30 Years Smoke-Free: A Love Letter to Stubborn Hope

Why my coat closet no longer smells like a stale bonfire

Thirty years ago this week, I quit smoking. Or, more accurately, smoking and I had a long, messy breakup—it cried smoke rings; I cried real tears. But we finally parted ways for good, and I celebrate that anniversary now like some folks celebrate weddings because, in its own way, it was one: a lifelong commitment to staying alive.

It. Was. Not. Easy. Therefore, knowing the pain and frustration, I feel compelled to be your cheerleader if you or a sig other are struggling with tobacco issues. You can quit—but you gotta have the backbone of a tyrannosaurus and the patience of a 100-year-old nun.

Back then, I calculated that my “forever plan” (you know, the one where I’d live forever fueled by caffeine, cigarettes, and cheeseburgers) was not going as planned. It’s funny how mortality becomes more visible once you start coughing like a ‘78 Chevy trying to start on a January morning. I decided if I wanted to see my grandchildren—or at least still recognize them without wheezing—I’d better pick a new hobby.

So, I quit. Cold turkey, no applause, no confetti. Just me and my mantra: “Smoking is not an option.” Those five words were taped to my mirror, fridge, steering wheel, and possibly the cat. I did cheat slightly. For a while, I smoked peppermint sticks because they tasted similar to menthol when you suck air through them. Talking on the phone or writing at my desk were HUGE triggers for me, so I needed a crutch.

Full disclosure: for those first few days, my body felt like it was staging a revolution. Headaches, jitters, and the sensation that time had slowed to the speed of melting ice. But every day without smoke was one inch closer to freedom. And freedom tastes better when you’ve earned it.

Weeks passed. I started counting the money I wasn’t burning—literally. I put it in a jar. There’s something poetic about watching your willpower stack up in twenties. At a point, that jar covered a semester of my kid’s college tuition. It still makes me proud, even now.

Footnote: I actually did a long-term calculation based on the cost of cigarettes back then, which was way, way less than now. I discovered I could almost have bought a house with the money I spent on ciggies over the years. Back then, the cost was under a buck for a pack and wayyyy less than a quarter of a million for a house.

The smells changed, too. My home stopped smelling like an old bar carpet. My hair stopped smelling like defeat. Food—real food—tasted vibrant again. I discovered that lettuce actually has flavor and that coffee doesn’t need a side of ash to be satisfying.

Now, thirty years later

I’m still here: alive, mostly upright, a little creaky, but breathing deep. If you’ve tried to quit a dozen times and think it’s just not for you, let me tell you something hard-won: you haven’t failed, you’ve been rehearsing. Every attempt teaches your brain a new way to imagine life without smoke. One day, it’ll stick. Maybe that day is soon.

When you get there, you’ll notice some new stuff. Mornings feel less like you’re dragging a chain behind you. The cough quiets. Your reflection looks a little more alive. You don’t stink. You become—slowly, stubbornly—someone your past self wished they’d met sooner.

Thirty years later, I still whisper that old mantra when life tempts me toward bad habits: “Smoking is not an option.” It’s more than a rule. It’s a reminder that change, even after decades of trying, is always possible. May you be successful.

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