How Getting Away With Your Group Once a Year Is About More Than Golf
There’s something sacred about the annual golf trip. It’s not just about fairways and scorecards—it’s about hitting pause on life for a few days, stepping into the sunlight, and remembering who you are when you’re not buried in work, bills, or responsibilities. For me, it’s as close as I get to a men’s retreat—and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
This past January, me and seven other middle-aged guys descended on the Orlando area for four days of golf, stories, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting. We played hard, laughed harder, and by day three, we were dragging. Our legs were tired, our backs were tight, and Advil was getting passed around like poker chips. But we still played our fourth round. Of course we did. Because trips like this aren’t about rest—they’re about connection.
There’s a rhythm to a golf trip with your crew. Early morning wake-ups, coffee on the patio, someone always losing a tee time confirmation. Jokes that pick up right where they left off last year. The one guy who still thinks he can shape a 3-wood. The one who packed six polos for four rounds. The shared looks after a brutal bunker hole or a miraculous birdie no one saw coming.
These aren’t just golf buddies—they’re life witnesses. They’ve seen you miss fairways and birthdays, show up in tough seasons, and rally when it mattered. And somehow, four rounds in four days brings all of that to the surface in the best way.
It’s funny how the game works on us, even when we’re not trying. Between the rounds and meals and late-night recaps, something subtle happens. You start to unwind. You talk a little more honestly. You remember who your people are. Maybe even who you are.
That’s the real value of a golf trip. Not the courses (though we played some beauties in Florida). Not the scores (I couldn’t even tell you what I shot). It’s about the space it creates—space to breathe, laugh, reflect, and reset.
So yeah, golf trips are my version of a men’s retreat. And if I have any say in it, there will always be one on the calendar.
Even if it means limping through the final 18 with sore legs, a beat-up glove, and a grateful heart.
—Kurt
MidLifeGolf.com