Every month, our Executive Director shares personal reflections on the work we do and the impact we witness at First Tee — Metro Atlanta. These letters offer an inside look at how we are building mental health and emotional resilience through golf—not just the outcomes we celebrate, but the moments that shape us, the lessons we’re learning alongside young people, and the coaches who show up every day to create spaces where belonging is possible.
Like a caddie’s yardage book that maps the course with careful observations and insights gained from being close to the game, these letters document what we are seeing on the ground, what we are building together, and where we are headed as an organization. They are honest, reflective, and rooted in the belief that leadership means bearing witness to the work and sharing what that work teaches us.
Each letter explores a different aspect of youth development, mental health, and the
power of community—always through the lens of real experience, real stories, and real
impact.
If you are a major supporter of First Tee — Metro Atlanta, you receive The Yardage Book directly in your inbox each month. These letters are shared here on our website after initial distribution as a window into the heart of our mission and an invitation to understand the deeper work happening on our courses and in our community.
This isn’t just about golf. It’s about what golf makes possible.
March 2026
I wasn’t a golfer when I started working at First Tee — Metro Atlanta.
That probably sounds strange coming from someone who’d worked with the PGA TOUR and the AJGA. I’d been around the game at the highest level. I understood golf. I could talk about it, organize around it, appreciate it.
But playing it myself? That was different. I didn’t grow up with a club in my hand. I wasn’t the guy who could step onto the course and play. Golf was the thing I worked in, not the thing I did.
But then one day in 2014, early in my time here as Program Director, one of our coaches put me on the spot.
His name was William “Junebug” Lewis. GSGA Hall of Famer. Legend in the Atlanta golf community. One of the most respected coaches we’ve ever had. And he was teaching a class when he turned to me and said, in front of all the kids: “Jenae, come hit a shot.”
I knew what was going to happen. I was going to shank it. The kids were going to see that I had no idea what I was doing. And they were going to look at me differently. They were going to wonder why someone who couldn’t even hit a golf ball was supposed to be leading this program.
I stepped up. I swung. And sure enough, I hit a duck hook. The ball curved hard left, nowhere near where I was aiming.
And then a little boy shouted: “OHHH WEEE, he hit it far!”
Not “that was terrible.” Not “you missed.” Just pure excitement that I’d made solid contact and the ball had gone somewhere.
Coach Lewis looked at me and said something I’ve never forgotten: “They don’t know that you don’t know. They see that you can actually get the ball in the air and that is good enough for them.”
That moment changed something in me.
Here’s what I realized: I wasn’t bad at golf. I was just holding myself to the wrong standard.
So I started practicing. I’d eat lunch at my desk so I could spend my break on the range hitting balls, trying to figure it out. I’d stay after work to play a few holes, which meant longer days, less time at home, more repetition when nobody was watching.
And for a long time, nothing felt different. I was still hitting duck hooks. Still inconsistent. Still the guy who worked at a golf nonprofit but couldn’t really play.
Until one day, I went out to play with some of our older participants. These were kids who knew I wasn’t a golfer. They’d been ribbing me about it for months, in that good-natured way teenagers do when they know you can take it.
But that day, after we finished, a few of them came up to me and said: “We’re impressed. You’ve gotten really good.”
And that’s when I realized: I had. Somewhere between the lunch breaks on the range and the evenings staying late and all those duck hooks nobody saw, I’d actually learned how to play. I started keeping a handicap after that. Eventually got down to an 11.
Not because I suddenly believed I could. But because I was willing to be bad at something in front of people until I wasn’t anymore.
This is what we mean when we talk about growth mindset.
Not the inspirational poster version. Not “you can do anything if you just believe.” The real version. The one that requires you to fail, publicly, repeatedly, and keep showing up anyway.
The version that says: the person you are today isn’t the person you have to be tomorrow. But the distance between those two versions is filled with work nobody sees and moments when you want to quit.
Our Spring session started at the beginning of this month. New participants walked onto the range for the first time. Returning participants came back, ready to try again.
And every single one of them is about to have their own version of that moment. Their own duck hook. Their own “OHHH WEEE, he hit it far” from someone who sees progress they can’t see yet. Their own season of showing up when nobody’s watching. Their own moment when someone says “wait, you’ve gotten really good at this.”
That’s the work we do here. We create space where growth mindset isn’t just taught, it’s lived. Where kids get to be bad at something and stay anyway. Where coaches model what it looks like to still be learning. Where the standard isn’t perfection, it’s progress.
And where someone is always there to shout “OHHH WEEE” when you make contact, even if the ball doesn’t go straight.
So here’s what I want to ask you this month:
What’s something you’re still learning? Not something you’ve mastered. Something you’re actively bad at, or uncertain about, or working through.
And who’s been your version of that little boy? Who’s seen progress in you that you couldn’t see in yourself yet?
Because here’s what I’m learning: growth doesn’t happen when we already know how. It happens when we’re willing to not know, in front of people, and trust that we’ll figure it out.
And if I’m being honest? I’m still good for a duck hook here and there. But I keep working at it. That’s what growth mindset actually looks like.
Your support of First Tee — Metro Atlanta creates the space where that kind of growth is possible. Where participants and coaches and yes, even Executive Directors, get to become people they didn’t think they could be.
This Spring, we’re watching it happen all over again. Shot by shot. Day by day. Duck hook by duck hook.
And I’m grateful you’re part of making that possible.
With gratitude,
Jenae
February 2026
I’ve been thinking about phone calls lately. The ones we almost don’t make. The ones where we rehearse what we’ll say, hoping it’ll be quick, hoping we won’t need to say too much.
Last month, I got one of those calls.
It was from someone who went through our program years ago. He’s a coach with us now. The kind of person who shows up early, remembers every kid’s name, brings energy even on cold mornings. From the outside, he has it together.
He called because he was going through a breakup. That’s how it started, anyway. What he thought would be a quick conversation (maybe ten minutes of me telling him it would be okay) turned into two and a half hours.
And somewhere in that conversation, it stopped being about heartbreak and became about something deeper. About being left behind by the people who were supposed to stay. About opening yourself up for the first time and getting hurt. About those quiet moments when the weight gets heavy and you wonder if anyone would notice if you just stopped trying.
I told him what I saw: that he has this glow about him. That the kids light up when he’s around. That his presence matters more than he knows.
And then I did something I don’t do often. I told him about my twenties.
Not the version of my twenties that looks good in retrospect. The real version. The part where I didn’t have it figured out. Where I was struggling to hold everything together and pretending I wasn’t. Where I felt like I was supposed to have answers I didn’t have.
I told him: the version of me you know now? The one who runs this organization, who seems like they have it together? That person didn’t exist then. And honestly, some days that person still doesn’t exist.
But here’s what I learned: you don’t get through the hard holes by playing the whole round at once. You take it shot by shot. Moment by moment. And when you look back at the scorecard later, you realize the rough patches don’t define the round. They’re just part of it.
By the end of the call, something had shifted. Not his circumstances (the heartbreak was still real, the old wounds were still there). But his permission to keep going felt more solid. And mine did too.
Here’s the thing about asking for help: we convince ourselves it’s a burden.
I know because I just learned this lesson myself.
Recently, I was working through a significant decision for the organization. It was complex, involved multiple moving parts, and I genuinely thought the right thing to do was figure it out on my own and then present the solution to our Board.
That’s what leadership looks like, right? Having the answers. Not burdening volunteers with the messy middle. Bringing them solutions, not problems.
Except our Board leadership pulled me aside and said something I wasn’t expecting: “Help is available to you. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
Their leadership experience let them see questions I hadn’t thought to ask myself. They could see that I was trying to protect them from the weight of the decision when what I actually needed was their wisdom in the middle of it.
And when they offered that, something released in me. Not because they made the decision easier, but because they reminded me: we all need each other. Even (especially) the person who’s supposed to have it figured out.
This is the work we do at First Tee — Metro Atlanta.
We’re teaching young people that asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.
That the strongest thing you can do when you’re in a rough patch isn’t to push through alone. It’s to call someone and say: I need help. I’m not okay right now. Can you walk with me through this?
Our coaches create space for those conversations. They model what it looks like to struggle and still belong. To not have all the answers and still be worthy of support. To take things shot by shot instead of carrying the weight of the entire round.
And when a young person who went through our program years ago picks up the phone (not because everything is falling apart, but because he trusts that someone will be on the other end) that’s when I know this work is bigger than golf.
So here’s what I want to ask you this month:
When was the last time you asked for help? Really asked, not the polite “could you grab that for me” kind of asking, but the vulnerable “I can’t do this alone” kind?
And who answered?
Because here’s what I’m learning: the people who show up when we ask aren’t burdened by it. They’re honored. They’re reminded that they matter. That their experience, their wisdom, their presence makes a difference.
Your support of First Tee — Metro Atlanta creates a community where help-seeking isn’t just allowed, it’s modeled. Where young people see adults who don’t have it all figured out but who keep showing up anyway. Where asking for help is understood not as failure, but as the courage to keep writing your story.
This month, I’m grateful you’re part of the community that makes those phone calls possible. That creates space for two-and-a-half-hour conversations. That reminds young people (and reminds me) that we don’t have to carry it all alone.
Shot by shot. Together.
With gratitude,
 Jenae Jenkins |
January 2026
Happy New Year! I hope 2026 is off to a meaningful start for you and yours. I’m grateful to begin this year in conversation with you, and deeply thankful for your investment in our work in 2025. As promised, I’m launching a monthly series where I’ll share more about our mental health work at First Tee — Metro Atlanta. This is the first of twelve letters, and I’m starting with something personal.
I’ve been thinking about what we ask of ourselves in January. We’re supposed to feel motivated, optimistic, ready to become someone new. But for many of us, and especially for young people, this season doesn’t bring inspiration. It brings pressure. Pressure to have it figured out. To start fresh. To transform overnight. To finally become the version of ourselves we think we’re supposed to be.
But here’s what I’ve learned: when you’re standing in a moment that requires you to start over, it often doesn’t feel like possibility. When you’re living it, it can feel like endings, like losing what you had, not gaining what’s next. That’s why I’m starting here.
In December, I told you I’d share more this year about our mental health work, about how we’re strengthening emotional resilience through golf, about the moments that shape how I lead this organization. This is the first of twelve conversations we’ll have in 2026. Each month, I’ll pull back the curtain on a different part of this work.
And in January, when the noise about new beginnings is loudest, I want to share something personal about what real starting over actually requires.
I was a senior in high school when I found out my girlfriend was pregnant. College felt impossible. My future felt like it was closing before it ever opened. The statistics about teen parenthood were clear: things were going to hard and more than likely, I wasn’t going to make it.
I told my parents, who were heartbroken. And then I had to face my girlfriend’s mother. I expected anger. Disappointment. A door slammed shut. Instead, she said: “While I am disappointed, Jenae, don’t let this make you decide not to go to college. I believe in you.”
Here’s what changed in that moment: not my circumstances, but my permission to belong.
I was still going to be a teen parent. College was still going to be hard. None of the external realities shifted. But something internal did. She told me I belonged in my next chapter. That I wasn’t disqualified. That the future I’d imagined wasn’t gone, it was just going to look different. She gave me permission to keep going when everything in me wanted to quit and give up on the goals I had always had. And that became the foundation I stood on when nothing else felt stable.
Every day at First Tee — Metro Atlanta, I meet young people standing in their own version of that moment.
They’re already surrounded by noise. Social media showing them everyone else’s highlight reels, a culture that celebrates overnight success while hiding the years of struggle behind it, pressure to have everything figured out right now when most adults know that life is full of pivots we never saw coming. They’re measuring themselves against the 5% while living in the reality of the 95%. And in January, that gap feels even wider.
What they need is what I needed: someone who sees them in their struggle and still believes they belong in what comes next.
That’s the mental health work we do here. With coaches who understand that young people need space to struggle without shame, to make mistakes without being defined by them.
Our coaches ask questions like “What do you need right now to feel like you can keep going?” They create moments where a young person can say “I’m not good at this yet” and hear back “You belong here anyway. Especially on the hard days.” Where starting over isn’t a sign that something’s wrong, it’s proof that you’re still in the game. Where the message underneath everything is: You belong here. You can begin again. We believe in you.
Here’s what I’ve learned about new beginnings: you need to believe change is possible. But just as importantly, you need someone who believes you belong in that change.
Not someone who has all the answers. Not someone who makes it easy. Someone who sees you in the middle of it and says: you still belong here.
So as we step into this new year together, I want to ask: Who gave you that when you needed it most? Who believed you belonged in your next chapter even when you weren’t sure yourself?
And the bigger question: How can we be that for the next generation?
Your support of First Tee — Metro Atlanta makes you part of the community that gives young people permission to belong. This year, I’m inviting you to see even more of how that support translates into real change.
Every month, I’ll share more. For now, I want you to know: the work you support isn’t just about golf. It’s about giving young people permission to keep writing their own stories.
Jenae Jenkins
