Grayson Murray was a complicated person — which is to say that he was a person.
For much of his nine-year pro golf career, which included two PGA Tour wins, Murray was known more for abrasive public behavior and questionable social media posts than for an evolving, an all-around solid skillset. To Murray’s credit, he had begun making the most of those skills: he had positioned himself into a realistic chance of beating his career-best seven top-25 finishes during the 2024 season, and he had appeared in two majors in a single season for the first time as a pro.
Murray’s legacy will be difficult to distill to a line or two. But a couple of thoughts have occurred to me.
First: early in my legal career, I represented several people who were serving life sentences for murder. In the beginning, I told myself that everyone deserved the same chance in court — even the worst among us. In time, though, I realized something more complicated: that these people weren’t our worst. They were just people. I learned what we all know: that over the course of our long lives, we all have bad days — and that on a small handful of our bad days, we have such a bad day that we spend the rest of our lives wishing we could take back that day’s decisions. If we all were defined by our very worst moments on those few days, that we all would be in prison.
All of that is to say that, whatever Murray’s mistakes, he deserves grace for them — no less than we hope it for ourselves. Mental illness manifests itself in many ways. Murray was battling for his life. And in any battle, there are setbacks. I choose to accept Murray’s worst moments not as manifestations of something innate, but manifestations of a disease that he battled with all his might. I choose to remember Murray as imperfect, not flawed.
Second: Murray did not do the easiest thing to do in the depths of depression and substance abuse, which is to settle into the disease and let it consume you. People always say, “If you have a problem, ask for help” — without understanding that asking for help within the grip of depression is the hardest thing in the world. You might as well ask a victim of depression to build a rocket ship out of popsicle sticks. Murray, though, not only sought out help, but insisted on more help when he realized he needed (and deserved) more. He openly discussed his battles, and reached out supportively to others fighting their own battles. Bravery in the midst of great struggle is hard enough; finding the strength to extend generosity to those who needed it is a sign of remarkable strength.
That Murray ultimately ended his own life does nothing to impugn that strength. Depression attacks in many ways, but chief of all is its lies. It deceives you into believing that the pain consuming you is your lot in the world, as unavoidable as rain. It tricks you into believing that any possible solution is a sign of weakness. Depression is a liar, but a persuasive one. And in your darkest moments, it seizes on you. Succumbing does not make someone weak. It makes them human.
The fact that Murray’s family thanked the Tour in one of the most difficult moments imaginable seems to settle the question of whether they believe the Tour did enough. That should be good enough. Inevitably, offering every support possible will not save everyone. It is an awful truth.
And though Murray’s life was cut short, I choose to believe that the measure of all our days is whether we helped someone along the way who wouldn’t have been helped but for our life. Murray undoubtedly did that: at the risk of great embarrassment, he helped normalize a terrible disease by speaking openly about his struggle. If that helped one person take the difficult step of asking for help, then Murray led a good life. That, too, should be good enough.
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