By: A Woman Who Knows Better, But Doesn’t Care (Except She Kinda Does)
There’s a special kind of nostalgia reserved for chain-smoking on a cold balcony at 2am while talking about your childhood trauma to someone you met 14 minutes ago. I miss that. I miss her. The old me. The one who thought it was appropriate to steal her grandma’s cigarettes at age eleven and call it a personality.
I started smoking before I even liked coffee. Before boys. Before existential dread had a name. Back when everything was still simple and the biggest worry I had was being caught with a pack of Marlboro Lights in my backpack next to my Catholic school homework and the looming knowledge that some part of me was probably going to hell, but in a cool way.
Smoking and I were in a long-term relationship. We were that toxic couple everyone roots for because at least it’s passionate. We’d broken up before. I quit cold turkey when I decided I wanted to incubate a human. Baby V. Baby Victory. Baby Very Good Reason To Stop Poisoning Myself. And I did! I was the glowing portrait of self-control. A smug ex-smoker. I walked past groups of puffing twenty-somethings like I was better than them. Because I was. (I mean, I wasn’t. But I was trying.)
But here’s the thing no one tells you about quitting smoking: the lust never dies. It goes dormant. Like herpes. Or high school trauma. You think you’ve healed, until one unexpected trigger wakes it up.
In my case, it was a wedding. The first one I attended without baby V glued to my hip like an emotional support koala. I wore real shoes. I danced. I drank. I felt almost feral. And then, in a bold, sweaty act of regression, I asked someone for a cigarette. I lit it. And the inhale felt like a reunion. Like my lungs whispered “finally, she’s back” and I whispered back “shh, just this once.”
Only it wasn’t just once. It became a thing. A vibe. A casual party indulgence. A small ritual, like licking the spoon when baking something unhealthy. I was still in control. I only smoked at parties. Festivals. Maybe birthdays. But never in between. That was my rule. And as we all know, setting rules is the same as having control. Right?
Then last year happened. The year. The one where our family home burned down. The kind of tragedy that strips away all your furniture, but somehow leaves behind all the emotional clutter. We do talk about it—how could we not? It’s still in the air every time I visit my family home . It’s in every sentence that starts with “at least…” and ends with silence.
And smoking stopped being a party trick. It became a survival tool. A crutch. A stress relief. A reason to go outside and avoid humans. It became… a friend again. One that stinks and kills you, but a friend nonetheless.
Now here I am, a responsible adult with responsibilities and lungs that still don’t make suspicious noises, thinking: maybe I want to start smoking again. Properly. Fully. Passionately. Like a woman in a French film who’s about to throw herself off a cliff for love.
I know I shouldn’t. I know that. I’ve read the literature. I’ve seen the posters. And then there’s my daughter—small, wide-eyed, watching me with the kind of raw curiosity that makes you question every decision you’ve ever made. She doesn’t need a sticker chart to remind me not to smoke. She just exists. Her very presence is a flashing neon sign that says: “Please don’t self-destruct.” The pressure is insane. Everyone expects me to quit. To stay quit. To be the version of me they’re more comfortable with. The version that doesn’t smell like rebellion and ashtrays.
But guess what? Even when I don’t smoke, I still disappoint people. I forget birthdays. I get nervous and accidentally ruin everyone’s mood with my nervous energy. I feel bad a lot—like I’ve already done something wrong even when I haven’t, like I’m on the verge of breaking a rule no one explained to me. I carry that guilt around like a handbag. So if I’m going to feel like a walking apology anyway… maybe I should do it with a cigarette in my hand and at least one thing that makes sense.
Or maybe I’ll quit. Again. Eventually. Maybe next Monday. Or the Monday after. Or the one that doesn’t come with grief hanging off its sleeves.
Until then, I’m just here. Inhaling guilt. Exhaling rebellion. Smelling faintly of existential crisis and Black Airwaves gum.
About the Author:
She writes, she mothers, she contemplates lung damage. Currently smoking metaphorical cigarettes only, but asks for real ones at parties. Might quit again soon. Or not. Depends on the vibes.
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