Golf Skirts, Guilt Trips, and Getting Through It

Most of my posts revolve around how sad I am. How much I miss the kids when they’re not here. And lord knows, I do. Tears are shed on the regular. My entire life orbits around them like I’m some sad little moon stuck in a custody battle solar system.

“I became a mom to be a mom. Not because it was expected. Not by accident. It was my only dream. I never pictured a single day without them. But here I am—living the plot twist no one asked for.”

So I’ve had to learn how to live… without them.Spoiler: I’m still pretty bad at it.

Being a mom—especially a mom to five kids with a husband who treated “help” as a theoretical concept—left zero room for hobbies. And in the past two years? Between working, waging war in family court, moving, loving D, and duct-taping together this new version of my life, hobbies still haven’t made the cut.

I have tried. I’ve flirted with hobbies like making Lego sets (until Baby Girl destroys them within days), picking up crochet (which lasted all of 12 minutes), and telling myself I might enjoy jogging (spoiler: I don’t). But mostly? “I excel at documenting my ex’s flaws like it’s an Olympic sport and arguing with him in my head like I’m prepping for the Supreme Court.”

Meanwhile, D is basically a hobby influencer. Hockey. Golf. Watching sports. Video games with the boys. Computer games with E. Pickleball with J. And somehow, he even finds time to read actual books like a functional adult.

I try to join him when I can. I go to his hockey games—when they’re not at “why is any human awake right now?” o’clock. His newest thing? Walking the golf course instead of using a cart. A cute little cardio date.

Every single time I say “sure, I’ll come after work,” I immediately regret it. It’s either raining, 97 degrees, or I’m running on four hours of sleep and sheer spite. Monday we made it through five holes before lightning chased us back to the clubhouse like drowned rats. Tonight? It was so hot I’m pretty sure I saw Jesus. My stomach hurt, I was exhausted, I missed the kids, and it was the first night of my holiday weekend. But… I had agreed.

So out we went.

Back when the kids lived with me 24/7, evenings were a blur of five little voices shouting over each other, homework battles at the kitchen table, and a baby who refused to sleep unless she was draped across my chest. Now? It’s quiet. Too quiet.

“The silence doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels heavy. Suffocating. Like I’m holding my breath until they come home again.”

I get home from work and… nothing. I could make dinner, but I also could not—because it’s just me and D. So I lace up my sneakers, pull on my adorable little purple golf skirt, slap on a giant hat, and follow D out the door—because honestly, “what else do you do when the house doesn’t feel like yours anymore?”

And—annoyingly—I had a great time.I watched my husband doing something he loves. I breathed in fresh air. Wore my cute golf skirt. Burned some calories. Absorbed enough Vitamin D to justify at least two glasses of Chardonnay later. By the end, I even felt… accomplished.

We sat down for dinner at the clubhouse—normal, functional humans eating chicken quesadillas and Angus burgers. (Fun fact: D misread the special menu, so we thought we were being adventurous. We weren’t.)

Something I always wrestle with at the clubhouse? The teenage boys who work there. They remind me so much of J. I want to ask about their lives—where they go to school, how old they are, what their plans are. I can almost picture J working there, golfing after shifts, making friends, laughing with coworkers. But then reality smacks me. Any job he considers would have to be cleared by X—and veto power is his favorite hobby. So I sit quietly, a little envious of the apparent ease in these boys’ lives.

We people-watched the old country club regulars and a waitress who looked uncannily like Winnie from Hocus Pocus. I sipped my Chardonnay (because of course I did), and for the first time that day, I felt… okay.

I didn’t spend the entire night missing the kids.

Okay, fine. Hole 15 had me texting all of them—sending updates about my tragic golf acknowledge like an embarrassing mom group chat. But still.

Now we’re home. Relaxing. And yeah—we both still wish the kids were here. But we got some fresh air. We filled the silence. Another day passed.

“This is what survival looks like. It’s not pretty. It’s not inspirational. It’s showing up anyway, on nights that feel too big and too empty, and finding a way to keep breathing.”