Fear, Failure, and the Freediver’s Light

I was at a concert recently where the artist paused between songs to talk about something real. She shared how close she came to quitting. How failure nearly won, right before things finally opened up.

I hear this a lot. I've seen it countless times: people pulling back at the edge of something they genuinely care about. Friends, students, even myself. You can see it in their posture, hear it in their voice. They say they're waiting for the right time, but usually, it's quiet fear holding them back.

What if I'm not ready? What if I fail? What if I can't handle what's next?

What I've learned, both in life and in the water, is that fear isn't always loud. Sometimes it disguises itself as logic, caution, or good judgment. It whispers that we're smart to hold back, that it's not the right moment, that we're simply not ready.

But underneath, more often than not, we're just afraid of trying and not succeeding.

There's another piece we don't talk about enough. Ego doesn't just protect us from failure, it also tries to protect us from being seen while trying. From feeling exposed. From openly showing how deeply we care and risking embarrassment if we fall short.

It says: stay in control. Don't reach too far. Don't let anyone see you stumble.

But growth doesn't happen within our comfort zones. It happens when we stretch ourselves.

Our ego means well, but if we let it, it keeps us small.

So what if failure isn't the enemy? What if someone told you you're ten failures away from your goal? Would you still hesitate, or would you chase them down, knowing every misstep brings you closer?

This shift in mindset changed how I approach nearly everything. It's the difference between people who slowly step away from their dreams and those who keep pushing toward them, bruises, doubts, and all.

Not because they're fearless, but because they've stopped letting fear steer their decisions.

In freediving, fear shows up frequently. You meet it in the hold, in the silence, in the rising urge to breathe. But you don't fight it or shove it aside.

You slow down, create space, and allow it to sit beside you. You acknowledge it, saying, "I see you, but you're not driving today."

Courage rarely looks dramatic. Usually, it's quiet. It's just showing up, trying again, moving forward when no one's watching, and nothing feels certain.

And when you stop shrinking yourself to avoid discomfort, yours or someone else's, something begins to shift.

Marianne Williamson wrote: "As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

That's what I want. For myself, for the people I care about, and for anyone standing on the edge of something real, wondering if they're allowed to leap.

Let this be your permission slip.

Fall if you need to, but don't stay stuck simply because it's familiar. The surface will always feel safer, but sometimes, the truth waits in deeper waters.

You don't have to be fearless. You just have to keep moving.

This applies everywhere, in love, work, or chasing that dream that won't leave you alone. The one you're unsure you're ready for. The relationship that scares you, not because it hurts, but because it matters. The idea that quietly, persistently, refuses to let go.

Every leap begins with a simple question:

Por qué no? Why not you? Why not now?

You don't need to be certain. You just need to start moving. Even if your voice shakes, even if you fall.

The surface will still be there, but some truths can only be discovered in the deep.