Katie Wood
Freediver, Writer, Explorer
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Katie Wood
Freediver, Writer, Explorer
If you’re a freediver, chances are you’ve scrolled through your Instagram feed and paused—maybe even sighed—at the image of someone suspended mid-water, arms tucked in a streamline position, no bubbles in sight, surrounded by a cathedral of blue. The caption? Something simple, poetic, and seemingly effortless: “One breath. Infinite peace.” It’s beautiful. It’s mesmerizing. It’s aspirational. But it’s also curated.
Instagram, for all its power to inspire, has done something curious to the world of freediving. It has flattened a deeply personal, physically demanding, and emotionally complex discipline into a stream of stunning images that often lack context. The result? An illusion of simplicity. A new diver sees grace and assumes ease. They see depth and assume readiness. They see the end product and forget there’s a process.
And that’s where the problem begins.
Freediving, by nature, doesn’t lend itself to spectatorship. It’s quiet. Slow. Often done alone or in small groups. Until recently, it was something you trained for, talked about with a handful of people, and maybe documented in a logbook or a dive computer. Now, it’s something you can perform—for followers, for likes, for a reel.
The curated nature of Instagram means most people don’t post their blackout. They don’t post the dive they turned at 15 meters because their heart rate was too high. They don’t show the three months they spent dry training without ever touching the ocean. What ends up on your feed is the gold medal moment—not the hours of slow, sometimes frustrating work it took to get there.
For beginners, that distortion is dangerous. Not because they want to be reckless, but because they don’t realize how much is missing from the picture.
When freediving becomes visible, it also becomes competitive—even if only in the mind. New divers might look at others online and think, “I should be doing that.” The 35-meter dive with perfect form. The no-fin descent in tropical waters. The dolphin dive in a wetsuit that fits like a second skin.
The truth is, most of those divers have been training for years. They’ve failed dives. They’ve been coached. They’ve struggled with equalization, had panic attacks, fought through plateaus, and probably cried in their mask. But that’s not what the algorithm rewards. It rewards spectacle.
So what happens when someone with 10 dives under their belt starts chasing the performance of someone with 1,000? They skip steps. They start diving deeper before they’re ready. They choose depth over technique, and appearance over feeling. And because freediving is silent, there’s no coach on the sidelines yelling at them to slow down.
One of the biggest dangers in freediving is false confidence. It comes easily when progress is fast—when your body is adapting and you feel strong and clear-headed at depth. That’s where Instagram becomes especially misleading. The diver in your feed might have the perfect clip, but what you don’t see is the support system around them: their buddy, the counterweight, the safety divers, the planning, the coaching, the safety briefings. These things don’t fit in a reel. They don’t add drama. But they matter more than anything else.
Instagram normalizes dives that happen in ideal conditions. Calm seas. No current. 30-meter visibility. A safety diver watching from below. For most beginners training in less-than-ideal local conditions, that’s not the reality. Comparing your own training dive in a murky quarry to a viral reel filmed in Dahab is like comparing a home-cooked meal to a Michelin-starred dish shot under studio lights. They serve different purposes.
When divers try to replicate the polished content without the invisible scaffolding behind it, they take real risks—risks that the ocean doesn’t forgive.
Let’s talk about the mental side. Freediving is as much about the mind as it is the body. In fact, mental clarity, relaxation, and self-awareness are often more important than lung capacity. When social media introduces a layer of constant comparison, it chips away at that inner quiet.
You start diving with a ghost in the water: the idea of who you should be. You chase numbers. You try to replicate the footage. You stop feeling the dive and start watching yourself in third person. That shift is subtle but dangerous. You’re no longer in your body. You’re performing. And when something feels off—when equalization fails, or the urge to breathe comes early—you’re less likely to listen. Because stopping doesn’t look good in a post.
Even worse, when divers start to feel they’re not enough, they may hide it. They’ll pretend a dive was fine when it wasn’t. They won’t admit they felt pressure. They’ll keep up appearances—online and in real life—because vulnerability isn’t always rewarded in the world of filtered perfection. But freediving demands honesty. If you can’t be honest with yourself, the ocean will teach you.
Another consequence of Instagram’s rise in freediving is the blurry line between content creators and educators. Many highly skilled divers now double as influencers, sharing tips and techniques with thousands of followers. Some of them are certified instructors. Many are not. That doesn’t mean their content isn’t valuable. But it’s not always contextually sound.
Freediving instruction requires a deep understanding of physiology, safety, and individualized progression. A 90-second video showing a new equalization technique doesn’t come with a safety plan. It doesn’t assess your current depth or sinus health. It doesn’t know if you have a history of ear injuries or if your diaphragm stretch is safe for your body.
Instagram makes freediving seem modular—like you can bolt on a new skill at will. But in reality, it’s a layered process. You can’t shortcut adaptation. You can’t skip foundational work. And you definitely can’t learn safety protocols through captions.
If you’re starting your journey, seek real instruction. Take courses. Dive with experienced buddies. Follow creators who emphasize safety and long-term growth, not just numbers.
So how should new freedivers navigate the Instagram age? Start by reframing what progress means. Progress isn’t just a deeper number on your dive computer. It’s feeling more relaxed at a shallower depth. It’s staying calm during a tough dive. It’s learning to enjoy a 10-meter fun dive just as much as a 30-meter PB.
Use Instagram for inspiration, not validation. Save videos that teach, not just impress. Follow accounts that celebrate every part of the journey—failures, plateaus, safety drills, off-season dry training.
And perhaps most importantly: give yourself time. Most of the divers you admire have been in the water for years. You’re not late. You’re just early in your story.
Instagram isn’t going anywhere. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
It’s allowed freediving to reach people who never would’ve discovered it otherwise. It’s brought together a global community. It’s elevated awareness of ocean conservation, technique, and gear. It’s even helped normalize talking about fear, struggle, and the emotional side of diving.
But the key is intentionality.
Share your dives, but don’t perform them for the camera. Post your PB, but also talk about what it took to get there. Show your favorite dive site, but mention the day the current beat you. Be real. Be human. That’s the kind of content that helps the community—not just the algorithm.