Let me start with a confession: I’ve never been good at golf. Not in the way that makes you want to throw your clubs into a lake and never look back. But here’s the thing—I’ve spent enough time around the sport to notice a pattern. Most people who play golf are terrible at it. Not in the ‘I can’t hit a ball straight’ way, but in the ‘I’m constantly second-guessing myself’ way. And that’s what makes Graham Averill’s story so fascinating. At 50, he’s not buying a motorcycle or getting a tattoo. He’s trying to get good at golf. Not just decent. Not just ‘I can hit a drive.’ He’s aiming for scratch. And in doing so, he’s stumbled onto something far more profound than swing mechanics. It’s about mindset, identity, and the way we approach failure. Let me unpack that.
When I first read about Averill’s journey, I thought, ‘Okay, this is just another midlife crisis story.’ But then I realized: this isn’t about golf. It’s about how we define success in our 50s, 60s, or even 30s. The idea that someone would dedicate themselves to mastering a skill they’re not naturally gifted in—especially at a time when society expects you to be ‘settled’—is radical. It’s not just about improving a game. It’s about reclaiming agency over your own narrative. And that’s where the real lesson lies.
Averill’s first revelation—‘bad golf happens’—is both obvious and deeply human. We all have those moments where we hit a shot so bad it makes us question our entire life choices. But here’s the twist: the difference between Averill and the golfers he plays with isn’t their swing. It’s their reaction. They don’t see a missed shot as a reflection of their worth. They see it as a data point. That’s not just golf advice—it’s life advice. How many of us treat a single failure like a verdict on our entire existence? Averill’s peers don’t do that. They treat every miss as a chance to recalibrate, not a reason to quit. That’s the kind of resilience we should all aspire to.
Then there’s the mindset shift around birdies. Averill’s coach didn’t just want to save par—he wanted to make birdie. This isn’t just about scoring; it’s about perspective. The best golfers aren’t afraid to take risks. They don’t play it safe. They’re always looking for ways to improve their position, even if it means gambling on a tricky chip shot. In my opinion, this is the most underrated skill in any pursuit: the ability to stay aggressive in the face of uncertainty. Too often, we default to defensive thinking—‘just don’t screw this up’—when what we really need is to be offensive. To be proactive. To be bold. That’s not just golf. That’s how you build a career, a relationship, or a life.
And then there’s the pièce de résistance: the power of visualization. Averill noticed that better players don’t just think about their shots—they describe them. They visualize the trajectory, the landing spot, the exact path the ball will take. This isn’t just psychobabble. It’s neuroscience. Studies show that mentally rehearsing a task activates the same brain regions as physically doing it. But what’s fascinating is how few people apply this to their daily lives. We’re all experts at thinking about what we don’t want to happen. ‘Don’t hit it into the water.’ ‘Don’t miss the shot.’ But the best performers don’t focus on the negative. They focus on the positive. They create a vision of success and then execute it. That’s not just for golfers. That’s for anyone trying to achieve something meaningful.
Here’s what I find most intriguing: Averill’s journey isn’t about becoming a pro. It’s about redefining what it means to be ‘good’ at something. In a culture that glorifies youth and instant success, his story is a quiet rebellion. It’s proof that it’s never too late to learn, to grow, to redefine yourself. And that’s the real takeaway. Golf is just the vehicle. The message is universal: life isn’t about avoiding failure. It’s about how you respond to it. It’s about staying hungry, even when the world expects you to settle. It’s about choosing to see the birdie, not just avoid the bunker. And if that’s not a lesson worth learning, I don’t know what is.
