I cried at golf camp this week. I wasn’t in front of anyone. I was in the cart, heading home, and the tears just flowed. To be clear, I signed up for this camp. I wanted to attend. The instructors were very kind and helpful. My fellow attendees, there were eight of us, were equally kind. So, what was my problem?

While I would like to say it was because I didn’t sleep well, which I didn’t, or the extreme heat was affecting me, which it was, I knew it was neither of those things. You see, I was in a short game camp. I did not know any of the appropriate swings for a short game, hence my desire to attend short game camp. Previously, I had been improvising. Everything I would learn this week was brand new to me.

It wasn’t new to anyone else, only me. I was the worst one at golf camp.

My rational mind was telling me, “Cut yourself a break. These people have all been playing for many more years than you. They know all these swings. You are just learning them.” I knew that to be true, but I was percolating with sadness inside, constantly fighting back tears.

Bear in mind, I am not some all-star athlete who is used to being the best. I don’t mind not being the best. I don’t mind being in the middle. But being the worst though, brought up some old cuts that were buried very deep, long ago.

Two memories kept coming back. The bike and the roller rink. The bike and the roller rink. Over and over. I have not thought of either in decades. Actually, I had thought of the roller rink recently, when talking with a friend about how all the cool kids would make out under the coats. That wasn’t the memory that came up this week though.

I was eight years old when I learned to ride a bike. My sons were three and four, respectively, to put that number in context. They didn’t even need lessons. My youngest, Thad, who was three at the time, wanted me to take off his training wheels. I explained they were there to keep him safe.

Being a resourceful toddler, he went to our neighbor, Rick, and asked him to take them off, which he did. Thad then rode away. Ethan saw Thad riding the bike and asked to try it. He then rode away. Neither Dale nor I had to run alongside the bike holding onto the seat to help them balance, not even once.

That was not the case with me. I was scared to death of the bike. My dad tried to teach me, but I was petrified of him letting go. I immediately fell over every time. My dad would get frustrated. I would be crying, and so we gave up. I was told several times I shouldn’t be scared. Unfortunately, that didn’t alleviate my fear.

All my friends rode their bikes around the neighborhood. I always acted as though it didn’t bother me to run along. I was embarrassed and felt they were embarrassed for me. It was a double whammy of embarrassment. In addition to that, my parents would tease me every time someone younger learned to ride a bike. It was a fairly regular thing to tease me about, because all the kids were riding around every evening.

When it was time for my younger brother to learn, the teasing heightened. It was constant. “Now everyone knows how to ride a bike except you. Even your younger brother is learning.” My mom would later joke to people about how his learning to ride motivated me. It wasn’t true. I was motivated by my parents’ cruelty. I wanted them to stop teasing me. I was the worst at something and had nobody to talk to about my fears. I had to keep them to myself.

In middle school, all the kids went to Big Wheel roller rink on Friday nights. It was what you did. I now know I don’t like to be on anything but my feet. I like how the earth feels under my feet. I don’t like surfing, skiing, skating or being on a scooter or skateboard. Roller skating was my weekly dose of massive anxiety.

I had learned from my parents to not let people know about my fears or my misgivings so they don’t use them against me. I learned to act as if I didn’t care. I went to Big Wheel. I rented skates. I put them on my feet, and then I hugged anything I could as I made my way to the snack bar area where I became the unofficial purse watcher. “Go ahead – skate, have fun! I’ll watch your purse!” I told my friends. I acted as though this was my plan all along. I loved watching purses.

There was no one I could talk to and explain my fears about skating and ask for help. There were no lessons, no instruction. Just figure it out on your own or don’t. Plus, I had to act as if it didn’t even matter to me which it very much did.

Deep down I felt the same feeling when I couldn’t ride a bike and this week, was the worst at golf camp. I questioned my thinking –what specifically was bothering me? Was it a wound to my ego? I knew that wasn’t it. I play with tons of golfers who are better than me. It doesn’t faze me.

My best guess is it was a toxic combination of shame, humiliation and embarrassment on top of trying to act as though I didn’t care. Interestingly, I had an example of someone I admire very much who also experienced being “the worst.” He had a very different reaction than mine.

My son, Thad, played football in high school. At one point, he was asked to be the team’s punter. He hadn’t played this position before but played goalie in soccer, so he probably had the strongest kick.

He would spend a small amount of time kicking during practice, but mostly he was playing other positions. I saw a camp for punting and thought he might be interested. It was a one-day camp, and he said he wanted to try it. I signed him up, and when the time came, my husband, Dale and he went to the camp’s location.

Dale wasn’t planning on spending the day there but ended up not wanting to leave Thad. It turned out, this was a camp for punters who were prospects for the top college football programs in the country. And Thad, who was new to being a punter.

Dale offered Thad the option to leave. It was going to be brutal for him, kicking next to players who held records. Thad courageously decided to stay. They both were laughing about it that night. All the guys would do a drill. Everyone’s kicks would go a mile. Thad’s would go — yes, it would go. It went far enough for him in games, but this was a completely different level of competition.

“How is it,” I wondered, “that Thad was able to laugh off his experience of being the worst, while I was desperately trying to not sob during putting practice?”

Dale told Thad how brave he was to stay and stick it out despite being very much an outlier in the group. We all talked through it. How did he feel when he realized these were all the very best kickers in their states? How was he able to participate knowing he wasn’t going to do as well as the others? What were the other players like? How did they act towards him?

We talked about it a lot, and that was the difference.

Neither of my parents had a strong sense of self, that confidence that ongoing feeling of, no matter what happens, I know myself, and I’m okay. Their sense of self very much wavered with circumstances.

If I did something good, they were proud and wanted to share it with others. Immediately. My mom didn’t waste any time congratulating me. She began dialing for jealousy – the hope she could engender envy in her friends. Needless to say, I understood the term frenemy the first time I heard it.

Failures, disappointments and setbacks weren’t acknowledged. There were times when one of us got cut from a team or didn’t do well in some public way – maybe even a spelling bee, and the ride home was always in silence. There was no acknowledgement. The message was clear: We had brought shame on the family.

I can’t imagine a time you need people more than after a failure or disappointment. You know that saying, “Victory has many fathers, but failure is an orphan?” I think that is especially true when you have narcissistic parents. Either you are bringing home the glory and feeding their narcissistic need, or you are nothing.

This week, I cried for my younger self and how alone she felt. Then I talked with Dale about how I felt. We again discussed just how lousy my parents were. (Yes, I know, they were doing the best they could, yada, yada, yada.) Then I went out and I practiced my short game.

It turns out, I have learned a few things in addition to learning about these deep wounds. I can chip and putt so much better! I’m thinking about going to this camp again in the fall. I’ll practice between now and then, so I’m at least in the middle of the pack. Then I’ll look for the person doing the worst, sit with them during lunch, and let them talk about it.