I came for a quiet round of golf. I got stage fright and self-doubt — and some surprising grace.”
You step in the box. Tee your ball between the markers. Take a breath.
And suddenly you’re aware of everything.
Your grip feels weird. Your shoulders feel stiff. There’s a breeze you weren’t planning for. And three guys in polos are waiting behind you, half-checking their phones, half-judging your tempo like a polite, khaki-clad jury.
“All the world’s a stage—and today, mine starts on the tee box.”
The Stuff That Made Me Feel Like I Didn’t Belong
I used to think the scariest thing about golf would be the bunkers. Or the water hazards. Or being charged $6.75 for a Gatorade at the turn. Turns out, it’s the invisible stuff that rattles me most—the feeling that I’m somehow not supposed to be here.
- I’m not a great golfer yet, and I don’t hide it well.
- I worry that I’m slowing down the game like a human traffic cone.
- I don’t always know the rules—just enough to know I might be breaking them.
- And sometimes, it feels like I’m being silently judged by every guy on the range named Todd.
At the range, I’ve been the only woman more times than I can count. You bend over to grab a club, and suddenly you’re running mental geometry on viewing angles, shirt gaps, and how long it’ll take to re-tuck discreetly. Then you try to focus, but the guy next to you is whacking driver at Mach 3 with Iron Maiden blaring from his pocket speaker, and suddenly your zen is gone.
Even the putting green isn’t safe. I know I’m just trying to get a feel for pace, not win the U.S. Open, but that doesn’t stop my brain from panicking when I miss three straight four-footers in front of strangers. (Cool. This is fine. I definitely deserve to be here.)
And then there’s etiquette. So much etiquette. Some of it’s in the rulebook. Some of it’s made up by retired dentists named Chuck. And if you don’t know the difference, congratulations—you’re already behind.
The Tee Box Walk of Weirdness
Here’s something no one really talks about:
When you’re a woman playing in a group of men, you’re almost always using a different tee box.
It’s not supposed to be awkward. It’s supposed to make the game more fair. But that walk forward to the “reds” (or whatever color is designated) can feel like a weird little solo act. You break off from the group. You tee off alone. Then you walk back toward them, quietly hoping you didn’t just whiff it in front of a gallery of zero butts in seats.
At first, it felt like I was disrupting the rhythm. Like I was holding everyone up.
But here’s the truth: playing from the right tees actually speeds up the game. It puts you in a better position. It’s the smart way to play—and the right way to play.
Everyone is trying to play their own game. And what I’ve learned is this: they’ll afford you the grace to play yours.
What If They’re Laughing Behind My Back?
That’s the quiet fear that gets me.
Not that I’ll mess up—I will—but that I’ll somehow be annoying. That I’ll hold up the group. That I’ll be the reason someone grumbles to the starter afterward.
And yeah, I’m in the Midwest. People are pleasant. But let’s not pretend polite silence isn’t sometimes just judgment with better manners.
I’ve had to learn how to quiet that voice. Or at least, respond with a raised eyebrow and a swing that says, “You’re not paying my greens fee, sir.”
Playing With Strangers (and the Power of Honesty)
One of the hardest things is getting paired with strangers. You sign up for a twosome and suddenly you’re golf-speed-dating with a random pair who might be super chill… or might be in full-on Pace of Play Police mode with clipboard energy.
What helps?
I tell the truth.
I’ll say something like: “Appreciate the company. I’m not perfect, but I try to play with good pace and good vibes.”
“Fair warning—I’m just getting back into golf, so this round may feature equal parts effort and unintentional slapstick.”
Most of the time, people are great. They’re kind. They’re helpful. They say things like, “Nice out!” even when I blade a wedge 40 yards past the pin. They offer aim points they like to use when it’s hard to find the pin from the tee box. And yes, sometimes they offer… interesting swing tips. I nod. I smile. I mentally throw them in a drawer labeled “Thanks, but no thanks.”
When I Lost My Wedge (and Felt Really Dumb About It)
So here’s a confession:
I actually lost a club this weekend. My 60° wedge. The one I trust for chipping. The one with which I actually have a positive relationship.
I left it somewhere between a green and the golf cart (like I’m supposed to), and by the time I realized it was gone, we were at the next green and I needed it for a steep chip onto the green from behind a hill. So we asked the folks behind us, and we checked with the pro shop at the turn. We waited. We looked. Nothing.
And yes, I was upset over the club. But what surprised me was how embarrassed I felt. Like I’d done something so obviously dumb that everyone would roll their eyes at me. Like losing a club meant I didn’t deserve to have one in the first place.
But that shame spiral? It wasn’t real. The people around me? Kind. Helpful. One guy even came outside from the clubhouse to say he’d keep an eye out. The staff let me take a cart and look. No one judged.
Turns out, everyone’s left something behind—a wedge, a rangefinder, a phone, a little pride. It’s part of the game. And I didn’t need to feel bad. Not about the lost club. Not about asking. Not about showing I cared about it.
What Helps Me Feel More Comfortable Now
- Arrive early. I need time to breathe, stretch, and psych myself up like it’s the back nine at Augusta.
- Ask dumb questions. “Anything I should know about this course?” gets real tips and real connection.
- Say the scary thought out loud. “I might chunk this.” That honesty disarms the nerves.
- Accept help (even if it’s a weird tip). People mean well. Let them mean well.
- Laugh more. It’s just a game. A very difficult, humbling, emotionally complicated game.
- Play the right tees. It’s not weak. It’s wise.
- Take up space like I paid for it. Because I did.
For Anyone Who’s Nervous on the First Tee
You’re not alone.
The nerves? Real.
The self-consciousness? Normal.
The pressure to be perfect? Unnecessary.
You belong here.
Not because you hit every fairway—but because you showed up.
So tee it up, swing anyway, laugh when it goes sideways, and play through.
“It turns out, feeling like you belong on the course doesn’t come from hitting perfect shots. It comes from showing up, swinging anyway, and learning to laugh when the ball lands two fairways over.”