13 Years Sober: A Journey of Redemption, Fatherhood, and Golf

I sat on the edge of the steel-framed cot, head in my hands. My breath was slow, shaky, shallow.

The smell of sweat and old cigarette smoke clung to the walls, blending with the sour staleness of lost time. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cinder block walls.

This was it. Not some low point I could justify as a “bad night.” Not another round of self-inflicted punishment that I could laugh off with my buddies over beers the next day. This was different. I wasn’t just a guy who liked to party too much. I wasn’t just the guy who got unlucky. I was the guy who had lost control.

Two DUIs. Two moments where I should have died—or worse, killed someone else. And the only thing running through my head was her. My daughter. Her tiny hands. Her big eyes. The way she reached for me when she needed comfort. The way she saw me as someone strong, someone capable, someone who would protect her from the world. But what happens when the person who’s supposed to protect you is the one causing the most damage? I knew I had to be better. Not just for me. For her.

Sobriety wasn’t a heroic decision. It was a terrifying one. I walked out of jail that morning with nothing but a pounding headache, a court date, and the weight of my daughter’s future pressing down on me.

The first days were brutal. The shakes. The cravings. The voice in my head whispering, Just one drink. Just one more time. The shame sat in my gut like a lead weight. It was in the missed calls, in the half-hearted apologies, in the moments of silence when I wanted to explain myself but didn’t have the words. I had to fight for every single hour.

The world didn’t change just because I did. My old friends still called. The bars were still open. The stress, the doubts, the demons—all still there, waiting, testing me, daring me to slip. But I kept waking up sober.

And for the first time in years, my daughter was waking up to a father who wasn’t hungover, wasn’t checked out, wasn’t making excuses.I started realizing that this was a game of inches.

• Sobriety, like golf, is about small improvements. One good shot doesn’t fix your round, but it keeps you in the game.
• I had to stay present, to take things one shot at a time.
• I had to stop worrying about past mistakes or future fears and just focus on the next step.

Golf had always been a part of my life, but during those early years of sobriety, it became something more.

It was my therapy. My escape. My teacher.

There’s something about golf that forces you to be honest—with yourself, with the game, with where you are.

✔ You can’t fake your way through a round. Just like in sobriety, if you lie to yourself, you’re only making things worse.
✔ You have to face your mistakes. A bad hole? You still have to walk to the next tee box and swing again.
✔ You control your response, not the outcome. You can’t control every bounce, every putt, every hazard. But you can control how you react.

I started applying those lessons to my life.

I built Golf Ball Wisdom not just as a brand, but as a mission—to help others use golf as a tool for self-improvement, mental toughness, and emotional resilience.

Because golf saved me.

And if it could help me rebuild my life, I knew it could help others, too.