Once upon a time, golf was a game I knew nothing about. It was the thing my husband, Jason, disappeared into for six or more hours at a time. Then in 2015 we bought a house on a golf course, and I watched a steady stream of people doing it all day, every day (rain or shine) in our backyard.

But not me. I had two kids under two, and on the long list of things I wanted to do with my free time, golf wasn't one of them.

For years, I had zero interest. Then in 2022, Jason talked me into couples golf. So I grabbed something cute from the pro shop, borrowed a set of demo clubs, and "played" golf.

I'm convinced the bottomless wine and good company were the real draw. We played four-person scrambles in eightsomes, and I spent most of the night socializing, drinking, and swinging the club whenever my team told me to, in whatever direction they pointed. Unsurprisingly, I was awful. But the belly laughs with my friends made it genuinely fun, so I had no objection when Jason bought me my own set of clubs. Apparently, I was a golfer. A couples golfer.

Then in 2024, after 17 years at Amazon, I decided the antidote to living to work was, of all things, golf.

It's outside. It forces you to slow down and be patient. There's nature and wildlife and beauty everywhere you look. So I made the leap from couples golfer to solo golfer.

And I did not ease in. I joined the ladies league: a structured, more-than-weekly, genuinely competitive operation where I had to establish an actual handicap. This was golf "for real," and nothing like couples night. Playing every shot yourself, in front of strangers who take the game seriously, is a lot harder than swinging on your turn while your friends do the real work. No team to hide behind. No wine to blame.

My fellow members were, on average, twenty-plus years older than me, mostly retired, and far more experienced. They all knew each other and played together regularly. I was the random fourth, standing on the first tee in full golf gear, looking like I knew exactly what I was doing. Then I'd swing, and I could practically hear the group thinking: "Nope." "Yikes." "This is going to be a long nine holes."

Here's the part that still gets me. The game I had zero interest in? Now I sneak out after the dinner dishes are done to squeeze in one hole before dark. Just one. Because maybe this is the hole where I finally make par. I'm still not good. But I'm obsessed with the idea that I might actually get better. Isn't that basically the definition of golf?