Back in 2000, I was learning to scuba dive in the Red Sea, Egypt, when I hit a breaking point.

The dive licence requirements and exercises were challenging but I was getting through them, initially. I had successfully practiced losing my mask under the water and putting it back on again. I also practised sharing a regulator in case I ever found myself without one. I wasn’t particularly enjoying the activities, but it was necessary to persevere so that I could become a competent diver.

Then came the rescue swim. I had to swim about fifty metres, with all my scuba gear on, while pulling along my dive partner who was pretending to be unconscious. I completed the task, just barely, and I was utterly exhausted.

Then, within minutes, the instructor had the group lined up in waist-deep water, ready to perform the next ‘don’t die diving’ activity. We had to practise breathing with our regulators free-flow. This meant tilting my head sideways underwater, and then breathing in some of the air while the remaining free-flow air bubbles rose up to the surface.

I watched the instructor’s demonstration through my haze of exhaustion. I felt defeated and my spirit dropped as I realised I was done; I had to quit. Through tears of frustration, I told my instructor I couldn’t do it and stormed out of the water. On the beach, I took off all my scuba gear and found a place to console myself; I was never going to be diver. I was sad about it, but mostly, I was just glad to be out of a situation that clearly wasn’t working for me.

Later, my instructor found me and tried to talk me into getting back in the water the next day. I resisted. “No, it’s too much for me. I get anxious and exhausted. I’m not strong enough and it’s too hard.”

“Just come back to the beach tomorrow and we’ll work it out.”

Reluctantly, I went back the next day. I couldn’t see how the situation was going to improve, but I also really wanted to be able to dive. When I got to the beach, my instructor was holding a weight belt out to me. “I’ve removed half the weights. I think this might help.”

Could it be that everything I’d been doing was unnecessarily hard because I had too many weights attached to me?

It turned out that one of the initial instructors had wrongly assessed the number of weights I’d need. With the excess removed, all my experiences in the water felt very different. It was easier to move, swim and complete any of the challenges that the instructor set for me. I achieved my dive license and went on to have amazing dive experiences.

In life, many of us carry around weights we don’t need. We might have anger, fear, betrayal or hurt, for example. These are all heavy and weigh us down. They prevent us from moving easily and effectively in the present and into the future.
If we drop the weights we don’t need, the present becomes easier, and the future opens up in ways it could not have done otherwise.

 In writing, we don’t write as freely and authentically as we could if we’re carrying around unnecessary weights. Let the weights go and allow yourself to write fearlessly. Especially for your first draft – write it as if nobody is ever going to read it. You don’t need the fear of what others will say weighing down your writing process.