On Golf, Insecurities, and Carrying the Weight of the World
It's the 11th hole of the qualifier, our second day of battling incessant winds and bitter temperatures. I'm standing on the tee box waiting for the group ahead to clear, going through the motions of casual, time-killing small-talk with my playing partner. Right now we're both locked in a duel, fighting to stay in contention despite what the conditions continue to throw at us.
I go through my pre-shot routine, step up and address the ball, and then let loose the unnatural coiling-and-unleashing movement that golf is famous for, and then anxiously look to the sky to see where little whitey is flying off to. With dismay I realize mid-flight that I had misjudged the wind. Instead of hitting a draw that the wind caresses further left, I hit a slight push and the wind was kindly guiding it further right, over the fence and out of bounds, carrying with it my hopes of qualifying.
I was devastated. This is the type of mistake you can't have if you're going to get through a qualifier, and in that moment I was no longer a conscious, fully-functioning human. I was reeling, reactionary, and quickly sliding into the tunnel-vision version of angry, frustrated, and fed up with my own incompetence at this game that "I should be better at."
The next two holes felt as if I blacked out a bit, and the scorecard would indicate this to be at least partly true. As I slowly resurfaced on #13, up and out of the pit I had dug, I was a bit surprised at how ineffective I had been at avoiding, preventing, or even correcting that reactionary, involuntary response to the poor shots I hit.
You find out a lot about yourself when you get punched in the face, and there were some thought-provoking insights that surfaced for me after this instance and a few other experiences on the golf course these past couple months.
While golf seems to never stop teaching us lessons about ourself or about life, I realized after these events that there was still something new I needed to unearth. For as long as I can remember, there has been a single element, resting beneath the surface, plaguing my performance more than any other aspect of my game (and yes, that does include those pesky, errant tee shots). That element is insecurity.
Of course, you probably know nothing about this. I am undoubtedly the only one who ever experiences such a thing on the golf course (or in life in general). And if you'd like to just skip this section you can move ahead to a more interesting topic down the page...
Ah insecurity, what a fun part of being human.
To me, insecurity is that little voice that hangs out on your shoulder and constantly reminds you of the cost of doing something stupid, looking silly, messing up, hitting a bad shot. It says that: if you aren't able to do "x", then that for sure means "y". And really, deep down, there's a piece of us that wants the voice of insecurity to be true! Isn't that messed up? We kind of want insecurity to be the voice of reason because it often makes logical sense or has rationale attached to it. We like the principle of "do good get good, do bad get bad", and we kind of like the idea that we actually aren'tenough just as we are. We kind of like the rat race of comparison, always trying to be like the spitting image of perfect we fondly admire in virtually everyone but ourself.
Coming from a sports culture and a religious culture that praises performance and actions, my version of insecurity is almost always tied to the results I produce, in whatever context I'm in. This blend of hyper-competitiveness and "just try harder, work harder, do more" approach has often produced a molotov cocktail of pressure, expectations, and heightened feelings when they are least welcomed or needed. And for me, given that my career used to be golf, that cocktail took center stage during tournaments or competitions.
What's interesting to me is, that piece of insecurity has never really left. Surprisingly, it hasn't shown up nearly as often in my work or in professional contexts. The place where it is still felt most is in the game of golf, where its roots run deepest, and where a piece of my identity still finds itself firmly planted.
You see, the power of insecurity is in its ability to hold a piece of me hostage. It dangles this piece of myself in front of me, saying: "if you don't qualify then that means you aren't a good golfer." Or, "if you can't pull off that shot, then you're just a poser and a wannabe." And beneath these statements is the underlying belief that: "if those are true, then that must mean you're not lovable either." There's this weird, unspoken, and often unconscious connection between insecurity and our sense of being worthy of love that adds such immense weight to moments that are never meant to carry that load.
Take for instance Rory's recent adventures in the U.S. Open at Pinehurst. When I think of someone carrying weight on the golf course, Rory is near the top of the list. Being a child prodigy, turning professional at 18, getting his first win on PGA Tour before turning 21, beginning to dominant performances such as his 8-shot victory in the U.S. Open at Congressional, and stacking up wins at a rate that created a conversation about where he would land in the eventual record-books someday.
And then... crickets. Ten years of major disappointments. ... Weight.
The constant peppering of questions, the headlines that never go away, the comments and looming thoughts, all of these add more and more weight to each shot and each moment of his performance during majors. Then, all of a sudden, he has a two shot lead with only a handful of holes remaining. The finish-line seems so close, the clubhouse virtually in sight. The only thing left to do is make a few short putts that should be automatic...
We all see this weight, we feel it for him as we watch the saga unfold. It's so palpable to us watching because we have felt the same thing in its essence: the weight of the world bearing down on us, causing immense pressure, and ultimately stemming from insecurity. Sure, Rory's is a much different version than mine and likely yours, but it's still the same experience at its core.
My version is: "I want this person who I'm playing with to think I am a good golfer, that I have a good game, that I'm not just pretending to be a former pro but actually have the game to back it up. And if they come away thinking that, then I can be secure in who I am. If not, maybe I should consider selling my clubs and never playing golf again."
Insecurity is a feeling closely tied to fear. Or maybe, more accurately, it's a certain flavor of fear: fearing the loss of a piece of ourselves core to who we are, or who we think we are. This produces a weight, the weight of expectation often placed on us by ourself, above and beyond what's realistic or practical. And how often do we go through our days feeling weighed down, overburdened, tired and worn out from all that we carry?
I'm there too. It's far more often than I'd like, and it's definitely more often than is helpful.
What would it be like to live in a way that consistently embodied lightness?
This is a question first posed to me in a coaching credential program I went through and it's had some staying power in my mind. Part of the reason why this idea of lightness has been so sticky is because it's so needed. It's like my body is thirsting for it as it would a cold glass of water on a scorching summer day. And I don't think I'm alone in that. It seems to me that our world is longing for more of that too. What person do you know who wouldn't benefit from incorporating and embodying more lightness?
While I'm still figuring out what that practically means for me, I do think we all have a fairly good sense of what that would feel like. It's the carefree, secure, playful, curious, non-judgmental presence that takes in life as fully as one can possibly experience it.
To help myself test the waters, experiment, and experience more of this, I'm simply asking myself: How can I embody lightness in this space and in this moment?
Sometimes that means I need to have a conversation with a specific person to relieve or release some weight. Sometimes it means I need to unplug, get some space, and spend some time with nature. Sometimes it means I need to crack open a good book. Sometimes it means I need to pause for 10 seconds and focus on my breathing. Sometimes it means I need to put a pen to paper and make sense of my feelings through journaling. It's a fluid, living, dynamic process, and I think it will always be so. But maybe "thinking" isn't the point in the first place?
As I stare at the page now, with many words having been ingested by the brave souls who have ventured this far, I'm wondering what this world might look like if more people were able to better understand their own insecurities? I wonder what our relationships would look like if we were able to more consistently live into and embody lightness?
I wonder, what would be possible?
