The probiotic golf ball disaster at my influencer retreat

I hate the word influencer. And yet, over the years, I guess I’ve become a golf influencer. And for some reason, decided to have a “golf wellness” retreat for some of my followers.  

It started innocently enough, like most disasters.

Final day. Clear skies. Seventy radiant golfers scattered around Steel Shanks Country Club for a shotgun-start golf round that was supposed to be the culmination of my first Golf & Wellness Retreat. We had done mindful chipping. Intention-based putting. We had written affirmations in vintage scorecards like “I release triple bogey energy,” and “Every swing is a prayer.”

But now, we were going to play.

Every guest had been gifted a sleeve of GutGlee™ Probiotic Golf Balls—a brand collab I was really proud of. “Performance meets inner joy,” the tagline said. “Releases adaptogenic nutrients upon impact.” And for the first few holes, they worked fine. Nobody complained. Sure, one person said their tee shot smelled like a Jamba Juice dumpster, but honestly, that’s the price of innovation.

Then, somewhere around 4:42 p.m., I heard it.

“OH MY GOD—MY SKORT!”

Followed by a scream. Another. Then a chorus.

Blueberry-kale paste.

Exploding. Everywhere.

The probiotic balls were rupturing on impact. Teeing off became Russian roulette. Golfers were swinging—and being blasted in the face, arms, thighs, and designer accessories with a thick, oozing, lukewarm blend of fermented plant goo that smelled like sadness at a vegan smoothie bar.

I raced across the fairways in a golf cart I had rebranded as “The Zen Mobile,” now screaming “STAY CALM!” while holding a spray bottle of lavender-scented laundry detergent I’d stolen from the clubhouse utility closet.

“YOU CAN STILL SALVAGE YOUR LINEN BLEND ROMPER!” I shouted as I misted a woman named Brielle, who had curled into the fetal position under a bush and was live-streaming the incident to her 900,000 followers.

The caddies—until now largely used as drink-fetchers—were thrust into action. “GRAB MORE SPRAY BOTTLES!” I barked, channeling Patton if he’d been into pilates and co-branded merch.

The course manager, a man named Luca who had tolerated our entire operation with the resigned air of someone who’s once hosted a tech bro’s bachelor party, finally cracked. I watched him go pale, then dial a number and mutter something in Italian that translated roughly to “Tell the planes to come.”

Crop dusters.

Three of them.

Swooping over Steel Shanks Country Club like some kind of agricultural Apocalypse Now. They sprayed high-powered cleansing detergent over every foursome.

The terrain erupted in foam. Golfers ran in every direction, slipping, screaming, yelling things like “I paid $3,000 for this set and now I smell like a janitor’s bucket!” and “This is worse than the time I fell into a pool at Coachella!”

And it wasn’t over.

“DRONES!” shouted Luca, pointing toward a small army of caddies now launching water balloons from drones—his drones, normally used for flyover footage of weddings and dramatic TikTok reveals.

Each balloon dropped with squishy splat precision. It did help, a little. But mostly it created confusion, wetness, and one dramatic hair extension loss that would later go viral under the hashtag #WellnessWarzone.

I tried to save it. I really did. I called an emergency gratitude circle at the 18th green, which now looked like a Yogurtland exploded. I opened with, “Sometimes transformation is messy,” but the crowd booed and someone threw a gluten-free biscotti at me.

By evening, our hashtag had been hijacked by angry sponsors and a trending wellness meme that featured my face with the caption: “Namaste the hell away from my fairway.”

I don’t regret the retreat. Visionaries rarely emerge unscathed.

But next time I host a golf wellness event, I’m sticking to traditional balls, simple hydration, and maybe one drum circle. Two max.