The sport of freediving is extremely dangerous. But it’s also very simple: the divers swim as deep as they can in a single breath. Yes, of course, like any sport, there are countless complexities and nuances that go into pushing the human body to its most extreme limits. But the goal of any freediver is singular: go deep.
This week, I watched a documentary about freediving on Netflix called The Deepest Breath, which profiles Italian diver Alessia Zecchini on her quest to break a world record. In the beginning of the film, she describes a moment in freediving called the freefall. This is the point in a dive, around ten to fifteen meters below the surface, where the diver stops swimming down and begins to sink. As the diver swims deeper, the pressure compresses the volume of air in her body until she reaches negative buoyancy. Divers, like Alessia Zecchini, describe it as a spiritual experience — a deep meditation. The diver glides motionless toward the bottom of the ocean, in an all-encompassing abyss of silent blue. Had Alessia not been tethered to a safety rope, you wouldn’t even be able to tell that she was moving at all. Even watching it through a screen felt meditative.
So why am I telling you this? Well, this image of a freediver in freefall is the best allegory I could come up with to express something I’ve been feeling over the last few years, and even more acutely over the last few months. Simply put, I feel like I am on the precipice of a freefall.
To help you understand what I mean by that, let’s rewind.
When I was growing up, I had a loving, supportive family and there was always food on the table. Looking back on it, I still can’t believe how blessed I was to grow up the way I did. All that’s to say I have no idea why I was so desperately seeking outward approval all the time. On the one hand, I was a quiet introvert. On the other, I secretly longed for praise, respect, and attention.
I was constantly obsessing over my appearance, my performance in sports, what I said, how I acted. My most mundane mistakes became catastrophes. I mean, it really felt like I was being crushed under the pressure of life. I started having random panic attacks as a teenager, falling into months-long episodes of depression, and playing like shit on the soccer field. Sometime around my mid-twenties, I hit a boiling point. I didn’t need to set an alarm clock because I was being woken up every day at 7:00 AM by an intense pain in my chest, as if someone were stepping on my heart with all their weight. (I’ve written about this before, so my apologies for the repetition, but this period of my life is pivotal in most of my biggest lessons.)
Eventually, I decided to ask for help. And that decision led me to the path I’m still on today — the path I recently heard described in Spanish as autoconocimiento, or self-knowing in English. When I started putting all my focus into self-knowing — or self-study as I prefer to call it — I began to uncover one of the main problems that contributed to all that mental turmoil I wrestled with for years. I’m not saying I cured anything with a magic bullet, but I started to understand that I had been living my entire life on the surface.
Over the last few years, I’ve imagined my life as a vast ocean. When I was a kid, I was so ego-driven. Everything I did was a desperate attempt to inflate my ego. And that inflated ego became the very thing that kept me from sinking into the depths of life. Instead, I remained trapped at the surface, like a castaway clinging desperately to a liferaft. I was getting tossed and turned by waves. And whenever a storm rolled in, I would get obliterated. I had not discovered the peace below the briny film. There are no storms in the deep.
By my mid-twenties, not only did I embark on my path of self-study but things started to change. And by that I mean, I started to come face to face with the painful reality that all things perish.
I won’t go into detail about all my encounters with our dear friend, death. Thankfully, they have been few and far between. But this year, I had my most intimate encounter with death to date and it has led to a period in my life akin to Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking. Someone I loved, and walked along the beach with not even six months prior, left the Earth.
Since my grandfather’s death in March, I’ve been thrust below the surface of life. I live here now — in the icy blue depths. In this new world, every conversation I have, every person I meet, every kiss I give my wife, every laugh I share with my parents, every experience I have is tinted with the cerulean shade of impermanence. I started to see life not as a series of facts and events with rigid boundaries, but rather as a kaleidoscope of fluid emotions constantly shifting and unfolding before me. There is no event itself — no tax deadline, no work assignment, no rent payment. There is only my emotion toward it. Down here, time stretches and condenses in its own way. Seconds become centuries. The deeper the moment, the longer it lasts. And some memories — like the ones that make you laugh, or the ones that make you cry, or simple ones like the way her eyes squint when she smiles — become places you can visit, with everything as it was, down to the last detail. It has only been four months since he passed, and I am still learning how to navigate the sea of grief. But in these 134 days, I’ve noticed a sharp change in my perception of the world. I’ve realized I am living well beneath the surface.
At the beginning of this year, I started writing essays every week, like the one you are reading right now. My decision to start writing was a decision to start swimming down into the deep. Every essay was another kick of my legs propelling me downward. With every meter I swam, I noticed a new magic unfolding.
I was connecting with people more deeply. Friends, relatives, and even strangers who had read my essays would leave me messages telling me about similar experiences they had. People started talking to me about what they felt when their loved ones died or times they cried on airplanes. Small talk became deep talk much quicker.
Growing up, I had viewed the world as a fact — an unchanging, sometimes-terrible reality. Everything felt eternal. My parents and grandparents would live forever. I’d never get old. My dog would never die. Adults had everything figured out. Millionaires and famous athletes were deities with no flaws. Of course, all these perceptions are farcical. And, the deeper I sink into the depths, the more I am aware that the surface world is a facade — a ludicrous predicament we’re all born into together.
Don’t mistake what I’m saying for condescension or arrogance. I get tossed and turned by the storms of life every single day. But, when I remember that I am below the surface, I find it much easier to let the storms pass over me. Whatever problem I face, it too will pass. Whoever I meet, they too will perish. Yes, below the surface, there is also pain and grief and tears. But like I mentioned earlier, there is no this or that here, just one cohesive and fluid world. There are no lines between grief and joy, between sorrow and beauty, between you and me. Everything here is one and the same.
When my grandfather died in March, all of the air left my lungs. I had to kick less and less to swim downward. My ego, which had once tethered me to the surface, began to deflate. I am well into the deep blue now, on the precipice of freefall. And who knows, I may never reach full freefall. I may still have to give a good kick every now and then. But for now, I am here living below the surface — in my deeper way of being.
I enjoy each part of your writing. Thanks for letting us go so deep
I loved this essay because it shows your love for Henry was immense. You are a great writer.