It all started in a secluded spot in the canyon. A friend lit the cigarette for me and handed it over, its slender white form captivating as curls of smoke drifted into the arid California air. I inhaled, coughed, and gagged, but I was hooked.
Before long, smoking became my weekend ritual. I’d hang out with Maya in her backyard or the canyon, feeling rebellious and cool. Meeting friends in the parking lot of the local cinema or pizza joint, we’d cluster together, flirting and puffing away. Smoking brought us together and gave me something to do with my hands.
In no time, I was lighting up every single day. I even stashed a pack of Marlboro Lights in my underwear drawer, and sometimes at night, I’d sneak a cigarette just to savor its scent. I was a genuine addict.
When I got pregnant at 19, I quit smoking. I remained smoke-free for a few weeks after my son arrived, but soon I found myself taking drags on the patio while he slept. For me, smoking was an instant stress reliever—like what alcohol does for some. I felt relaxed and content, a rare feeling for someone who often wrestled with anxiety. I’d chat for hours on the cordless phone just outside the sliding door, ensuring I could hear the baby if he stirred. I convinced myself it was okay: I wasn’t drinking or using drugs, I didn’t smoke near the baby, and, honestly, I loved it.
Throughout my adult life, smoking became my escape from the mundane—an indulgence just for me, something rebellious, especially on the West Coast. My husband and I both smoked in our early twenties; our nightly ritual involved sitting on the patio, sharing laughs and conversation, momentarily free from the expectations of parenthood and suburban life. In those moments, we were just a couple again.
After my daughter was born eight years later, I realized I had to quit for my children. I couldn’t bear the thought of justifying my habit to them while knowing it could harm me, and I didn’t want them to think smoking was acceptable as they grew older.
Yet, I still find myself longing for cigarettes. I miss them during quiet evenings with a cold beer in hand. I miss how the smoke enveloped me, adding a certain ambiance to ordinary moments. I miss the indulgence of reading crime novels while smoking, and that post-intimacy cigarette, when everything was still and sweaty.
Sipping a hot cup of coffee while trying to pull words from thin air, I yearn for that drag between sips, the satisfying combination of warmth and smoke. The notion of being a “responsible adult” often means suppressing desires for things deemed harmful, whether it’s in relationships, work, or health. But smoking offered me a blend of emotional, sensual, and intellectual pleasure that I still crave years after quitting. I engage in yoga, running, and hiking—activities known to relieve stress—but none evoke the same sense of relaxed awareness that smoking did.
As a writer, the feeling of my mind opening while smoking was invaluable. I would sit outside, a notebook in one hand and a cigarette in the other, as ideas flowed freely, curling around me with the smoke. It’s that specific ritual from my past that I miss the most.
It’s difficult to justify fondness for something so harmful as that slender tube of nicotine, so I mostly keep these feelings to myself. However, as I grow older, I find I care less about whether others understand my relationship with my past. Paradoxically, as I deepen my connections with loved ones, I become more attuned to my individuality and the autonomy that comes with it. I’m grateful I quit smoking all those years ago, yet the longing remains.
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In summary, I gave up smoking for my kids, but the desire still lingers. I miss the relaxation it provided, the moments of escape, and the creative flow it inspired. As I navigate adulthood, I cherish my decision to quit, yet I can’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for the smoky moments of my past.
Keyphrase: Longing for Smoking After Quitting
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