Growing up, I lived on a golf course. This was completely circumstantial as no one in my family played golf. We’d moved to a new state and my parents had selected our town and neighborhood based on other criteria. The fact that our house was on a golf course was coincidental.

I knew nothing about golf and actually resented it for most of my adolescence. I viewed it as boring and prissy and best suited for kids who couldn’t play real sports. As such, the hole behind our house was nothing more than my extended playground. Yet, despite my early inclinations, a curiosity in golf became unavoidable and throughout my adolescence I hacked away at the game.

My dad, who’d also been indifferent to the sport, reluctantly took up golf as well. His motivation was purely social. The neighborhood dads played on the weekends, so golf became a way to socialize with other men.

We both learned the game informally and thus my dad and I each had a hacker’s approach to the sport. Neither of us were good, but over time we got better and we both attained a passable skill level. Eventually, golf also became an activity my dad and I could do together.

While it was not something we did frequently and it was never something we took too seriously, golf was the backdrop for a memorable lesson my dad taught me. Since neither of us were good, we would often shank balls into the sand, behind bushes, or next to the water. In these situations, I always visualized an extremely low percentage shot that would require extreme luck and a degree of talent I didn’t possess. I was young and defiant and if I needed to hit a ball through seven trees from underneath a bush, then I was going to make that miracle shot, damn it! Of course, this never worked. I would attempt my Hail Mary of a shot and my ball would ultimately land in a worse position than where it had started.

Whenever we rolled up on my ball and discovered that I was facing another impossible shot, my dad would suggest, “If you can’t get there in one, make sure you can get there in two”. What he meant was that if you can’t reasonably get out of trouble in one shot, then do the wise thing and make sure you can at least get out in two shots. Often this meant hitting laterally or even backwards. It was always a humbling move that added a stroke to my score and a dent in my ego, but it was also the right thing to do.

Though he didn’t mean it beyond my golf shot, the concept has been applicable throughout my life. Sometimes the thing you want isn’t one move away. Sometimes it’ll take a longer road to get where you want to be. Sometimes you’re in a bad spot.

In the working world, the job you want isn’t always the job you can get. And, it can be challenging to see the value in a position for which you feel overqualified. But, it’s up to you to envision how that job can set up your next opportunity. It’s up to you to do the job well so that you’re prepared for the next one.

With friends and family, sometimes fences don’t get mended with a single conversation. Sometimes relationships aren’t rekindled over a single meal or even a long weekend. But sometimes that needs to be your first move. Sometimes the first step just needs to get you beyond the situation you are in.

If you can envision where you want to be, then you can envision the steps needed to get there. Sometimes your first move will mean taking a step back. It won’t always be enjoyable. Sometimes it’ll be hard to swallow. But, sometimes that’s your best option. Sometimes you can’t get there in one, but you can give yourself a chance to get there in two.