Lent 2025 Day 29: Play the Ball Where It Lies
- Flannel Diaries
- Apr 7
- 5 min read
Updated: Apr 9
"Golf is the closest game to the game we call life. You get bad breaks from good shots; you get good breaks from bad shots—but you have to play the ball where it lies."
— Bobby Jones
If you want to become who you’re meant to be, you have to let go—no, scratch that—you have to destroy who you thought you were supposed to be. That’s the raw truth. There’s no going back. Not to the old normal, not to the old job, not to the old love that almost broke you. And to be honest? I don’t want to go back.
Sometimes the universe answers your questions—but never in plain English. It doesn’t come with flashing neon lights and an instruction manual. It answers in the form of weird dreams, oddly timed conversations, and text messages from people you haven’t heard from in years.
Someone messaged me the other day—someone who doesn’t usually reach out—and said, "Don’t go back to the place that hurt you. There’s a reason you’re not there anymore." She meant jobs. But damn, didn’t that line land like a ton of bricks.
Why do we revisit the places, the people, the roles that broke us? As if maybe this time it won’t hurt the same. Maybe the pain has softened. Maybe we’ve changed. So we circle back, stick our hand in the fire again, only to get burned again. Lesson learned—again.
If I look back at who I was a year ago, I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be here now. Maybe that’s a blessing. Maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage to make the choices I did if I knew how much it would cost me. But I also know: I wouldn’t be me without the hard parts. The breakups, the burnout, the heartbreaks, the breakdowns. That was the road. And the road was mine.
Like golf—you don’t always get to tee it up perfectly. Sometimes your ball ends up in the rough, or wedged between tree roots, or sunk into the sand. But you play the ball where it lies. And what I’ve learned is… sometimes that ugly lie sets you up for a beautiful shot.
I’ve been in co-dependent relationships and didn’t even realize that’s what they were at the time. I thought I was fiercely independent. I thought I had healthy boundaries. But no—what I had was exhaustion masked as self-sufficiency. What I had was unresolved trauma disguised as fierce independence.
We’re taught that love is supposed to fill the empty parts inside us. But no one tells you what to do when that "filling" turns to erosion. When the void in you starts eating everything whole. That void is soul deep.
And here’s what I’ve come to: No one else can fill that void. Not fully. Not forever. It’s mine to understand. Mine to tend to. It’s not my partner’s job to fix me. It’s not anyone’s job to make me whole. That’s mine.
I was golfing with a friend of mine—she’s a single straight woman—nothing against her for that, of course. We got into a conversation about how society treats single women differently. As a masc-presenting lesbian, I often get the benefit of the doubt that my singleness is intentional. People assume it’s a choice—that I’m independent, self-sufficient, maybe even admirable for choosing solitude over settling. I get space. I get autonomy. Sometimes I even get a little reverence for not being “tied down.”
But for her? It’s a whole different game. She told me how married people use their status as an automatic excuse—"Oh, I can’t, my husband, my kids, my family…" and everyone just accepts it, no questions asked. But when you're a single straight woman? You don’t get that kind of pass. People assume you're available for everything. That your time isn’t as important. That you should be more flexible, more helpful, more willing. As if singleness equals free labor.
Society seems to constantly question her life choices, like there’s something inherently wrong with being single. That if you’re a woman without a husband or children—especially past a certain age—people either feel sorry for you or treat you like a mystery that needs solving. And if she doesn’t belong to anyone, then she must be missing something.
There’s this persistent idea that straight women are only valuable if they’re partnered, especially as they get older. And that’s exhausting.
I read that single people pay an average of $5,500 more per year than couples on basic living costs. That dating apps, travel packages, and financial systems are designed with couples in mind. That being a single woman—especially one over 40—comes with a weird sort of social suspicion.
She agreed with the being "single tax." I couldn’t help but think about how messed up that is. Two friends, both single, both thriving, but only one of us is treated like we’re living a full life. Because I’m a masc-presenting lesbian, people assume I’m single by choice—like it’s some independent, powerful stance. Some people may even be envious of. But for straight women, especially as they age, singleness is often treated like failure. Seen as some crone that should be pushed out to sea on some ice float. That double standard still blows my mind.
Like you’re unfinished. Like you’re a problem waiting to be solved.
I’ve been single by choice or necessity—depending on how you want to look at it. I could probably not be single if I didn’t mind all the work that goes into it. But I mind. I’m tired. And dating these days feels like tiptoeing through a minefield with your peace of mind—never knowing which step might blow up in your face.
So I’m pouring my energy into other things—like law school. Like healing. Like becoming the kind of person I’d actually want to come home to. And I’ll let the rest take care of itself.
Because identity and self-worth shouldn’t be tied to who you date or what job title you hold. You are not your career. You are not your partner. You are not the worst thing that’s happened to you. And you are not your relationship status.
But let me tell you something: I’m not unfinished.
You are whatever the hell you decide to be. And that? That’s power.
Lenten Reflection: Play It Where It Lies
"When Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although that was nearer; for God thought, ‘If the people face war, they may change their minds and return to Egypt.’ So God led the people by the roundabout way of the wilderness toward the Red Sea." – Exodus 13:17-18 (NRSV)
Lent is the desert space—the in-between, the wilderness, the dry stretch between what was and what might be. It’s not comfortable. It’s not safe. But it’s where new things are born.
🔹 What “former things” am I still holding on to?
🔹 Where have I gone back to the place that hurt me, hoping it might not hurt this time?
🔹 Where is God calling me to make a way in my own wilderness?
Let this season be a practice of release—not because what came before wasn’t real, but because it’s no longer yours to carry. Play the ball where it lies. And trust—deeply—that the next shot could be the one that changes everything.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
📖 More reflections: flanneldiaries.com
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