On my recent vacation, I tried scuba diving for the first time, and threw up. A lot. And it wasn’t the kind of seasickness you shake off with a ginger chew and a nap. It was a full-body, brain-shut-down, stomach-overboard kind of reaction that left me wondering, “What is going on with me?”
My Body Reacted Before I Could Understand Why
It started out well. Diving in the pool was more comfortable than I expected. And even though the ocean was choppy, and visibility wasn’t great, I found the first 35 minutes of the dive very enjoyable. I was underwater, breathing comfortably through my regulator, amazed by the silence, the surreal light, the way fish went about their business like we weren’t even there. I noticed that if I focused on my breathing or watched the fish, I felt calm. I even remember thinking, “I like this. I could keep doing this.”
Then something shifted. Not externally, but inside me. A low, slow-building feeling of, “I’m done. I want out.” I didn’t feel panicked exactly. I just wanted to be back at the surface. But I was with a group, and I didn’t want to cut the dive short for everyone else, so I stayed, wondering how to cue my dive master that I was experiencing existential dread.
When the dive master signaled we would finally begin our ascent, I was so relieved. My self-talk took off: “Okay, good. I’m almost there. We are done. I made it.” Then, I looked up and saw how far away the boat was. That’s when the spiral began. I pushed through, and at the safety stop, I hovered on the rope, bobbing up and down, and desperately tried to focus on breathing to stay calm. But instead, my body launched into its own protocol: vomiting. Five meters underwater. And it didn’t stop when I got to the surface.
Back on the boat, I was reassured it was common. That people throw up on almost every dive from seasickness, pressure changes, or swallowing saltwater. But none of those explanations felt quite right to me. I didn’t feel sick in the usual way. I felt disoriented, confused, and betrayed by a body that had given me no warning.
Trying Again Without Understanding What Happened
Still, after some lunch, coke, and a bit of rest, I decided to try again. The second dive was in slightly calmer water, and I felt determined to reset the experience. But the moment I strapped into my gear, the nausea returned. I tried to descend, but saltwater got into my mask and nose, triggering another wave of vomiting. This time I bailed early and returned to the boat. And then I threw up again. On shore, I also had to use the bathroom, bad. My body had officially declared a full evacuation.
Here’s where I did what I often do in stressful situations: I got curious.
I started researching about the nervous system, the vagus nerve, and how the body responds to unfamiliar environments. And what I found made me feel both validated and fascinated.
My body hadn’t malfunctioned. It had reached its limit.
What I Learned About the Nervous System and Anxiety
Scuba diving introduces a perfect storm of stressors: regulator breathing (which can lead to CO₂ buildup if you’re overthinking it – which I was), motion mismatch between your inner ear and visual field, and pressure changes. For me there was also old trauma stored in my body related to being in the water with the people in my group. I wasn’t consciously afraid. But my nervous system was.
By the time we started ascending, I had hit sympathetic nervous system fatigue. I’d been “on” for too long. That safety stop was the first moment my body felt like it had permission to let go. And it did. The vomiting, the need to use the bathroom, the sudden exhaustion are all classic signs of parasympathetic backlash. A vagus nerve mic drop.
How Understanding My Nervous System Changed the Experience
I used what I learned and made a plan. I waited two full days, gave my system time to settle, and approached the next dive with a very different strategy. I drank ginger tea. I sealed my mask carefully to avoid any saltwater triggers. I practiced a long-exhale breathing patterns before the dive to avoid CO₂ retention (inhale 2 seconds, exhale 4-5 seconds). I communicated openly with my dive master, who validated everything and went slow with me. And when it came time to ascend, we ditched the rope and stayed oriented to my body and my dive master, rather than gripping and staring at the bobbing rope.
I didn’t puke that time.
I made it back to the boat. I felt a bit seasick, yes, but I managed it. I drank more tea. I took tiny sips of Coke. I watched the horizon. I didn’t spiral.
This isn’t a story about conquering fear or defeating anxiety. It’s a story about learning how to work with my nervous system instead of against it. About respecting the signals my body gives me, even when they’re inconvenient.
When Insight Helps, and When it Isn’t Enough
Understanding what happened helped. Having language for the biology gave me a sense of agency. That’s part of how I process. But I also know that insight alone isn’t always enough. There are other areas of my life where intellectualizing has protected me from feeling. Where I needed something deeper. EMDR, somatic therapy, emotional work I couldn’t think my way through. My thinking parts try to protect me from feeling. And sometimes that is a problem.
Both things are true: knowledge can regulate. And sometimes, the healing happens below the level of words.
I won’t wrap this up with a tidy moral. Just this: I went back in the water. A little bit to prove myself, but not because I had to. Because I knew my body was ready. And when it told me it was okay to try again, I listened.
And I would definitely do it again.
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