The Old
My dad was a golf addict, my mom, a golf widow. My dad’s wish was to die on a golf course—after the final putt on the 18th green, ideally knowing it had dropped. He made it to 97, and I’m convinced golf was part of the reason. The man had calves like Clydesdales.
Golf, for him, wasn’t just a sport. It was ritual, therapy, and connection. Decades later, in the male-dominated company I work for, not much has changed. You won’t find the real agenda in the deck—it’s out on the back nine. Promotions are vetted quietly between holes nine and ten. Loyalty is measured in 19th-hole drinks, not performance reviews. I don’t play, and I don’t pretend to. I’ve made peace with that.
The New
Recently, I watched my adult daughter move through her world, and it felt familiar—yet faster, sharper, and with better shoes. She goes to SoulCycle and Pilates because she wants to move, breathe, clear her head. But somewhere between the third class and the fourth hello, she starts running into the same people. They chat. They connect. Before long, they’re trading mothering hacks, career leads, and designer sneaker recs—all before 9AM. It’s casual but cumulative. Intentional without trying too hard.
It’s not golf, but it serves the same purpose: connection, influence, momentum. Only now it happens in leggings, during a 50-minute window. We all know there’s too much shit to get done to spend five hours on a fairway. As a mother, I’m proud. As someone still reporting for duty in corporate hell, I’m taking notes.
Bitches, if you’re a younger woman grinding in the system—know this: you don’t have to chase the old playbook. You can build your network, your own way. Find your people. Set your pace. Wear the sneakers.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Happy Mother’s Day!!
Happy Mother's Day!