I Gave Up Smoking for My Kids, But I Still Crave It for Myself

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We first crossed paths in a secluded canyon. She lit a cigarette for me and handed it over, and I couldn’t help but admire its slender whiteness, the way the smoke spiraled into the dry California air. I took a puff, immediately gagged, and coughed, but I kept at it.

Before long, smoking became a weekend ritual. I’d chill with my friend Mia in the canyon or in her backyard when her parents weren’t around, feeling all sorts of cool. We’d meet up with other friends in the movie theater parking lot or at the pizza joint, huddled together, flirting and puffing away. It felt like a bonding experience and gave me something to do with my hands.

In no time, I was smoking daily. I stashed a pack of Marlboro Lights in my underwear drawer, and sometimes at night, I’d sneak one out just to roll it under my nose and inhale the scent. A true addict.

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, when he was asleep, I’d sneak out to the patio for a quick smoke. It was my instant relaxer—like what a drink does for some people, a cigarette did for me. I felt a wave of calm wash over me, and for someone often battling anxiety, this was a little slice of magic. I could chat for hours on the cordless phone, just outside the sliding door, always able to hear if the baby cried. I justified it in so many ways: I wasn’t drinking or using drugs, I wasn’t smoking near the baby, and I just loved it.

For me, smoking was a way to escape from the responsibilities of life. It was something just for me, a little act of rebellion—especially living on the West Coast—and it was incredibly relaxing. My husband and I both smoked in our early twenties. Our nightly ritual involved stepping onto the patio, escaping the responsibilities of parenthood, and enjoying a smoke while we talked or laughed. Just for those moments, the weight of the world vanished, and it was like we were young again.

After my daughter was born eight years later, I knew I had to quit for my kids. I couldn’t justify to them why I’d continue doing something harmful, and I didn’t want to set them up to rationalize smoking as teenagers.

But I still miss it. I miss it when I’m enjoying a cold beer in the evening, sitting in peace. I miss how the smoke wrapped around me, adding a special ambiance to ordinary moments. I miss the combination of reading a thrilling crime novel while smoking. I miss the post-intimacy cigarette, when everything felt so raw and genuine.

Sipping a hot coffee while trying to find the right words, I miss the sensation of a cigarette inhale between sips, the perfect pairing of heat and smoke.

As adults, we’re told we shouldn’t crave things that are bad for us—whether it’s toxic relationships, work stress, or, of course, smoking. But for me, smoking was a blend of emotional, sensual, and oddly intellectual pleasure that I still long for, years after I quit. I do yoga, run, and hike—activities known to relieve stress—and I enjoy them. Yet none of those pursuits provide the same sense of relaxed awareness that smoking did.

As a writer, the opening of my mind was priceless. I’d sit outside with a notebook in one hand and a cigarette in the other, watching ideas and words drift in like smoke. That ritual from my younger days is what I miss the most.

It’s tough to openly long for something as dangerous as smoking, so I usually keep these thoughts to myself. However, as I age, I care less about whether others understand my feelings about my own life. As I become more connected with my loved ones, I also grow more aware of my own identity and the importance of embracing it. I’m grateful I quit all those years ago, but I still find myself missing smoking.

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In summary, I gave up smoking for my kids, recognizing the need to set a good example and avoid the health risks associated with it. Yet, even years later, I still find myself missing the rituals and comforts that came with it.