“I’m not competing with another woman…
I’m competing with grass.”
That statement is deep once you really think about it.
I’m 24 years in… and there are still times I wish my husband was a typical 9–5 guy with a normal schedule.
Back then, I didn’t fully realize what it truly meant to be a Turf Wife.
You think you’re marrying a guy who plays in the dirt all day on a golf course…
When in reality, you’re marrying into a lifestyle that will keep you on your toes forever—whether you want to admit it or not.
A lifestyle where you can never get too comfortable…
because you’ll be moving again faster than you can blink.
You’re marrying a man who checks the weather like it personally affects him.
Someone whose entire mood can change because of “conditions.”
(Not even kidding… a simple rain event can ruin an evening.
Drought? Yeah… we’re not even going there.)
I also didn’t realize I was marrying into a super-secret grass-growing society that NEVER clocks out.
Like… ever.
Their daily EVERYTHING follows them long after they leave the property.
Now, by the grace of God, my grass grower tries to leave it all in the driveway before he steps foot into our house (took years… YEARS 😆)…
But there are still those moments it sneaks in…
And suddenly I hate the foursome who said his greens felt like putting on an egg crate.
RUDE.
It sits at the dinner table.
It shows up in every conversation—whether I want it to or not.
And I used to take that personally.
I used to think…
Why does this ALWAYS come first?
Why does everything revolve around grass?
Because from the outside…
that’s all it looks like.
Just grass.
But it’s not.
It’s pressure.
It’s expectations.
It’s armchair agronomic wizards with opinions.
It’s fertility.
It’s weather.
It’s your crew.
It’s knowing when to act—and when not to.
It’s 3am calls about irrigation blowouts.
It’s budgets.
Experience.
Priorities.
Membership expectations.
It’s knowing that if something goes wrong…
EVERYONE sees it.
And when everything goes right?
Crickets.
Those same naysayers suddenly have nothing to say.
Not even a “nice job.”
That’s the part you have to figure out.
You’re not competing with something easy to beat.
You’re standing next to something that demands everything from him…
and still asks for more.
That’s why I started calling his courses his “mistresses.”
Because he’s with her way more than me.
(At least I’m way less problematic 😉🤣)
YES… it’s frustrating.
YES… it’s exhausting.
YES… it can be lonely.
YES… there were times I felt like a single mom.
Because this isn’t a normal job.
There is no “leave it at work.”
It’s always there.
BUT…
there’s also the part that makes it all click.
The part that makes you proud.
The pride.
The way he cares.
The way he sees things no one else notices—before they become problems.
The way he refuses to half-do anything… even when it would be easier.
The knowledge.
The respect from his peers.
The moments when people finally do notice.
That’s when it clicks for a turf wife.
You’re not supposed to compete with it.
You’re just supposed to…
learn how to live next to it.
And maybe roll your eyes a little.
#tillturfdouspart 💜
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