He had chased the fantasy that the next flawless round would finally hush the accusations in his head. But in that stillness, he recognized the deeper wound: the problem wasn’t the numbers on the card, it was the meaning he’d chained to them. For years, he had let a sport decide whether he was worthy of love, respect, and rest.
In prayer, he confessed that he had traded identity for performance, surrendering his heart to a standard he could never meet. When he walked back onto the course, the hazards, flags, and fairways were unchanged, yet his posture was entirely different. Missed shots no longer defined him; they simply informed his next choice. With each swing, he practiced receiving rather than proving. Golf became a place to encounter grace, not earn it. As perfection loosened its hold, the game became beautiful again—no longer his judge, just his joy.
