I woke up on Wednesday morning with my handicap in hand and a plane ticket to Scotland. Destination: the Scottish Open for Golfers with a Disability.
I was entering my very first golf competition, a world away from the arenas and stadiums I once knew.
I’ve only been playing golf 6 months. Six rounds in total. And yet, here I was, stepping into something completely new, not just as a novice, but pretty much a complete beginner.
I woke up Thursday morning more nervous than I was before my race at the London 2012 Paralympics. That surprised me. I’ve faced down starting blocks on the biggest stages in the world. But this felt different. Maybe it was the unfamiliarity. Maybe it was knowing how new I am to this game. Whatever the reason, I could hardly eat my breakfast.
I was grouped with two brilliant players: Mark, a great guy from Ireland, and a talented young golfer from India who was only 12 years old. That first tee shot will stay with me forever, not because it was particularly good (it wasn’t), but because it marked a beginning. The start of a new chapter, of new challenges, and of new joy.
The tournament consisted of two rounds of 18 holes. By the end, I was absolutely exhausted, but I was also buzzing. I made plenty of mistakes. I got a 10 on a par 3 after losing two balls off the tee and another in the river. Painful, yes. Humbling, definitely. But I never stopped smiling. The joy of being out there, testing myself, learning on the go, it was infectious.
There’s something beautifully honest about golf. It doesn’t care who you were before. Your past medals and records mean nothing to a narrow fairway or a deep bunker. Golf asks: who are you today? And I loved that. I embraced the challenge, the humbling nature of it, and even the frustrating parts. Because with every missed putt and every ball lost to the elements, I was learning.
What struck me most over those two days wasn’t just my own experience, it was the level of talent on show. Some of the top players were extraordinary. They had control, finesse, and a presence that comes from years of dedication. I was blown away by their skill and composure. But here’s the beautiful thing about golf: despite the gap in ability, we could all share the same course, the same fairways, the same experience. Where else in sport can the best in the world compete alongside total beginners, and it feels completely natural?
The community was special. Every conversation on the course, every laugh shared on the way to the next tee, every fist bump after a good shot, it all added up to an atmosphere that felt inclusive and inspiring. There was no ego, no pretence. Just people who love the game and want to test themselves, whatever their starting point.
I left Rowallan not with a trophy or a top score, but with something much more valuable: motivation. A fire to improve, to return next year a better golfer, more skilled and more confident. I don’t want to just show up, I want to compete. I want to keep pushing, not for accolades, but because I’ve found a new space where challenge and joy coexist.
Golf is now part of my life. It started as a curiosity, something to help with balance, focus, and rehab. But it’s become something deeper. It’s a game of patience, of self-awareness, and of resilience, all qualities I’ve leaned on throughout my journey with disability and sport.
Massive credit must go to Scottish Golf for putting on such a brilliant event. It’s a testament to their vision that a player like me, just starting out, could feel so welcomed and supported. I truly believe this tournament will grow year after year, and I feel privileged to have been part of it at this stage.
As I boarded the plane home, physically worn out but mentally soaring, I realised this wasn’t just a golf competition. It was a reminder that it’s never too late to start something new. That nerves are just another form of energy. And that sometimes, the best victories come not from winning, but from showing up.
Next year, I’ll be back, stronger, better, and even more in love with this frustratingly brilliant game.
