Choosing Not To, or Being Unable To?

Golf has been part of my life for about twenty-five years. I enjoy it, though I’ll be the first to admit I’m not very good at it. and never will be, for a number of reasons.

One of those reasons is simple: I don’t spend enough time on it. I play once a week with friends, starting in May and wrapping up in September. When I first took up the game, many people offered to help me improve. At the beginning, I believed I could. I practiced. I paid attention. I worked at it.

After a few years, something became clear. Starting a new hobby at fifty-five meant I was never going to reach the level of proficiency of friends who had been golfing since their twenties. That wasn’t failure; it was reality.

At that point, I had a choice.

I could continue chasing improvement, measuring myself against standards I was unlikely to reach, or I could change my relationship with the game. I listened to my friends’ advice, adjusted my swing as best I could, but I stopped going to the driving range and the putting green to practice. I stopped keeping score.

Instead, I chose to play one hole at a time. I tracked the game, but I no longer judged it. I went out to enjoy the walk, the conversation, and the shared experience.

Something interesting happened.

I now golf with a group of friends, none of whom keep score anymore. We enjoy each other’s company and the game itself, but we never talk about numbers. Competitiveness quietly gave way to companionship. Once we made that decision, new doors opened. New friendships formed. And we still hold our heads high at the nineteenth hole.

This wasn’t giving up golf. It was choosing how to play it.

That distinction matters.

There’s a difference between being unable to do something and choosing not to do it the same way anymore. One strips you of agency; the other affirms it. Adaptive choices allow us to stay connected to what matters, even as circumstances change.

The friend I mentioned in the previous post is still wrestling with his decision to seek help. For someone who has always carried responsibility alone, allowing others in feels uncomfortable, even threatening. But I can already see the possibilities lining up; people ready to step forward, contribute, and share the load only when he’s ready to see that asking for help doesn’t close doors. It opens them.

Just as my golfing friends eventually faced their own limits. As their skills declined, they had to choose stop playing altogether or stop keeping score. They chose the latter, joined my team, and discovered a lot more joy than they expected.

Dignity isn’t found in doing everything ourselves. It’s found in deciding how we remain present, connected, and engaged. Choosing differently isn’t surrender. It’s often the clearest expression of agency we have.