Born in Plymouth in 1994, Tom Daley is Britain’s most decorated diver. He was 13 when he made history as Britain’s youngest competitor at the 2008 Olympics, and the following year became a world champion. He won gold at the Tokyo Olympics with his synchronised diving partner, Matty Lee, before retiring from diving in 2024. He is married to the screenwriter Dustin Lance Black, with whom he has two sons. The documentary, Tom Daley: 1.6 Seconds, is available to stream on Discovery+ from 1 June.
I used to be obsessed with wearing tea towels. I’d make sure the fabric was completely lined-up and tucked in neatly. If it was in the slightest bit ruffled or messy, I would get upset and rip it off and try it all over again. This was the beginning of my perfectionism – and possibly the first signs that I might not be 100% straight.
My mum says that as a kid, I was very sweet but I knew what I wanted. What did I want? To do the best I could at anything that I tried. That is still my mentality today. If I’m going to try something and it doesn’t work out perfectly, I don’t have tantrums any more, but I do get frustrated. That’s the thing about being an athlete: being good is not enough – you have to be the best. It’s not something you can teach, but every athlete who gets to an Olympic level has that same drive. We know our flaws before anybody else can point them out.
I was seven when I started diving. I loved the water but found swimming up and down a little bit boring – diving was much more fun. I started out jumping off the side of the pool, then tried the one-metre. The first time I tried the 10-metre platform I was eight years old. I remember crawling to the edge because I was too scared to walk – the board seemed to reduce in size with every step and suddenly looked like a tightrope. I was peering off into the water, thinking: “There’s no way I can jump off this.” But once I was in the air, there was no going back. It was a surreal and euphoric moment – freefalling for 1.6 seconds. As soon as it was over, I knew I wanted to do it again.
My childhood was brilliant. I was always outdoors, and we used to go for weekends away in our caravan in Newquay. I felt very safe, loved and cared for. Because I was so happy with my family, I used to hate travelling for competitions – I would get so homesick. It was terrifying to be on the other side of the planet from your parents when you’re 10 years old – especially when everyone else competing was much older. I can’t imagine how painful it was for my parents to hear their son crying on the end of the phone.
My dad Rob was my biggest cheerleader. He would work all day, pick me up from school, take me to the pool and stay all evening until I finished training. He would be there for every competition. We were a team, and it was our dream together. He was great at teaching me about perspective: if I bombed out at a competition, he would say: “You came 30th, but you’re still the 30th best in the world.”
When dad died [of a brain tumour in 2011], I went to training the next morning. I carried on competing without a proper break. Maybe it’s a British thing, but me and my family wouldn’t speak about his passing that much. It’s as if we didn’t want to upset anyone, or make them feel uncomfortable. I also felt that I had to be the strong one – the person who could support my family. It was only when I met my husband Lance, and he would ask why I didn’t speak about my dad, that I allowed myself the space to grieve. And it still hits me now, especially when those major milestones happen. He missed me winning my first Olympic medal, my wedding, my first son’s birth.
Lance and I met at a dinner in 2013. We talked and talked until we both realised how similar our lives were. He had just lost his brother; I’d lost my dad. He had just won his Oscar; I had just won an Olympic medal. It was the first time I could complain about success to somebody who knew I wasn’t really complaining about success. I was complaining about how to deal with what happens on the other side – the pressure and expectations. Knowing that nothing would ever compare to that feeling again.
I met Lance in March and came out to the media nine months later. I don’t think I would ever have said anything about my private life unless I had met someone like Lance. Once we fell in love, I knew I couldn’t keep it a secret. It was absolutely terrifying, posting the video on YouTube, because my management at the time had not been encouraging, and told me that I was going to lose my sponsorship. It was a scary thing to do, but once it was out there I was glad. It took all of the pressure off. I could be me for the first time.
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In 2024, I competed at the Paris Olympics, this time with my sons in tow. Being a dad was still my priority, so I had to deal with running on low sleep. I went to bed at 8 o’clock, because I didn’t know how many times I’d be up in the night. I’d wake early for training but would make sure I was home to help Lance with bedtime. I always found it incredibly difficult to leave them for competitions, and I carried a sense of guilt with me. My husband is so supportive, and he’s sacrificed a lot for me. But now I’ve retired, it’s his moment. He’s like: “It’s my turn to get my career back on track!”
I have been an athlete for most of my life, so it’s taking time to adjust to my new reality. I am so used to being disciplined that even if I’m out for dinner on a Saturday night, and someone asks if I’d like a glass of wine, it takes me a second to realise I am actually allowed to. Food is the same. When I was about to go to the 2012 Olympics, I was told by a coach that I needed to lose weight. After that, I had some issues with eating disorders. At the time it was something that men didn’t really speak about, so I kept it to myself and felt very alone. Once I was able to get the proper nutritional support and learned more about what my body needed, and how to fuel it, then my recovery started to unfold. But in truth, that feedback still affects me today. I know how I can look, and how I did feel, at my peak. Now that I’m not training six hours a day, six days a week, I am never going to be in that same form.
When I look at this photo, I think about how innocent I look. The boy in the photo has no sense of what society thinks is right or wrong. I could live and be happy and free. I am so glad my parents were the kind of people who celebrated whoever I was; an Olympian diver or a boy who liked to wear tea towels around his waist.
