Golf as Respite
Finding Sanctuary in the Small Moments
Hi there, I’m Lyle McKeany. If you’ve been around Subtletees for a while, you probably don’t know who I am. I met Nico Bianchi just under a year ago at—surprise, surprise—a golf course. We hit it off quickly via our mutual love of golf and writing. I’ve since enjoyed the creative and heartfelt storytelling across everything Subtletees, and I’m excited to be collaborating with the team on this new Substack publication. Below is my first contribution. I hope you enjoy it!
A weekly round of golf with a regular cadre of friends isn’t feasible for me. Sometimes my rounds are planned with a buddy weeks in advance. Those rounds require a carefully orchestrated arrangement where my wife, Allison, can take the lead with our daughter, Em, or where I've coordinated with Em's in-home nurse to provide coverage. Other times, it's more spontaneous. Em’s at school for the day, and I suddenly realize that I have a few hours of freedom that I can steal for myself.
Today is one of those spontaneous days. I get her fed, dressed, and strapped into her wheelchair for the morning school bus, which conveniently stops at the base of our driveway.
At seven years old, Em has (mostly) settled into a rhythm that works for our family, although her severe dystonic cerebral palsy disability makes everything more complicated. Born on her exact due date—June 4th, 2018—she suffered a brain injury from lack of blood and oxygen during birth. Within hours, she was airlifted and placed on a therapeutic hypothermia protocol; her tiny body temperature dropped six degrees Fahrenheit for 72 hours to ice her brain. She survived, but the damage was done. She can't walk, talk, eat by mouth, or even hold her own head up reliably. We do everything for her.
After the bus drives away, I grab my clubs from the garage, load them into my car, and back out of the driveway as the sun starts to paint the Sonoma hills in that soft, golden light that makes everything look possible. This is my escape hatch. My pressure valve. My reset button. And yes, like any true golf sicko, my obsession.
It wasn't always this way. Before Em was born, golf was something I enjoyed as a release from work stress, a way to spend time outdoors, and a pursuit that could be simultaneously relaxing and challenging. I was decent at it, better than average, but it was just another hobby competing for time and attention. Golf has always been a form of respite for me, but now it feels profoundly different, more necessary. The constant vigilance of caring for a child with complex medical needs, the therapy and doctor appointments, the annoyingly long equipment approval process, the late-night meds I administer through her feeding tube while she’s sleeping to (hopefully) keep her asleep throughout the night, the forthcoming surgeries on the horizon—it all accumulates into a low-level hum of responsibility that never fully switches off.
Allison and I share this load more equally these days. I'm not working as much as she is, so I've taken on more of Em's care. Out of necessity, together we’ve become a solid and well-oiled machine. But that shared responsibility also means we both need our own ways of refilling the tank, our own moments of respite. For her, it’s swimming, connecting with a good friend, or spending time at her family’s cabin. For me, it's golf.
I pull into the parking lot at my home course, grab my clubs, and make my way to the pro shop to check in. I typically bounce around between several local options, never quite settling on a favorite. There's something appealing about the variety of the course and the playing partners I meet. They’re usually strangers who quickly become temporary companions in the shared journey of attempting to navigate our golf balls around the vast, undulating field in as few strokes as possible.
I can feel the weight of responsibility begin to lift as I drive to the course, but the first tee is where the magic really begins. I grab my driver, tee up my ball, step behind it, and take a couple of practice swings. And then something shifts. The world narrows to a straight line between the target I’ve chosen in the distance and a spot on the ground a few feet in front of my ball. The ongoing mental checklist of Em's needs all fades into background noise. There's just me, the ball, and the target. Then I swing and feel that familiar, addictive sensation at impact.
This is what I've come to understand about golf: it's not really about the golf. It's about the forced meditation that happens between my ears when I'm standing over a shot. In that moment, I have to be completely present. I have to feel my feet on the ground, my hands on the club, the wind on my face. I have to breathe. I have to trust. I have to let go of everything else.
The game can be frustrating and make you question why you ever spent a dime on it. But it can also be beautiful and make you feel like you've briefly touched perfection. That perfect strike—the one that sounds exactly right coming off the clubface, the one that flies exactly where you pictured it—is what keeps every golfer coming back. Golf is a series of these moments, these brief sanctuaries of singular focus, connected by walks through nature and conversations with playing partners who don't need to know about feeding tubes, medications, medical equipment, or all the other out-of-the-ordinary things that have become ordinary for me.
Even an hour at the driving range can provide the same relief. The repetitive motion of hitting ball after ball, the immediate feedback of each strike, the meditative quality of working on my swing. Each shot is an opportunity to exercise the muscles of mindfulness and somatic awareness that get so little use in the chaos of my daily life.
I've encountered countless other married guys who talk about golf as a way to get away from their wives, joking about the "ball and chain" they've left at home. I've always found this distasteful and sad, and not particularly funny. My experience is the opposite—golf makes me appreciate what I have at home more, not less. The course isn't an escape from my family; it's a place where I can recharge so I can be better for them.
Em's birth served as a giant dose of perspective. The trauma of those early days, the uncertainty about her future, the way my entire world shifted in an instant. Things like an errant golf shot feel less important than they used to. Golf gives me a way to get away from it all, but the "it all" also helps me recognize how lucky I am to be able to play the game. I can feel frustrated for a moment when I miss a putt or hit a ball into the water, but then I remember what really matters. I get to walk on green grass under an open sky and use my body in ways that Em never will.
The other players I'm paired with don't know any of this, of course. They see a good player, who still likes to walk and carry his bag instead of riding a cart, who seems to genuinely enjoy being on the course even when he’s hitting bad shots. They don't know about the underlying, ever-present din of hypervigilance I live with at home. They don't know that when I'm lining up a putt, I'm not thinking about anything but rolling my ball over a specific spot on the green. They don’t know that this quieting of my thoughts is one of the things I treasure most about being out there.
Sometimes I feel selfish for needing this escape. There are other parents of children with disabilities who don't get four-and-a-half-hour breaks. There are single parents who would kill for half an hour of uninterrupted time. There are people dealing with circumstances far more challenging than mine who can't afford an expensive hobby like golf.
But then I remember a quote I heard years ago: "You can't pour from an empty cup." The golf course is where I go to refill mine. I come home from golf feeling calmer, more patient, more present. I'm better able to handle Em’s challenges. And I'm better able to appreciate the small victories in Em's development and not get overwhelmed by the setbacks.
The sun is higher now, and I'm standing on the 18th tee. The final hole always feels bittersweet—the end of my sanctuary, the return to reality. But I've learned to appreciate endings as much as beginnings. I tee up my ball, take my stance, and focus on this last shot. The fairway stretches out in front of me, and for just a moment, it feels like the most important thing in the world.
Then I swing, watch the ball fly, and start walking toward home.
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