A personal story about going back to golf
On Friday, March 1st, 2019, I played the first round of golf in three years. Golf was one of the activities that defined my high school experience, and my relationship with my Dad. Ever since I was little, on Sundays my Dad and I would get lunch, and then play a round of golf together. My Dad was one of my biggest supporters and my coach when I would let him be. Through golf, my Dad and I got closer, and he loved watching me excel all the way to the Virginia Girls Golf Individual State Championships during my sophomore and junior years of high school. We dreamed of golfing together at the Old Course at St. Andrews, the oldest golf course in the world. But, on September 12th, 2015, a few weeks into my senior year of high school, the unimaginable happened. My Dad suffered a traumatic brain injury. After emergency brain surgery, 18 days in a medically induced coma, and a 3-month stay in a rehabilitation center, my Dad finally came home. He came home permanently paralyzed from the waist down, and with cognitive brain damage. For the next few months, my Dad would hallucinate, and I would have to explain to him that no, you can’t get up and go to the bathroom, you can't walk. It wasn’t his fault, he was still healing from the brain surgery and the cognitive brain damage--but that didn’t make it any easier. I already couldn’t process what had happened because of his accident and the major adjustments my family had to make-- much less return to a sport that reminded me of all the things my Dad could no longer do.
"Going back to golf was like going home"
After my last tournament in my senior year golf season, I put down my clubs and wouldn’t touch them for the next three years. Golf became a source of immense pain and a reminder that my Dad and I would never go back to our Sunday ritual. So, when I announced to my family at Christmas that I was going to play at St. Andrews while I was studying abroad in Scotland for the semester, everyone was shocked.
Was I scared to go back to the course? Absolutely. But, I asked myself the question I ask myself every time I am scared to do something. “Will I regret not doing this? If so, I need to do it.” I knew that I would forever be kicking myself if I returned to Virginia without golfing at the holy grail of golf courses. Going to St. Andrews was partially a tribute to my Dad, but it was also a reminder to myself. A reminder of the sport I loved, and that I had the power to decide to see it as painful or I could see it as a way to remember all of the great memories my Dad and I share. Going back to golf was like going home. Full of nostalgia, good memories, and ready to welcome me back.
Going back to the course was definitely not easy, but once I pushed myself to do it, I was grateful that I did. Rather than feeling pain surrounding my Dad’s accident, I started to recall memories of golfing on Sunday’s with my Dad. I was, and still am, so proud of myself for going back. Most importantly, I went back in my own way, when I felt like I was ready. Before leaving my flat, I had so many emotions, I felt vulnerable, scared, but mostly knowing that I was doing the right thing.
Going to St. Andrews was a step in my own path to healing, and honestly, it felt so good to swing a club again. After I left the range, and when I was at St. Andrews, I texted my Dad, and he was so happy. I facetimed him so that he could see some of the course, and he was beaming. I decided that I want to bring my clubs with me to Fredericksburg for my internship this summer, and dedicate myself to getting back to this sport. Golf welcomed me back home, and it’s good to be back.
