The Mental Techniques of Freediving: Part 1

Unleashing the Depths Within

Freediving.
Not just a sport.
Not just a discipline.
It’s a descent — into water, yes — but also into the chaos of your own mind.
A quiet war between stillness and fear.

I used to think it was all physical.
Lung volume, flexibility, technique.
But over time, I’ve learned: the real challenge isn’t 40 meters down.
It’s between your ears.

You can train your body.
Stretch it, drill it, strengthen it.
But the mind?
The mind is slippery. Unruly.
Some days it’s your best friend.
Others, it’s the voice that drags you back to the surface before you’ve even begun to dive.

There are days I show up bloated, tired, completely off.
And yet — those are the days I dive best.
Then, there are days when I’m light and ready and certain…
And everything just feels wrong.

There’s no formula. No golden conditions.
My brain scrambles to recreate what worked last time — but freediving doesn’t work like that.
Each dive is its own world.
You can’t repeat them.
You can only meet them where they are.

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Mind Chatter

The week before a deep training block, this is the mess in my head:

Day 1: “Shit. Forgot my lucky bracelet. The one that says ‘you’ve got this.’ I don’t got this.”
Day 2: “I gave away my lanyard. I’m gonna spiral. That thing held me together.”
Day 3: “Which hand did I wear my nose clip on during my last PB? I think it was the left. Was it?”
Day 4: “Rest day. Oh no. Last rest day ruined my equalization. What if it happens again?”
Day 5: “Wrong nose clip. This one’s cursed. I know it.”
Day 6: “Different wetsuit. Not tested. New buoyancy. New unknowns. What am I doing?”
Day 7: “Ordered decaf. Got caffeine. My heart’s racing. Abort mission. Abort.”

It’s absurd.
And it’s also real.
I laugh at it now.
But in the moment, those thoughts are loud.
They crawl in through the cracks and nest in my gut.
And I let them.
Because they’re part of the ritual.
A side effect of love, maybe.
I care so deeply about this craft that even the tiniest variable feels like a domino.

But beneath the noise — something deeper.
A knowing.
That once I’m in the water, once I’ve taken that breath and let the surface slip behind me…
Everything goes quiet.

I drop.

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Getting Out of My Head. Into My Heart.

I warm up.
Free Immersion. Always FIM.
It feels like prayer.
A glide into the deep without force.
Just pull, release, surrender.
I scan my body like a lover.
Are my legs tense? Let them go.
Is my jaw clenching? Let it melt.
I float, stretch, breathe.
Trying not to try.
Just feeling.
Finding the thread.

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The Mental Rehearsal

When I’m ready, I float.
Face up. Snorkel in.
Still.
And I visualize every single step.

Not just touching the plate.
Not just the moment of victory.
All of it.

The breath-up. The duck dive. The equalization.
The pull. The depth. The resistance.
The voice in my head that says “You can’t.”
The other voice that answers, “Watch me.”

I imagine my lungs opening like wings.
I feel the water cradling me.
I see the line sliding past my goggles.
Twelve meters. Mouth-fill.
Thirty meters. Internal pep talk.
Forty meters. The suck of the throat.
The shadow of doubt.
The moment where I want to quit.

And I answer it — there, in my mind — before it can speak in real time.
I coach myself in advance.
So when it happens for real, I’ve already rehearsed my answer.

I see the turn. The tug. The ascent.
I see my hand on the rope.
The light returning.
The surface pulling me back into the world.

I see myself smile.
Say “I’m okay.”
Mean it.

Part 2, here.

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Also read: Best Dive Schools in Amed, What Freediving Taught Me About Patience, and Competing Against Yourself.