They say golf is a good walk ruined. I say it’s a controlled mental breakdown — and that’s exactly why I needed it. Let me explain.
I’m a doctor. Which means I spend my days juggling patient charts, calls, and the kind of stress that makes your eye twitch involuntarily during meetings. A few months ago, I found myself sitting in the call room at 2 a.m., staring at my 12th cup of coffee and trying to remember if I had eaten that day — or yesterday. My phone buzzed. Another consult. Another day saving lives and losing mine, one “urgent” call at a time.
Then something strange happened: I remembered my golf clubs. They were in the garage, under a pile of old journals and broken dreams. I hadn’t touched them since residency, back when I thought I’d have hobbies and a spine that didn’t ache when I sneezed. But something in me — the part that hadn’t completely burnt out — said, “Screw it. Let’s go whack something.”
So I took a Friday off. (Yes, doctors can do that). I showed up at the course in wrinkled gear and sneakers because I couldn’t find my golf shoes. My swing? Hideous. My aim? Questionable. My caddie? Nonexistent. But by hole three, something wild happened:
I smiled. Genuinely. Like a person. Not like someone pretending to be okay while writing notes at 10 p.m. By hole six, I stopped checking my phone. By hole nine, I forgot about the WhatsApp. By hole twelve, I was talking to trees. (Okay, yelling at them. But still.)
Then came the moment of glory: a perfect drive on the 14th. I stood there, stunned, as the ball soared into the sky like all my frustrations had finally taken flight. “Nice shot, doc!” someone called from another fairway. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s the first thing I’ve done right all week for myself.”
The truth is, I didn’t become better at golf that day. I hit more sand than a beach umbrella. But something in me shifted. For the first time in ages, I wasn’t a doctor, or a problem-solver, or a walking to-do list. I was just a person… missing putts and laughing about it. Now, every Friday afternoon, I schedule a recurring appointment titled “Follow-up with Mulligan.” No one asks questions. (They assume it's a difficult patient. In a way, they’re right). Golf didn’t fix my life. But it gave me space to be human. And some weeks, that’s more than enough. So to all the doctors out there — tired, overbooked, over-caffeinated, and still showing up....
