There are seasons in life that don’t ask your permission before they begin.
They arrive like a shift in the wind—subtle and unannounced—turning a well-aimed shot into a lesson in humility. Not a failure of skill, but a testament to forces beyond our control. The ball veers off its intended path, and you’re left to navigate the terrain as it lies, not as you wished it to be.
Just over a year ago, I left St. Louis expecting a brief pause. A few weeks of stillness in sunny Southern California, my former homeland, to close out the mandatory six-month hiatus all Microsoft contractors take after 18 months on. My sister was heading to “helicopter summer camp” as I’d affectionately named it for flight RN onboarding at her new company, and I figured I’d recharge while hosting “Silly Goose Summer Camp” for my nephews. A role I took on with full-send energy, and to this day, carry zero regrets about dropping everything to deliver on perfectly. I thought I’d play a few rounds of golf while I was away, reinforce my status as the cool auntie, and hold down the fort. It felt simple. Necessary. Temporary.
What started as a favor turned into something far more human and humbling. By covering everything on the home front, I gave my sister the kind of space every woman deserves when chasing something bold. Space to grow without fearing her world would implode. And while it sometimes felt like it might (because, yikes, annex-parenting is no joke) it didn’t. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t let it. There was too much at stake.
In the process, I developed a reverence for anyone charged with the care of a child. Parenting is a quiet kind of bravery. Shout out to all of you, especially the ones who answer questions that shouldn’t belong to children, late at night, when the kids are crying and the adults try not to. You’re the real MVPs.
I made sacrifices. Personally. Professionally. Socially. Maritally. I set down pieces of myself to carry what needed carrying. Some sacrifices are loud. Others are long, quiet and deeply isolating. I would do it again. 1000%.
I haven’t swung a club in over a year, outside of a few outings to Top Golf. Not because I abandoned the game, but because I had to find peace elsewhere — over eggs and bacon shaped like prehistoric creatures, in school pickup lines, in those everyday silences where real things get said.
Season 1 was a gentler thing. A soft-spoken devotion and curated love letter to the game that shaped me.
Season 2 is different. The cart path behind me was far from smooth, full of turns I never saw coming. But somewhere in all that uncertainty, I came back to myself. Not the hardened version shaped by survival—still tracing the contours of the Kubler-Ross grief cycle, somewhere between bargaining and acceptance, but the one who remembered how to be soft again. Gentle. Sweet. Unafraid of tenderness. Turns out, strength doesn’t always wear armor. Sometimes it looks like laughter while dancing in the kitchen and feels like peace you didn’t have to earn.
This season is not just about returning to golf. It’s about reclaiming space.
For myself. For the women+ who need to see themselves in the game. For the caretakers doing quiet, crucial work behind the scenes.
Golf has always taught me patience, regulation, and precision. But this chapter taught me how to pass those lessons forward—to the boys, to the people navigating storms of their own, to anyone who could benefit from the stillness and grounding the course offers.
It’s time to get back to work. So here I am. With calloused hands. A (wildly) fuller heart. And no space left for anything but depth.
Golf will always be part of this blog.
It’s in my bones. It shaped me.
But this season, it’s also a metaphor. A lens to examine what it means to hold the line in chaos, tethering oneself to deeply held values. To keep your rhythm. To trust your swing, even when the storm rolls in.
To those still here—thank you for your support in my absence. To those in the thick, unforgiving rough of it, there is a path forward. I hope that in fostering a space where authenticity rules the green and life, you too can let go of the [insert noun(s) of choice] that hold you back and find your peace.
As always, we play long game strong, my beautiful birdies!
