There’s a voice in the back of my head—he’s an a**hole and one of my oldest accomplices—that tells me every time I try to “better myself,” I’m being a narcissist.

I spent a couple of decades being the most selfish person in any room I walked into. When I was drinking, I was the sun and everyone else was a dying planet orbiting my chaos. My needs, my cravings, my hangovers, my drama. It was a one-man show, and the audience was totally wrapped around my finger (or so I thought – they were usually exhausted of my nonsense).

So, when I got sober and started hearing people talk about “self-care,” “personal growth,” and “becoming the best version of yourself,” it felt like more of the same. It felt like vanity. I thought, “Haven’t I spent enough time focused on myself? Isn’t it time to shut up and just exist?”

I worried that going to the gym, meditating, or even spending time obsessing over my golf swing was just another way of staring in the mirror. I felt like a jerk for wanting to be “better” when I had already taken so much from the people around me.

I’m starting to see how wrong I was.

The Rusted Club

Think about the gear. At Skull & Bogeys, we lean into the grit. We love the imagery of the skull because it’s a reminder that we are all, eventually, going back to the dirt. But while we’re here, we are the equipment.

If you have a favorite 7-iron and you let it sit in a damp garage, let the grip rot and the shaft rust, you aren’t being “selfless” or “humble.” You’re just making the club useless. When you finally take it to the course, it’s going to fail you, and it might even snap and hurt someone else.

For years, I was a rusted club. I thought that focusing on my own repair was vain. I thought that “self-improvement” was for people with perfect lives and white teeth.

The truth? Staying broken is the ultimate act of selfishness.

When I don’t work on myself—when I don’t manage my temper, my health, or my sobriety—I am a liability to the people I love. When I’m “off,” my wife carries the weight. My kids keep their distance and my friends walk on eggshells. My work suffers. By refusing to “focus on myself,” I’m actually forcing everyone else to focus on me just to keep me afloat.

The Ethics of the Practice Range

There is a specific kind of guy on the golf course: the one who refuses to practice, never works on his game, but spends all eighteen holes complaining about how bad he’s playing.

He thinks he’s being “casual.” In reality, he’s ruining the vibe for the entire foursome. We’re all out there searching for balls in the woods because he couldn’t be bothered to work on his slice.

Working on your game isn’t about vanity. It’s about being a better partner on the course. It’s about keeping up the pace of play. It’s about contributing to the energy of the group instead of sucking the air out of the cart.

Self-improvement is exactly the same. It’s the “range time” for the soul.

I don’t go to the gym or read the books or stay sober so I can look at myself in the mirror and flex. I do it so that when my friends need me, I’m strong enough to stand. I do it so that when life throws a bogey at me, I don’t melt down and take everyone else with me.

The Memento Mori Factor

The skull on our hats isn’t just a cool logo. It’s a challenge. It says: You are going to die. What kind of tool are you going to be until then?

Are you going to be the rusted, unreliable iron that everyone is afraid to swing? Or are you going to do the “vain” work of polishing the metal, regripping the handle, and sharpening the leading edge?

Focusing on yourself isn’t about ego. It’s about maintenance. It’s about making sure that the person you show up as is someone worth being around.

If you’re feeling guilty for taking time to fix your head, your body, or your game—stop. The world doesn’t need more martyrs who are falling apart. It needs people who have done the work to be solid.

Get on the range. Do the work. It’s the least selfish thing you can do.

Grind now, rest later. Shop the collection at skullandbogeys.com.