By: Anna Jameson
Updated: Dec. 18, 2015
Originally Published: June 11, 2015
It all began in a secluded spot in the canyon. A friend sparked a cigarette and handed it to me. I admired its slender form as wisps of smoke danced in the dry California air. I took a drag, coughed, and gagged—yet I learned quickly.
Before long, smoking became a regular pastime on weekends. Whether hanging out with my friend Mia in her backyard while her parents were away or clustering with friends near the local movie theater or pizza joint, smoking became a social glue. It gave me something to do with my hands and a sense of belonging.
Before I knew it, smoking became an everyday habit. I stashed a pack of Marlboro Lights in my underwear drawer, and sometimes in the quiet of the night, I’d sneak a cigarette just to savor its scent. I was a full-blown addict.
When I found out I was pregnant at 19, I quit smoking. I managed to stay smoke-free for a few weeks after my son was born, but soon I was sneaking smokes on the patio after he fell asleep. For me, smoking was an instant escape—like a glass of wine for others. In a life filled with anxiety, it was pure magic. I could chat on the cordless phone for hours, always just outside the sliding door, ready to respond if my baby cried. I rationalized it in countless ways: I wasn’t drinking or doing drugs, I wasn’t smoking around the baby, and, truthfully, I loved it.
Through my adult years, smoking became my little rebellion against the pressures of life, a moment just for me. My husband and I would often share cigarettes in our early 20s, using it as a nightly ritual that allowed us to momentarily escape the demands of parenthood. We’d lean into each other, laughing and sharing secrets under the stars, feeling far removed from the world’s expectations.
After my daughter was born eight years later, I knew it was time to quit for my kids. I couldn’t face the idea of justifying my habit to them or setting a precedent for their own future choices.
Even now, I find myself missing smoking. There’s a certain pleasure in enjoying a cold beer in the evening, surrounded by silence, that makes me think of how the smoke used to curl into the air, transforming ordinary moments into something special. I miss reading crime novels with a cigarette in hand and the intimate moments after sex when everything felt heightened.
Sipping hot coffee while trying to write, I long for that inhale between sips—the way it made the experience feel complete. Adulthood seems to dictate that we shouldn’t crave things that are harmful to us, whether it’s in relationships or our health. Yet, smoking brought me a complex blend of emotional, sensual, and intellectual enjoyment that I still yearn for years after quitting. Though I engage in healthier activities like yoga, running, and hiking—each touted as stress relievers—none of them quite replicate the same state of relaxed awareness that smoking provided.
For me, as a writer, the combination of pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other unlocked a world of creativity. I could sit outside, the smoke swirling around me, as ideas flowed effortlessly onto the page. It’s that cherished ritual from my younger days that I miss the most.
While it may seem irrational to feel nostalgic for something so harmful, I’ve come to terms with my feelings. As I age, I care less about whether others understand my perspective on life. The more I connect with my loved ones, the more I realize the importance of my own identity and the autonomy that comes with it. I’m grateful I quit all those years ago, but the longing for smoking lingers.
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In summary, giving up smoking was a necessary choice for my children, yet the memories and desires associated with it still linger. The duality of loving something harmful while embracing healthier habits can be complex, but it’s part of my journey.