How I Quit Smoking (And Why It Finally Stuck When I Stopped Making It a Resolution)
I started smoking the day I turned eighteen.
Not a cigarette — a small, cheap, sweet cigar. I bought it from a humidor in a mall in Memphis because I could legally do it. That’s honestly the best reason I can come up with. I smoked it in the backyard like it was some kind of rite of passage.
The irony is that I hated smoking growing up. My mom smoked, and I remember hiding her cigarettes, complaining about the smell, wondering why anyone would do that to themselves. It never looked appealing. It never smelled good. I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a smoker.
But one cigar led to another. A few days later, then a few more. Cigars turned into cigarillos because they were cheaper. Peach Supreme cigarillos were under a dollar at one point, thanks to a tax loophole that let them be sold in packs like cigarettes. I was broke. That mattered. This was Dallas around 2006 — you probably can’t find anything under five dollars now.
Somewhere along the way, “sometimes” quietly turned into “regular.”
How One Thing Turned Into Twenty Years
I don’t remember the moment I became a smoker. There wasn’t a dramatic shift. No realization. No decision. It just… happened.
That’s one of the hardest things about addiction. It doesn’t announce itself. It slides in while you’re busy justifying things.
I told myself all the usual lies.
That it helped my anxiety.
That it helped socially.
That it gave me breaks and sunlight.
In reality, the anxiety relief wasn’t nicotine — it was slow breathing. The social part wasn’t connection — it was shared stress and synchronized break schedules. Smokers are usually friendly because they’re counting down the next cigarette and grateful for company while they wait.
Any walk could’ve given me the same break. Any breathwork could’ve done what the cigarette did — without the smell, the addiction, or the cost.
I told myself it was a social lubricant, even though smoking makes you smell and is a turnoff to a lot of people — including other smokers. I wouldn’t date smokers, even while being one. That should’ve told me something.
Why I Tried to Quit (And Why It Rarely Stuck)
I tried to quit more times than I can count.
I read Allen Carr’s The Easy Way. It didn’t magically make me quit, but it shattered a myth that stuck with me: nicotine’s physical addiction only lasts about three days. People struggle for years not because of chemistry — but because of habit, identity, and fear.
I tried Chantix. It worked for about six months, but the nausea and nightmares were intense. I tried patches and gum. The gum tasted weird and made me want a cigarette more. Chewing felt like the opposite of relaxation.
I quit for days. Weeks. Months. Once, even years.
Almost every relapse came with drinking or needing escape — not because I wanted cigarettes, but because I wanted relief.
The Time I Quit for Three Years (And What Worked Then)
In my mid-twenties, I quit for almost three years out of sheer stubbornness and fear.
I was in a pool with my sister and my mom, smoking a cigarette, talking about weight loss surgery. My sister was studying medicine and mentioned — bluntly — that smoking could affect anesthesia and potentially kill me.
I put the cigarette out on the side of the pool and didn’t touch another one for years.
Not because I was inspired.
Because I was challenged.
There’s something honest about that. Sometimes it isn’t willpower. Sometimes it’s fear, pride, or being called out at the exact wrong moment.
Why This Time Was Different
This time, I didn’t announce it. I didn’t mark a date. I didn’t make it a resolution.
I got sick — upper respiratory stuff, stomach bugs — and cigarettes stopped feeling like relief. They made everything worse. I had a cough for weeks. My voice sounded terrible. Vegas healthcare didn’t help much, and I was tired of being mildly miserable all the time.
Then there was the cost.
Not just the cigarettes — the gas station. The stop. The drink. The snack. The impulse buys.
I drive a Tesla now. Going to a gas station just to buy cigarettes started to feel ridiculous. Packs were around $10 each, sometimes more. I’ve paid over $24 a pack in tourist areas. One pack a day is $300 a month — and realistically closer to $500 once you count everything else.
That’s $6,000 a year.
I started thinking in replacement value instead.
Two cigarettes is enough time to do a face mask.
One pack is a month or two of eye masks.
A few months of not smoking is a luxury espresso machine.
I bought a hammock and an umbrella for my patio. Coffee in the sunrise, silence, an eye mask — no lung burn, no stink. It turns out the ritual was what I wanted all along.
Replacement Worked Better Than Removal
I didn’t take everything away at once.
I used vapes — including nicotine-free ones. I replaced the action before trying to remove the habit. I read instead of smoking. I sat outside without smelling like smoke.
I realized I’d stopped wearing lotion, moisturizer, or sunscreen for years because smoke mixed with fragrance made everything smell worse. Quitting didn’t just help my lungs — it changed how I treated my skin, my body, my mornings.
Slipping Isn’t Failing
I smoked a little in July. One cigarette socially in September.
It’s December now, and I haven’t bought a pack since summer. I don’t even remember the exact date I quit — because it’s not a marker of who I am anymore.
Smoking once doesn’t make me a smoker again. It means I smoked.
That shift mattered more than anything else. Resolutions taught me that once you slip, you’ve failed — so you might as well stop trying. This time, I didn’t give failure that power.
What I Know About Smokers Now
I don’t know anyone who truly likes smoking in a logical way.
Smokers like relief. They like breaks. They like breathing space. Most want to quit. Most have tried. Many are telling those stories while actively smoking.
Smokers — and ex-smokers — tend to be less judgmental because they know the mental loop. They’re fighting themselves.
I don’t judge people who smoke. I know the torment of wanting to quit and making excuses because I did it for years.
This time, quitting stuck because it stopped being about willpower, morality, or identity — and started being about honesty, replacement, and tradeoffs.
There’s no wrong way to quit. There are just a million things to try. Mainly just keep trying and try different ways until it’s final.
If you’re thinking about quitting — or changing any habit — here’s what helped me:
Don’t turn it into your identity Don’t wait for a perfect day Replace the ritual before removing it Count the real cost, not just the obvious one Slipping doesn’t erase progress Relief is usually what you’re chasing — not the habit itself
You don’t need a resolution.
You don’t need an announcement.
You don’t need to make it to an anniversary to be successful.
You just need enough honesty to ask yourself if you actually want it anymore and what could you replace it with that you actually want?