Freediving is so much more than just a sport, at least to me. THe water has always been the place where I find tranquility. I get in the water and everything makes sense. When I was told I would never dive again because of my health condition, a world shattered. My world shattered. I didn’t know how to cope, didn’t know how to exist, because all that was me was underwater.
Never returning broke something inside me. Holding my breath became something that was so easy, but something so unachievable all of a sudden. I tried forcing it, but felt my lungs deteriorating. And then, I gave up. I somehow tried wrapping my mind around having lost it. Having lost this part of me, and having to give it up, because tying, forcing and prying just made me crumble away slowly but surely. I was hurting so much. Not trying was painful, but trying and pushing and not seeing any positive results made it even worse.
So, I wrapped it up. Packed up my gear, stopped looking at it, stopped looking at footage, at photos, at everything that reminded me of it.
Somehow, I became something else. I was forced to shift my focus, find a new purpose, find something entirely different that brought me joy.
I started being creative. I found writing again. A rediscovered painting. I evolved away from the water, in a way shifted away from nature, tried new things, met new people. People that were nowhere near the world of diving.
After a while, nobody seemed to know about this passion of mine anymore. I had become somebody else. And I thought I was fine with it. But there was still that nagging. That pull. Whenever I was near the water I could feel it, but did my best to ignore it.
Until, then, years later, my writing brought me back to the world of diving somehow. I had the idea for a novel about a freediver who was scared of the water. It was a few years after a friend of mine had passed away during a technical dive, and for some reason, I thought I could incorporate something like that in said novel. Slowly, I started reaching out again, reaching back to that world that had used to be mine but now wasn’t anymore.
Or was it?
It felt strange bridging that gap again. Felt strange engaging with somebody in conversations about diving. Writing, and thinking about it every day. It felt strangely good, and somehow, ever so slowly the urge came back. I wondered if I could try. Wondered if anything had changed.
Treatments had evolved since my diagnosis. I had different doctors on my team now, doctors that believed in me and the things others had deemed unachievable.
So, I tried once more. And I was cleared again.
To try. There were no promises I would get back to diving. The insides of my ears were scarred, possibly making equalizing impossible.
Finally, I went to Egypt, a planned dive trip with, back then, a friend, now my husband. It was beautiful, but I didn’t get to be in the water once.
My disease flared. My sinuses and ears became inflamed. I ended up having to go to a doctor in Dahab, a doctor who didn’t know much about my condition. I ended up with antibiotics and nasal spray. The trip went by without diving for me, but a lot of beautiful memories.
It took another two years until I actually managed to get in the water.
By then, everything had changed.
I was married.
I was in remission.
I had moved my entire life halfway across the globe.
Getting into a wetsuit again was so strange, yet so familiar.
I was so scared it wouldn’t work anymore, was scared of not being able to equalize, was scared it wouldn’t feel the same.
And it didn’t. I was rusty. I couldn’t hold my breath as long as I used to. I was a lot worse at it than I used to, but still, that feeling of being back home was there.
It wasn’t the ocean. It was just a lake somewhere in Illinois. But I was back.
I realized that freediving taught me resilience long before I realized it. It’s about surrendering to discomfort. It’s about relaxing into the discomfort, knowing that if you feel like you are running out of breath, you are far from running out of air. It is your muscles tensing, making you feel trapped, when you are not. When what you need to do is finetuning the art of relaxing instead of brute forcing it. Trusting the process. Trusting that what is to come is going to be good. Trusting that with patience and persistence, my body will adapt. It will become stronger and more resilient.
Freediving is knowing when to push and when to pause. It’s easing into an alien environment, an element that is always going to have the last say. It can take at any moment. But if you let it embrace you, it will show you that there is also grace in the depths.
There is a place for miracles.
They do happen.
And I am so happy that this miracle is mine.