I slept in Ealing, in Milton Keynes, and one night in Kent with dogs. I kept moving. That's not failure. That's a search – and sometimes a scramble.
I turned professional in 1994. I qualified for the Ladies European Tour in the top three. Air New Zealand believed in me – $10,000 to get started. Canon – my main sponsor – gave me another $10,000. They believed in me before anyone else.
Canon gave me my first laptop – a laptop that could print. In the days before smartphones and cloud storage, that machine was my office, my connection, my sanity. I could write, organise, print documents without hunting for a shop. That laptop kept me afloat.
Then I flew out. Alone. No team. No manager travelling with me – Gail was back home in the Hutt. She'd done her part. Now it was mine. I landed at Heathrow with a golf bag, a suitcase, and hand luggage. I had no idea where I was going to live. In my thoughts, everything was a wild adventure.
36 hours from door to door. New Zealand to Heathrow. I arrived exhausted, disoriented, carrying a golf bag and a suitcase and hope.
I figured it out as I went. I learned to read people fast. I learned to trust slow. I learned that a roof is not a home – until someone makes it one.
I saw this once on tour. Parents who push their kids to chase a dream – and then, when it doesn't work out, don't accept them back. A kid gives everything. Lives out of a suitcase. Sleeps in spare rooms. Misses birthdays, funerals, the slow goodbye of a loved animal. Then they come home – not with a trophy, maybe not even with a card – and the door is cold. That's not tough love. That's a broken promise.
Ealing: One of the caddies got me to stay at his mum's house. I loved staying there. They were a great couple. Complications started. I saw them coming. I just knew it was time to move. One day I came home, and the whole wine cellar was drunk. New Zealand wine in England – I was saving it for the comfort of home. When I got home, it was all gone. And they couldn't understand why I was upset.
Milton Keynes: I was staying with a player and her husband. We were all watching a movie. She turned around and said something that wasn't true. That's when I knew – you can be misunderstood anywhere, even in someone's living room. One morning I woke up and turned on the news. Princess Diana had died. That was the most unsettling feeling. The whole country shifted. Flowers, silence, grief in the streets. I wasn't family. I wasn't even British. But I felt it.
The worst thing I did was start sharing my room for the sake of someone else. That's when things changed. Not because I didn't want to help. Because I forgot that my room was my recharge. My four walls of quiet. Once I let someone else in – not a partner, not a true friend – I lost that. It took a long time to get it back.
Then I found Chalfont Saint Peter. That's where Rose and John lived. They took me in. That became my home.
Rose's two daughters – Mel and Amelia. Every time they dropped in, we had a game called Yahtzee. If everyone rolled five dice the same, got Yahtzee, everyone had to drink. That was the most fun. I will never forget the smiles we had just seeing each other.
And when I left to fly out – they were sitting there. Ready for when I was coming back. At the airport. Opening the door. Those two girls were always there.
Also I haven't forgotten you Lorraine xxx
The night in Kent: I took the train. 30 kilos of golf bag. 30 kilos of suitcase. And hand luggage. No one helped me. No one met me. I just carried it. Onto the train, off the train, into a cab, up the stairs to a house I'd never seen. That's when I knew: if I could carry that, I could carry anything.
I don't give up. I thought of Tony Robbins – my mentor since I was an amateur. He would never let me quit. So I didn't.
Humans always make mistakes. Humans can say the wrong thing. Humans will make you laugh. Humans will always make you wonder, and humans will always make you sad (even in a good movie). It's just how I make these things work for me. So I kept going.