People love the word “centered.” Often said with this calm, knowing nod — like it’s a GPS coordinate I should have been born with. “You just need to find your center, man.”

I usually nod back, but inside, I’m searching for a manual I never received.

For the better part of two decades, my “center” was a moving target. Usually, it was located somewhere between the second and sixth drink of the night. It was a chemical equilibrium—a brief, flickering moment where the noise in my head went quiet and the world felt like it sat level on its axis. But that wasn’t a center; it was a sedative. It was a lie told in a glass that eventually shattered and took damn near everything else with it.

Now, I’m sober. Two years sober next month, in fact. I’m present, trying to be at least, and I’m realizing that without the booze to numb the edges, I feel like a top spinning on a tilted table. I’m wobbling.

This is why I started Skull & Bogeys.

When people look at our gear—the skulls, the grit, the “golf is hell” attitude—they might see a brand that’s just trying to look “edgy.” But for me, the skull is a memento mori. It’s a reminder that our time is finite and most of it is spent struggling. And the bogey? Well, the bogey is the reality of the game. Most of us aren’t hitting the green in regulation. Most of us are scrambling through the tall grass, just trying to keep the wheels from falling off.

That brings me to the golf course. They say golf is a game of “finding your center.” Literally. Your center of gravity, your pivot point, the center of the face, the stillness in the eye of the swing.

Last week, I stood on the fourth tee. My hands weren’t shaking from a hangover, but my mind was a riot. I was thinking about a stressful email, a conversation I botched three years ago, and whether or not I was “doing recovery right.” I looked down at the ball.

Find your center.

I tried to feel it. I tried to find that place where the breath meets the belly, where the weight stays internal. Nothing. Just static. I swung, pulled the ball forty yards into the beautiful Florida marshland, and felt that familiar surge of “What is wrong with me?”

The truth is, I don’t know what being “centered” feels like. To me, it feels like a myth told by people who have never had to fight their own brain just to get out of bed.

But here’s what I do know:

In the past, when I felt off-balance, I’d head to the bar to “level out.” Now, when the wobble starts, I head to the range. I put on a Skull & Bogeys hoodie, I grab a bucket of balls, and I accept the chaos.

Maybe “centered” isn’t a feeling of peace. Maybe, for me (and you?), being centered is just the act of staying in the box. It’s the decision to stay over the ball even when you know you might shank it. It’s the willingness to be uncomfortable without reaching for a shortcut.

Maybe. I asked my therapist. I will let you know what she says.

Skull & Bogeys isn’t for the ones who have it all figured out. It’s for the grinders, the ones who know that the “perfect swing” is a rare gift, and the rest of the time is just about showing up.

I still don’t know where my center is. I don’t know how to find that zen-like stillness the gurus talk about. But I’m on the course. I’m sober. I’m swinging. And for today, maybe that’s the same thing.