appearance. The infection flared up, forcing him to miss the race in Jeddah. His first thought was one of frustration: Life is hitting me hard. I need all the races I can get right now to show the world what I can do.

He took it as a fight. He needed to fight back. Immediately after the surgery, while still limping, he returned to the paddock in a purely professional capacity, sitting in the box to help the substitute driver, Ollie Bearman. “You guys decided I cannot continue with this thing,” he thought, “but I’m going to show you my worth apart from just driving fast cars.” He used the time to sit with his engineers, to see their screens, to hear their communication, and to learn what information he, as the driver, would need in the car. He transformed into a ‘third engineer’ for a weekend, turning a physical setback into an opportunity to become better. It was also a clear message to Ferrari: he was a professional, dedicating himself to the team even after the news.

When life is going well, it’s easy to take it for granted. Having something snatched away left him with a deep-seated determination to show his worth—his professionalism, his hard work, his talent. His greatest internal battle was resisting the urge to become an “infection” inside the team, to turn political or let his ego cause trouble. His ‘demon’ urged him to air his grievances and set the place on fire, but his ‘angel’ proved more powerful, whispering, “Don’t be that guy. Be the professional guy.” He owed his best to the hundreds and thousands of people working in the team who had nothing to do with the decision. He would leave as the good guy.

This internal control was tough. Every day, every year, he had to have those quiet, half-hour conversations with himself: Control yourself, be the good guy. It was immense character building. He came back after the appendicitis surgery to win the race in Australia. That victory, he felt, was a direct result of his unwavering positive attitude. It would have been easy to become negative, to curse the moment and curse life, but that positivity was what fueled his comeback win.

Of all his wins, this one felt the most personal—a victory for himself and his core team, his family. They had seen him suffer, sad, disappointed, and frustrated in February. They had seen his weakness. And now they saw the success. His father was instrumental in his rapid recovery, ensuring he took all the right steps as an athlete. When they won, it felt like their collective win. It was one of the happiest moments of his life—a high point created directly by the preceding low. The uncertainty before the race—Am I going to be competitive like I used to be?—only intensified the elation of the win. Life, in its constant and dramatic changes, never ceased to amaze him, and it had taught him to view everything with a calmer, more philosophical approach.

Amidst the race wins and the physical recovery, the search for a new team continued. The period of negotiation was stressful. During race weekends, he adopted a strict philosophy: on Wednesday, he would tell his manager, “Leave me alone. Until Sunday, we don’t talk about contracts, teams, or future.” He would call them back on Monday to discuss all that had transpired in the paddock. This compartmentalization helped him maintain focus on the racing, though it meant his Monday to Wednesday was packed with strategy calls, negotiating with potential teams, and planning the next steps. He preferred to be involved; the older he became, the more he liked having control over his future.

During those three or four months, he was being looked at by some of the biggest names in F1, including Mercedes and Red Bull. His inability to secure either of those seats became a frustration he struggled to put behind him. He could understand why things weren’t happening, but he simply didn’t want to believe it. He delayed his final decision for so long because he held onto the hope of still having a competitive car for 2025, a chance to win again and prove he belonged at the sharp end of the grid. This hope led to constant emotional highs and lows between races—a low when a door closed, a hope when a new possibility arose.

The Red Bull rumors, in particular, persisted. The common conclusion among observers was that the partnership failed due to his history with Max Verstappen and Max not wanting him in the team. Carlos firmly dismissed this conjecture, insisting anyone interested should ask the team leadership directly. “I genuinely get on well with Max,” he said. While they had an intense rivalry in their first year in Formula 1 at Toro Rosso, it was a healthy one. Now, they were friends. He believed they would be a very strong pairing for Red Bull.

He acknowledged that everyone had a tough time being Max’s teammate, but he took confidence from the fact that he had survived that first year and knew he could be up against anyone. Having been teammates with incredibly quick drivers like Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris, and Nico Hülkenberg, it only reinforced his desire to continue challenging the best in the sport.

As for Mercedes, the talks with Toto Wolff were extensive, and Carlos was definitely an option, but the move never materialized.

The second lowest moment of his entire ordeal, after the initial Ferrari phone call, was the moment he finally realized, three or four months into the search, that he would not be in a race-winning car for 2025. That realization forced a total shift in mindset. He asked himself: What is the shortest route to winning again? The route, he now accepted, was longer than he had thought.

But a new, positive perspective emerged: What if I go to a place where I am given the right protagonism and the right leadership?

Williams, and James Vowles, sold him that vision perfectly, giving him an environment where he could thrive. He felt loved—a feeling he believed was crucial for any athlete to succeed. All the big success stories in F1 involved a driver in an environment where everyone was 100% fully behind them. At Williams, he and Alex Albon were pushing forward as a unified team, which he considered a powerful foundation for success.

He understood now how political the sport could be—a level of politics he detested, where factors other than pure performance, such as sponsors or money, contributed the final 20% of a decision. He simply had to accept it. “Just get on with it,” he resolved. “Don’t dwell too much on it. Next target.”

What sealed the deal with Williams was the nature of the approach. James Vowles came to him in December, well before the Ferrari news broke, approaching him in Abu Dhabi. “I think you’re the perfect person to help lead Williams towards my target and my mission, which is to bring Williams to be competitive again,” Vowles had said.

Vowles knew Carlos was out of contract at the end of the year and, despite assuming he’d renew with Ferrari, wanted Carlos to know that Williams was there, and they wanted him. That gave Carlos an immediate good impression. Vowles was analytical and statistical, focusing on what some called the ‘Carlos Sainz effect’: the statistic that every team Carlos had joined had significantly improved. Vowles saw his work ethic, his ability to provide feedback, and his talent as the perfect formula to help Williams on their trajectory.

For Carlos, the decision rested on three pillars. First, the team environment. Second, the speed of the car, which he judged to be not too bad, even with its weaknesses. Third, and most importantly, the people. He saw James Vowles as a strong leader, surrounded by highly motivated, driven individuals. He recalled his decision to leave McLaren in 2020: he had left that team feeling they were destined to win because of the strength of their leadership, names like Andrea Stella and Zak Brown. Four years later, McLaren won.

When assessing Williams, he asked himself: Do I see something similar here? Are the people similar to those characteristics?

He answered, Yes.

He took the decision based on the people, based on James, based on the management he was talking to, rather than merely the car’s current speed. It was a choice rooted in conviction, in the belief that the right leadership and a collective feeling of being loved would eventually pave the longest, but most meaningful, route back to winning.