Barbara made me laugh the other day. We were heading out for a Thursday morning nine-hole round. She stood near the cart holding a golf ball, a glove, and a couple of tees. She looked at me with complete sincerity and asked, “Where should I put the toys?”
I chuckled and said, “They’re not toys. It’s golf equipment.”
The truth is, a year ago she wouldn’t have known the difference. She had never golfed before. She didn’t know a tee from a divot or a driver from a putter. She started because she knew I loved the game, and she thought she’d give it a try. She even took lessons from a teacher who was taught by Arnold Palmer’s father. That’s not a small step. That’s someone stepping into a brand‑new world simply because it mattered to someone she cared about.
In the early stages of anything new—relationships, hobbies, opportunities—everything feels a little like a toy. Toys are light. They’re playful. They invite curiosity. You pick them up, turn them over in your hands, laugh about them, and experiment without pressure. When Barbara called her golf gear “toys,” she was naming exactly where she was in her journey: the playful, exploratory stage. Nothing was serious yet. Nothing carried weight. It was all discovery.
Equipment, though, is different. Equipment implies purpose. It suggests commitment, skill, and intention. Equipment is what you reach for when you’re building something, improving something, or investing in something. It’s what you use when you’re no longer dabbling but participating.
New relationships live in the tension between toys and equipment. At first, everything is toy‑like—the new experiences, the shared jokes, the small surprises. You try things simply because the other person enjoys them. Barbara taking golf lessons. Me stepping into dance classes. Both of us stretching into karaoke. These are toy moments: playful experiments, ways of saying, “I’m willing to explore your world.”
But new beginnings aren’t limited to relationships. Sometimes they show up in geography, too.
After spending my entire life in Michigan, rooted in the places, seasons, and memories that shaped me, I finally made the decision to move to Florida full‑time. I’ve owned a home here for twenty‑two years, always splitting time, always keeping one foot in each world. But this year, I stepped fully into the sunshine. It wasn’t just a change of address. It was a declaration: I’m choosing a new chapter. I’m choosing growth. I’m choosing possibility.
In many ways, Michigan was my equipment. Familiar, sturdy, built into my identity. Florida began as a toy. It was something I picked up, tried out, enjoyed in small doses. But over time, the toy became equipment. This new life felt like home. The community became real. The life I’m building here became intentional.
That’s the heart of new beginnings. Every new beginning starts with toys. Light, fun, unfamiliar pieces of life we’re willing to pick up and try. But the real magic happens when those toys evolve into equipment. When the playful becomes meaningful. When the unfamiliar becomes part of who we are becoming.
And sometimes, they’re about standing on a golf course with someone you care about, realizing that the “toys” in her hand are really symbols of something much bigger: the courage to begin again.
Editor’s note: I had a list of facts, a few questions that needed answers, and a theme I wanted to write about. I shared them with my artificial intelligence friend, AL, who put this together for me. I’ve occasionally taken a similar approach with ideas I’ve discussed in my Singles New Beginnings class. Not always, but sometimes. I decided to share this one with you. The thoughts are mine, but AL arranged most of the words. I just thought you should know.