Imagine stepping onto the biggest stage of your career, only to stumble in the most humiliating way possible. That’s exactly what happened to me when I carded a 12—yes, a septuple bogey—during the U.S. Women’s Mid-Amateur, the most prestigious golf tournament I’ve ever qualified for. But here’s where it gets controversial: Was it a total disaster, or the most valuable lesson of my life? Let me take you through the rollercoaster.
Editor’s Note: This story is part of Peak, The Athletic’s coverage of leadership, personal development, and performance through the lens of sports. Dive deeper into Peak here.
It all started on the 18th hole at Monterey Peninsula Country Club. Three swings. Three whiffs. My club sliced through the kikuyu grass, but the ball remained stubbornly still, swallowed by the impossibly thick rough. My stance? Picture a Little Leaguer teeing off—awkward and desperate. My Titleist ProV1x sat waist-high on a treacherous side-hill lie, and with each failed attempt, the task felt less like golf and more like an impossible physics problem. After the third whiff, I conceded defeat and took an unplayable drop. By then, I was hitting my seventh shot, still 140 yards from the green. Barbara, our walking scorer, silently tallied the nightmare.
And this is the part most people miss: The humiliation wasn’t just in the score—it was in the exposure of every weakness, every doubt, every ounce of self-doubt amplified under the tournament spotlight. But it was also a masterclass in resilience. After that 12, I somehow steadied my nerves, carded three straight pars, and finished the back nine the next day at just 1-over-par. How? By acknowledging my mistakes instead of burying them—a sports psychologist’s dream, and a lesson I’ve written about before here.
Let’s back up. Qualifying for this tournament was no small feat. I hadn’t competed in a stroke-play event since college, thanks to the pandemic. But I threw myself into the fire at a local qualifier in Alpine, N.J., battling 30 other women for just five spots. Despite a bogey-bogey-bogey start, I rallied to shoot an even-par 72 in pouring rain, earning co-medalist honors. My caddie—my dad—and I exchanged wide-eyed disbelief: Had I really done it?
The U.S. Women’s Mid-Am is a beast. A 132-player field, two days of stroke play, and only the top 64 advance to match play. The setup at Monterey Peninsula was breathtaking—elite, even. But for a novice like me, every detail was a double-edged sword. The “Herzig” nameplate on the driving range. The roped-off putting green. The senior amateurs at the welcome dinner, each with decades of USGA experience. And made-to-order smoothies in the player lounge? Seriously, who do they think I am?
Tournament golf is a pressure cooker. On Day 1, my brother David (my caddie this time) and I arrived at the shuttle 18 minutes before our tee time, only to be met with panicked volunteers screaming for an “emergency van.” We made it with 12 minutes to spare, but the lesson was clear: Let it, and golf becomes a giant ball of panic.
Here’s the bold truth: Playing inside the ropes, with your score on the line, is terrifying. As a writer, I’m used to observing the pressure, not feeling it. But this time, my expectations—and those of my friends, family, and peers—were on full display. And while it wasn’t life-or-death, my body disagreed. Two hours before my 7:48 a.m. tee time, I was numb. After that 12, my throat nearly closed up. After a shank on the fifth hole the next day, I battled anti-hosel thoughts for 13 holes.
But here’s the question I can’t stop thinking about: If this was my experience, how do pros like Rory McIlroy handle it? Imagine him on someone’s front lawn at Augusta in 2011, or fighting near-disasters at this year’s Masters. Think of players at Q-School, battling for their careers. We’ll never fully grasp the mental fortitude it takes to put your ego on the line week after week.
My scores? 88-79. Not great, but I beat 10 players and walked away with a newfound respect for the game. Golf doesn’t just test your swing—it tests your confidence, your stamina, your ability to stay present. Those borderline-evil USGA pin locations? They expose you. But staying in the moment, knowing success and failure are separated by a razor-thin margin? That’s the skill we rarely appreciate, even when watching Scottie Scheffler dominate on TV.
So, was my 12 a failure? Absolutely. But it was also a reminder of why golf is great. It humbles you, teaches you, and somehow, makes you want more. I’m already eyeing next year’s qualifier, ready to face the torture again. Because, as it turns out, the lessons are worth it.
Controversial Question: Is it better to play it safe and avoid humiliation, or embrace the risk—and growth—that comes with failure? Let me know in the comments. I’m genuinely curious.
