I learned something aboutmyself recently. And it came out of the blue.

I’ve always had anxiety ofdiving underwater. If I go underwater for ten seconds or so, I start to panicabout getting my next breath of air. Diving was something I didn’t think I couldbe good at.

So when I travelled to Dominica for an Epic Trails shoot, and freediving was penciled in, I was pretty nervous. I thought I would struggle. And I was going to try this activity on camera. I also, was not particularly keen on drowning.

And yet, freediving was arevelation.

It revealed in me something I didn’t think I was capable of. I did not think I would be able to accomplish a dive to 56 feet, let alone to do it easily and calmly.

Before I started, I wouldhave been ecstatic to dive to 25 or 30 feet of water. I would’ve emerged fromthe water with more hi-fives and butt slaps than at a Major League Baseballgame. Thirty feet was far deeper than anything I’d ever done before. But then Iwent through the first wave of training, led by Jimmy, a guy who can dive toaround 300 feet and hold his breath for over four minutes. And instantly, injust a few minutes of coaching and learning the technique, I was able to holdmy breath for over two minutes.

Something within me wasunlocked, almost instantly.

Of course, I still had totake a theoretical knowledge and put it into practice. Holding your breathwhile laying on a yoga mat is one thing. But actually diving down, where theconsequences are much more severe, is another.

As Jimmy and I swam out tothe diving platform, an eight foot by ten foot floating deck that is anchoredto the sea floor hundreds feet below, I had to keep my head clear, knowing Iwas about to practice a skill I was very nervous about.

Diving, while in ways isconsidered a sport, is more like meditation than anything else. Beforehand, Ithought freediving would be about athletic dominance, muscling your way togreat depths and withstanding extreme discomfort and pain in order to do it.But that was not my experience at all. Instead, I found it to be a calming,soothing experience. Each time I dove, the compression forced upon my body bythe mounting weight of water was like a comforting hug, not like being caughtin the iron grip of the ocean.

My first few dives, I made itdown about twenty feet before I started to feel the anxiety kick in, at whichpoint I would turn around and ascend to the surface. Jimmy and I would thentake a minute to discuss what happened. He’d offer a few pointers, then we’ddive again. With each passing dive, I grew more comfortable, and found myselfslipping past depths I didn’t think were possible for me.

With each passing dive, I grew more comfortable, and found myself slipping past depths I didn’t think were possible for me.

Ten meters.

Twelve meters.

Fifteen meters.

My final dive I hit seventeenmeters. And it was actually the easiest dive I did all day. I felt the mostcomfortable. I felt no anxiety during my descent, and no panic on my return tothe distant surface and my next breath of air.

I had heard stories aboutpeople who gained incredible growth all at once, like people who were terribleswimmers and finally got a lesson. They immediately became a proficientswimmer, like going from a 2 out of 10, to a 7 out of 10 in one session.

I had never experienced thattype of “unlocking.”

It was a profound experience.

But the thing I keep comingback to is the fear, anxiety, and disbelief I had beforehand.

I believed I was the type ofperson who could not dive, who couldn’t hold a breath for any duration. And myanxiety about trying to learn had always held me back. Frankly, I had to becoaxed into trying it for the sake of the TV show.

This experience revealed a long-held belief about myself that wasn’t rooted in reality. I believed I wasn’t the type of person who could do this. When in reality, I learned it quickly and enjoyed the experience.

About a year ago I became aware of another lie I had been telling myself. I believed that I hated running and that I was not a runner. I thought I was terrible at it. But a keen observer pointed out that I had never really tried it. I never actually ran. So why did I tell myself that I was terrible at something I’d never given myself the chance to be good at?   

So why did I tell myself that I was terrible at something I’d never given myself the chance to be good at?   

That moment gave me pause. Noone had ever pointed out this thing I was telling myself. I was not aware ofthe way I talked to myself about running. And it turned out to be completelyfalse.

Lo and behold, this last year I’ve started running. I began by just trying to hit a mile. Then two miles. And to my surprise, I found myself enjoying it. I could spend twenty minutes and go be outside in the pine trees and cover a couple of miles. This was actually fun.

I now wake up and run most days of the week and get in around four to six miles. It’s how I like to jump start my day.

But I had been telling myselfthat wasn’t who I was, that wasn’t my identity.

I was wrong both times.

Now I’m wondering, what otherlies am I telling myself? What other areas do I have a belief about my identitythat, if I actually tested them, would prove to be wrong?

I think we do this all thetime. And most times, it goes unnoticed and there isn’t anybody to check thosebeliefs at the door.

Maybe it’s something you tellyourself about the way you eat, or how active you are. Or that you could neverplay an instrument, or be a climber, or be creative, or run a business.

What do you unconsciously,and maybe even consciously, tell you about yourself and the type of person youare?

Maybe there’s more hidden inyou than you think.