There was a time in my life that felt like an unfinished sentence.

On November 8, standing at the top of a staircase in Las Vegas while a six-minute film about my life played below me, I realized that sentence had finally found its period.

I had not seen the film before. As images from forty years ago filled the screen — the young golfer, the improbable rise, the relentless practice — I felt my eyes well with tears. I could hear the voices of my coach, a fellow PGA player and friend, a former student, and Lloyd. Their words were generous. Thoughtful. Loving.

I had lived that life.

And yet watching it unfold from a distance felt almost surreal.

When the film ended, I walked down the stairs in a long leopard dress — a quiet nod to the signature I had worn throughout my tour years. Becky, Robert, and Nicole wore leopard too that evening, proudly joining what we jokingly called “Team Leopard.” The room felt less like a ceremony and more like a great embrace.

It was simply love.

Love for the young, dedicated golfer.

Love for the improbable rise.

Love for the story.

Love for the woman I had become.

But that love meant something deeper because the story had not always felt complete.

I did not begin golf as a child. I started at twenty-three.

Before that, I was a tennis player — Nevada State doubles champion in high school — and a competitive softball player whose team won multiple city championships in Las Vegas. Athletics were simply woven into me. I loved the satisfaction of improvement, the rhythm of repetition, and the quiet mastery of a skill.

Golf came unexpectedly in Hawaii.

Barefoot. Baseball grip. A borrowed club. A single pure strike that sent the ball soaring high over the fairway.

That moment changed everything.

Within two years, I earned my LPGA Tour card — a record that still stands. I practiced more than twelve hours a day. I rose quickly. I competed for eleven years on tour. On the Japanese tour, I finished in the top ten almost every event I entered. In the United States, I had strong finishes and several seconds, but no victories.

And then life intervened.

I lost my sister. My mother went into a coma and eventually passed away. I lost my best friend. I endured a complicated divorce. Chronic sinus infections led to pneumonia and hospitalizations. My back began to fail. A surgeon told me surgery might be the only way to continue.

The door closed.

Too soon, it seemed.

There was grief — not about trophies, not about ego — but about never knowing the outer edge of my potential. It felt like an unfinished sentence. A question mark where a period should have been.

But over time, I began to see differently.

When I was eleven years old, I had a near-death experience after a horse accident. From that day forward, I carried an inner knowing that I was meant to help people. That sense remained steady through every chapter of my life.

Illness redirected me.

In Boulder, Colorado, I found the homeopath who helped restore my health. I immersed myself in healing with the same intensity I once gave to golf. I studied detoxification, plant-based nutrition, constitutional homeopathy. I practiced for twenty-five years. I taught golf for twenty-six years at the Los Angeles Country Club, helping others with their swing and their mental game.

I found peace.

By the time the phone call came on June 11, 2025 — my birthday — I was not looking backward. I was baking bread. Gardening. Caring for Lloyd and our cats. Living simply and fully.

The call did not reopen old grief.

It felt like frosting on a cake I was already content to enjoy.

Being inducted into the Las Vegas Golf Hall of Fame was not about proving something. It was about being remembered. About my hometown saying, “We saw you.”

And on November 8, I felt that.

My family’s presence made the evening whole.

Becky and her husband Robert drove twenty-six hours round trip. Becky fixed my dress so it fell just right and kept us laughing during the drive to Vegas. Robert graciously took on the role of official driver.

Nicole — who became my daughter when she lost her mother, my sister, at age eleven — continually told me she would not miss this for the world. She said it was too great an honor to miss. Even while caring for her father through his chronic illness, she found a way to be there. She did my hair and makeup and carried a joy I could feel deeply.

My brother Joe handed me flowers that night, and something in me softened. Tessie stood beside him warmly. Evan and Grant watched and listened with intensity and later told me they had never fully understood all I had accomplished and felt honored to be there. They would not have missed it.

Pam, my best friend of nearly fifty years and my former softball teammate, was there. Sharing that honor together meant a great deal to me. We have walked through so many seasons side by side, and her presence that night felt deeply meaningful.

Mattie, my chiropractor, who supported me when my body was needing to heal, was in town for the event and able to join the celebration. I was so grateful she could be there.

And Brad, our dear friend from Los Angeles, made the drive with us simply because he said he would not miss this night. His laughter added yet another layer of joy to the trip.

And Lloyd — my partner of twenty years — appeared in the film unexpectedly. Hearing his words filled with joy and congratulations brought tears to my eyes. Watching him share the video with his friends, even mentioning it in our Christmas card, showed me how deeply happy he was for me. His joy was its own quiet honor — one I carry in my heart.

As I walked down those stairs, I realized something.

The sentence had not been unfinished after all.

It had simply paused.

God’s path has always been wiser than my own plans. I have learned to trust the path He places before me more than my own expectations, and that trust has made even the biggest changes easier to accept. What once felt like a door closing too soon became the doorway to healing. The discipline of golf became the discipline of service. The potential I once measured in wins found expression in helping others.

Closure sometimes arrives decades later.

And love has a way of placing the final period.

The Hall of Fame celebration closed the door to my golf chapter publicly. Writing these words feels like taking the key out, placing it gently in the drawer, and smiling. Not because it is gone, but because it is complete.

Nothing in life is wasted — if we choose to use it well.

⸻

For those who wish to see the ceremony — including the six-minute film, the interview, and a few family moments from that evening — you can view the full video here:

[November 8 – Las Vegas Golf Hall of Fame]