We met in the canyon, where she lit a cigarette for me and handed it over. I marveled at its slender whiteness, watching the smoke curl and dance into the dry California air. I took a puff, gagged, and coughed. But I learned quickly.
Before long, smoking became a regular weekend thing. I would chill with my friend Emily in the canyon or her backyard, feeling effortlessly cool when her parents weren’t around. Sometimes, I’d catch up with friends in the movie theater parking lot or outside the pizza joint, huddled together, flirting and sharing smokes. It felt unifying, and it gave me something to do with my hands.
In no time, I was smoking daily. I’d stash a pack of Marlboro Lights in my underwear drawer and sometimes pull out a cigarette at night just to roll it under my nose and inhale its scent. A true addict, indeed.
When I found out I was pregnant at 19, I quit. I managed to stay smoke-free for a few weeks after my son was born, but soon enough, I was sneaking cigarettes on the patio at night while he slept. Smoking became my instant relaxant—like what alcohol does for others, a cigarette worked wonders for me. I felt calm and content, a rare treat for someone like me who often battled anxiety. I could chat for hours on the cordless phone just outside the sliding door, keeping an ear out for my baby. I justified it all: I wasn’t drinking or using drugs, I kept my smoking away from him, and darn it, I enjoyed it.
Throughout my adult life, smoking represented a release from responsibility and a way to indulge in something just for me. It felt rebellious—especially in this West Coast bubble—and incredibly soothing. My husband and I were both smokers in our early twenties, and our nightly ritual involved escaping the pressures of parenthood and suburban life. We’d sit on the patio, sharing laughs and whispers. For those moments, the world’s expectations drifted far away, and it was just us again.
After my daughter was born eight years later, I recognized I had to quit for my kids. I couldn’t very well explain why I clung to something that could harm me, nor did I want to set them up to rationalize smoking as they grew older.
Yet, I still miss it. I crave that moment when I’m enjoying a cold beer in the evening, soaking in the silence. I think back to how the smoke would swirl around me, creating a particular ambiance in an otherwise mundane moment. I miss curling up with crime novels and a cigarette, or that post-intimacy smoke when everything was still and sweaty.
When I sip a hot cup of coffee, trying to find the right words, I long for the comforting inhale of smoke in between sips, the delightful pairing of heat and nicotine. Real adults aren’t supposed to want things that are bad for them—whether it’s a toxic relationship, a stressful job, or something harmful for your lungs. For me, smoking was a blend of emotional, sensual, and intellectual pleasure that I still find myself yearning for, even years after I quit. Sure, I run, do yoga, and hike—activities known to relieve stress—but none of them hit the same sweet spot of relaxed awareness that smoking did.
As a writer, that feeling of my mind opening up was priceless. I’d sit outside with my notebook in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and the ideas would flow like the smoke surrounding me. It’s that ritual from my younger years that I miss the most.
It’s tough to justify feeling nostalgic for something as dangerous as that unassuming little stick of nicotine, so I usually keep these thoughts to myself. Yet, with age, I care less about whether others understand my feelings about my life. As I grow closer to my loved ones, I also become increasingly aware of my own individuality and the responsibility that comes with it. I’m grateful I quit all those years ago, but I still find myself missing smoking.
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In summary, giving up smoking was a choice made for my children’s sake, but it doesn’t erase the longing for those moments of personal indulgence. It’s a bittersweet journey, reflecting on the past while embracing the present.