Nick Pelios
Freediver, Creator
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Nick Pelios
Freediver, Creator
It took me a long time to admit that I was anxious underwater. For the longest time, I dressed it up as something else. I told myself I was just "out of shape," or "not warmed up yet," or that the visibility was throwing me off. And sure, sometimes those things were true. But more often than not, the tight chest, the racing thoughts, the creeping sense of dread right before a dive—that was anxiety. The thing is, you can love freediving and still feel fear. You can crave the silence of the deep and still hesitate at the surface. That doesn't make you less of a diver. It makes you human.
I used to think dive anxiety was something I needed to conquer, like a monster I had to slay before I could finally be good at this sport. But over time, I realized it's less of a beast and more of a messenger. It shows up when something in your system is asking to be heard. And learning to listen, instead of fight, changed everything.
Dive anxiety comes in many forms. Sometimes it's a sharp jab of panic as you descend into the blue. Other times, it's a low hum that starts the night before a session and doesn’t really leave until you’re back on land. It might be triggered by past experiences, like a tough dive or a blackout. Or it might have nothing to do with diving at all. Maybe you’re stressed from work, underslept, or just feeling off. The body doesn’t separate stressors into tidy categories the way we do. It just reacts.
What helped me wasn’t eliminating anxiety altogether—I don’t think that’s possible. What helped was learning to work with it. And that starts long before you hit the water.
I began by changing how I approached preparation. I used to think pre-dive routines were just about physical readiness: hydration, stretching, breathing. But once I started layering in mental preparation, everything shifted. I started journaling before dive days, writing down any thoughts or feelings that were floating just beneath the surface. It helped me get clear on what was mine and what I didn’t need to carry. Sometimes the act of naming the fear was enough to deflate it.
Breathing, of course, is central. But not just in the way we use it for equalization or breath-hold. I mean conscious, regulated breathing that tells the nervous system, “you’re safe.” I began using simple box breathing patterns in the mornings before diving: inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four. No rush. Just rhythm. It wasn’t about increasing my static time. It was about reminding my body that I was in control.
On days when anxiety still crept in, I stopped trying to suppress it. Instead, I made space for it. I’d sit at the edge of the dock or on the boat and say, "Okay, you’re here. I see you." Sometimes I’d even talk to it out loud. It sounds strange, I know. But the moment I stopped seeing anxiety as an enemy, it started losing its grip. It’s like trying to push down a beach ball underwater. The more force you use, the stronger it rebounds. But if you let it float, you can just observe it.
I also became more selective about my diving environment. Certain dive buddies brought a calm energy, a grounded presence that helped me regulate. Others—well-intentioned though they were—had a kind of intensity that didn’t match where I was mentally. Learning to say, "Not today," or choosing different partners wasn’t about judgment. It was about knowing what I needed to feel steady. There is no prize for diving through panic.
What surprised me most was how anxiety could change within a single session. There were days I’d start with a shaky stomach, questioning whether I should even be in the water. But after a few gentle dives, something would shift. A kind of settling. A returning. It’s not linear. You don’t always get to predict it. But you learn to trust the arc of the experience.
There was one dive trip that taught me this lesson hard. I was in the Aegean, warm water, perfect visibility. Conditions couldn’t have been better. But my mind was loud. I kept spiraling into worst-case scenarios: shallow water blackout, stuck lanyard. No amount of logic helped. I told my buddy I needed to sit out the first few dives. I floated on my back and watched the clouds. Fifteen minutes later, I slipped under the surface and did the calmest, slowest dive of my life. Sometimes you need to let your nervous system catch up to your ambition.
Freediving is unique in that it demands surrender. You can’t muscle through it the way you can with other sports. The more you push, the more your body resists. Anxiety is your body's way of saying, "Something feels unsafe." And the only way to build trust is to listen.
It’s also important to remember that dive anxiety doesn’t mean you’re a beginner. Some of the most experienced divers I know still feel it. They’re just better at reading the signs, responding to them early, and not letting pride get in the way of smart choices. That was a big one for me: letting go of the pressure to "perform" every session. The water doesn’t care how deep you go. It only asks that you be present.
Over time, I built my own toolbox. On days when anxiety hits, I default to a slower rhythm. I extend my breath-up. I check in with my buddy more often. I lower my depth goals. I lean into rituals that anchor me: the feel of my mask in my hands, the texture of the rope, the first cool splash on my face. These small constants remind me that I’m not starting from zero. I’ve been here before. I’ve felt this before. And I’ve found calm again.
That’s the thing about freediving: it teaches you to start over, again and again. Each breath is a reset. Each dive an invitation. And each wave of anxiety is a chance to practice compassion, not only toward your body but toward the part of you that still gets scared. I used to think the goal was to be fearless. Now I think the goal is to be courageous. To show up anyway. To breathe anyway. To descend anyway. And to come back with a little more understanding than you had before.
If you’re reading this and nodding along, maybe you’re in it right now. Maybe the fear is louder than the call of the deep. That’s okay. You don’t have to force it. You don’t have to prove anything. Just start where you are. Name what’s true. And trust that the calm is already inside you, waiting for the right moment to surface.