When is it time to quit?
There’s a difference between being down and being done.
The key is knowing the difference.
When Is It Time to Quit?
I’ve been thinking about quitting lately.
Not dramatically. Not impulsively. But in the quiet, rational way that comes when something you care about stops working — even after real effort.
For me, that something was golf.
Last summer through early winter, I was playing some of the best golf I had played so far. I was improving, scoring better, showing up consistently. I was even holding my own in league — often as the only woman — and proving to myself that the time I was putting in mattered.
And yet, I knew something uncomfortable was true.
If I wanted to actually get better — not just marginally, but meaningfully — I needed more speed and distance. And I didn’t really know how to get there.
I tried to figure it out on my own.
I experimented. I tinkered. I forced things that didn’t fit.
And instead of improving, I got worse.
That’s what frustrated me most: my game didn't just plateau — it regressed. Doing “the right thing” produced worse outcomes. This is when the thing you enjoy starts eroding your confidence.
At that point, quitting felt… logical.
Not emotional. Not dramatic. Just reasonable.
So I stopped pushing for answers and let myself feel what I was actually feeling: disappointment, confusion, discouragement. Not devastation — just the weight of realizing that wanting something doesn’t automatically mean you know how to get it.
But after sitting with it, something else became clear.
I wasn’t ready to stop.
I still wanted the game.
I still wanted the culture.
I still wanted the long-term vision of growing old with this as a shared hobby with my husband (even when our playing isn’t good, and even when our attitudes on the course are… let’s call them human).
So instead of quitting, I tried one more time — differently.
After a particularly poor performance at league one night, I woke up at 4 a.m. and booked a lesson. Then I booked two more.
When I finally took that lesson, everything shifted.
Not because of a magic tip — but because of the approach.
For the first time, I worked with a coach who didn’t try to fix twenty things at once. Instead, we focused on building one skill at a time — layering fundamentals intentionally, patiently, and in a way that respected my natural physicality, strength, and athleticism rather than fighting it.
Almost immediately, my swing speed increased by 10 mph.
My distance jumped by about 25 yards.
Not overnight mastery — but undeniable proof.
Since then, I’ve continued building speed realistically and safely. My 7-iron swing speed moved from the low 50s into the 60s, with a high of 73 mph. I had to update my club distances because they were no longer accurate.
There’s still a long way to go. My driver speed is still slow by conventional standards. But even that excites me now — because I can see what’s possible with practice, strength development, and continuing to lose fear around speed.
More importantly, something foundational changed.
I trust my skills more.
I trust the process.
I trust myself to stay with something without forcing it.
What This Clarified
Quitting isn’t a failure.
But quitting while you still want something — simply because you’re down, discouraged, or disoriented — often is.
There’s a difference between being down and being done.
Sometimes the right move isn’t to push harder or walk away — it’s to pause, process, and change your approach.
I don’t believe in never quitting.
I believe in quitting honestly.
Don’t quit just because you’re frustrated.
Don’t quit because it got harder than expected.
Don’t quit because the path forward isn’t clear yet.
Quit when the cost outweighs the meaning.
Quit when your desire has actually left the room.
Quit when you truly no longer want it.
But if you still want it — even a little, even imperfectly — don’t mistake difficulty for a signal to leave.
Being down is temporary.
Being done is decisive.
The key is knowing the difference.