Each Thriving Golfer Is Alike; Each Struggling Golfer Suffers in Their Own Way

MikkelGolf Newsletter

The famous first sentence of Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina reads, “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

I wish I could say I stumbled upon this profound line while actually reading Tolstoy. That I had set aside a few hours in my reading nook, cup of tea in hand, deep in intellectual rigor.

Truth is, I came across it in a much more millennial way. I heard it on a podcast I was half-listening to while multitasking.

“Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way” struck a chord. I stopped multitasking and started tasking. And, as is often the case with me, I immediately golfed it:

Each thriving golfer is alike; each struggling golfer suffers in their own way.

Each thriving golfer is alike.
Not a care in the world, every iron shot is flush, and they seem to have the universe on their side. The holes look bigger, their swings feel effortless, and the game seems blissfully simple.
Qualifying for the college team’s top-5, or making the cut at a professional event isn’t just a non-issue—it’s like they don’t even know consequences exist.
We’ve all seen it: the can’t-miss kid emerging on tour, striping every drive, sinking every putt, and strolling into post-round interviews with a breezy, “I just tried to stay patient.” It’s maddening how easy they make it look—like they’ve unlocked golf’s secret menu. Aim, swing, smile, repeat.

But for those on the other side of the game—the struggling golfers—it’s an entirely different story.

Each struggling golfer suffers in their own way.
I’ve paid my dues as a struggling player myself. And now, after a decade of coaching, I’ve seen my fair share of other struggling elite players as well. Let me tell you—us struggling golfers are always a puzzle. Sometimes, what makes us tick is completely at odds with what we’re trying to accomplish.
Coaching elite players isn’t just about fixing mechanics; it’s about decoding what makes each player tick.

Most of the players I coach are smart—they’re not oblivious to the main culprits behind their poor scores. “I tend to hit huge blocks out of play,” they’ll say, or “I just really struggle from tight lies.” From there, they’ll often, without prompting, tell me what they’d like to see. For example, the player struggling with blocks might say, “Under pressure, I usually hit a draw, but I’d like to hit a fade.”

But here’s the kicker: I’ve had players tell me exactly that—and when they did hit a fade, they hated it. It’s as if their stated goals and true desires were locked in a turf war, with the golf ball caught in the crossfire. The thing is, the struggling player is smart enough to know what’s killing their scores—but it’s like their thinking has doubled back on itself, tangled in contradictions they can’t see. In the darkest times, it’s as if your logic gets tossed into a blender and pureed until it makes no sense. The real work isn’t just fixing these players’ swings; it’s helping them untangle the mess, starting from square one.

When players first come to me, it’s almost always because they’re struggling. Nobody calls me when they’re winning tournaments and flushing every iron shot—they don’t think they need advice then. But once I’ve taken them on, I see them regularly, whether they’re riding high or grinding through a slump. And that’s when the deeper coaching begins. With elite players, every struggle is personal, every solution unique. Sometimes it’s a technical adjustment, sometimes it’s unraveling a mental block, and sometimes it’s just reminding them that their golf score isn’t a personality trait. But try telling that to someone who just shot 78 and feels like their entire identity is unraveling. In my experience, coaching struggling players is often about helping them untangle their perception of the game—and sometimes, themselves.

We’ve all seen this play out at the highest level—how uniquely golfers struggle and how differently they handle it.

For Tiger Woods, the chipping yips appeared from what seemed out of the blue in 2015. A long layoff and swing changes under the guidance of Sean Foley left him “caught between techniques.” His hands, which we were used to seeing so attuned to feel and precision, seemed disconnected. When pressed by the media, Tiger was clinical and guarded, describing his struggles with a detached precision: “It’s just reps. I’ve got to get the reps in.” His short answers hinted at the inner turmoil, masked by his legendary ability to compartmentalize pain.

Dustin Johnson’s famous three-putt at Chambers Bay in 2015 was the catalyst for his mental struggles on the greens. Standing on the brink of his first major championship, Johnson missed a 12-footer for the win and then lipped out the short comeback putt. Though he eventually broke through with a major win at the 2016 U.S. Open, that moment lingered in his psyche. True to his reputation, Dustin remained stoic and tight-lipped with the media. “I hit the shots I wanted,” he said after the loss—a line so calm it almost sounded like he wasn’t sure what the fuss was about.

Jordan Spieth’s putting woes began as his game faltered following his extraordinary 2015 season, when he won two majors and contended in two others. As the pressure to sustain his dominance mounted, his confidence on the greens wavered. The once-trusty putting stroke that had carried him through clutch moments began to falter under the weight of expectations. Spieth was introspective and candid with the media, speaking openly about his frustrations and how much the struggles weighed on him. “I feel like I’m getting close,” he’d often say—a hopeful refrain that sounded less convincing each time it was repeated.

Rory McIlroy’s struggle at Augusta wasn’t just about chasing the green jacket; it became symbolic of chasing perfection. His struggles began in 2011, when he blew a four-shot lead in the final round at Augusta, posting a disastrous 80. The loss haunted him, and in the years that followed, his attempts to “fix” his game for Augusta led to overthinking and constant tinkering. Rory had plenty of success along the way, but have yet to slay the Augusta dragon. Rory handled the media with disarming honesty, admitting his failures and the mental toll: “I want it too badly,” he said of his Augusta dreams. Fans loved his candor, but they couldn’t help but notice the weight of the green jacket growing heavier each spring.

Rickie Fowler’s unraveling began quietly in the years following his peak in 2014, when he recorded top-five finishes in all four majors. As other players in his generation—like Jordan Spieth and Justin Thomas—found major success, Fowler’s inability to convert his potential into wins became a persistent storyline. A swing change intended to gain more consistency seemed to do the opposite, disrupting the natural rhythm that had once been his strength. In interviews, Rickie remained outwardly positive, insisting he was “close” to finding his form. But fans couldn’t ignore the disconnect between his sunny disposition and the reality that he’d gone from star to “Where is Rickie?”

Lydia Ko’s slump began as she transitioned from teenage prodigy to young adult, juggling changes in her swing, caddies, and coaches. Between 2017 and 2020, she went through multiple swing changes and equipment contracts, searching for a version of herself that could match the dominance of her early career. This instability led to a prolonged period of inconsistent results. Ko remained composed and reflective in interviews, frequently deflecting pressure with grace: “I’m learning every day,” she’d say, her calm demeanor masking the enormity of the personal journey she was undertaking.

Phil Mickelson’s driver woes were always part of his high-risk, high-reward style, but they became particularly pronounced during his later career as courses got longer and demands for accuracy increased. His struggles reached a low point at the 2020 U.S. Open at Winged Foot, where errant drives left him out of contention early. Ever the showman, Phil maintained an upbeat tone with the media, turning his struggles into opportunities for humor or bravado: “I’ll just hit bombs,” he quipped, deflecting attention from the deeper issues that plagued his game.

Viktor Hovland’s short-game woes became evident early in his professional career, particularly in his struggles out of bunkers. The issue stemmed from a steep swing plane better suited for full shots, which made delicate short-game shots especially difficult. Viktor addressed his struggles with humor and refreshing openness, famously telling the media, “I just suck at chipping,” and laughing off his failures. His self-deprecating charm allowed him to take ownership of his weaknesses without losing sight of his potential, transforming moments of frustration into opportunities for growth.

The struggles of these golfers reveal both the diversity of challenges they faced and the individuality of their responses. For some, like Tiger Woods and Dustin Johnson, specific moments of failure—a shanked chip, a three-putt under pressure—triggered their struggles, while for others, like Lydia Ko and Rickie Fowler, the decline was more gradual, a slow unraveling of form over time. The issues themselves were just as varied: Viktor Hovland grappled with his short game, while Phil Mickelson fought the driver; Jordan Spieth lost his putting touch, and Rory McIlroy found himself overthinking his swing. Their reactions were as unique as their games—Tiger remained guarded and clinical, deflecting vulnerability with precision, while Viktor met his struggles with humor, using self-deprecation to disarm both himself and the media. Rory and Jordan spoke openly and introspectively, reflecting the emotional toll of their struggles, while Phil Mickelson and Rickie Fowler tried to stay upbeat, projecting optimism even as results faltered. These differences underscore not just the many ways golfers can be challenged, but the individuality of how they confront said challenges.

Ultimately, each golfer’s struggles reinforce the truth of my golfed Tolstoy: every thriving golfer is alike, but every struggling golfer suffers in their own way.

Success feels universal—easy to recognize, simple to celebrate. But struggle? Struggle in golf is personal, tangled up in identity and fear, where missed cuts feel like character flaws. That’s why watching golfers fight through it resonates so deeply. Coaching struggling players—or being one—is both maddening and exhausting because you want it so badly. But that’s also what makes it addicting.

There’s nothing more fulfilling than witnessing progress in a struggling player.