Today I hit six months without a cigarette. Half a year. A full two seasons of not standing outside in the freezing rain and snow pretending it’s relaxing.
I started smoking at 16, which felt rebellious and grown-up at the time. I was at college young, and I desperately wanted to fit in. Over the years, I quit and started again more times than I can count. But when I got pregnant at 35, I quit for real. Cold turkey. For the first time, it wasn’t just about me. And I truly believed that was the end of it.
But then... my son became a teenager.
Raising a teenager, as it turns out, is like trying to nail Jello to a tree. He found himself a terrible group of friends, the kind that come with red flags and bad decisions. At 14, I had to put him into rehab for drug abuse. That was, hands down, the hardest thing I’ve ever done—yes, even harder than labor and delivery, and that involved a watermelon and a space the size of a lemon.
I was heartbroken, scared, and overwhelmed—and I picked up a cigarette. Just one, at first. Then a pack. Then I was back in it.
He was in rehab for seven months. I told him if he ever used again, I’d have him back in there so fast his head would spin. And sure enough, shortly before he turned 16, he overdosed on heroin. The next week, he was back in rehab.
That could’ve been the end of the story—but it wasn’t. He got better. He changed his friends, changed his habits, changed his life. And slowly, I began to believe I could change too.
But quitting smoking felt impossible. Every time I tried, life would throw me a stress grenade—BOOM, and there I was, lighting up again.
Eventually, I called New York Quits. They sent me nicotine gum and patches, and I decided to really try. Not the “we’ll see how this goes” try—the this time I mean it try.
And here I am. Six months later. No smoke. No gum. No patches. Just me, breathing a little easier (and maybe feeling a little smug).
There’s still stress. Life hasn’t magically gotten easier. I still dream that I'm having a cigarette. I teach middle school. But the only thing smoking does is make me smell bad. It's still not easy. I still have cravings.
So here’s to six months. Here’s to better health. And here’s to making this streak a full year—and beyond.
