I Quit Smoking With a Secret Weapon

I grew up with cigarettes around me, so it might seem like my smoking was inevitable.

It certainly wasn't. My first actual cigarette was awful. I was a teenager at a party and my friend offered me a Newport. Now, I don't usually turn down a good time, so I grabbed it and pulled deep. It was disgusting and I immediately put it down.

So, how did I end up a heavy smoker?

It was my second cigarette that hooked me. Years later, I was fresh out of college and working as an administrator at a university in Boston. The week had been stressful and some co-workers and I were meeting up for margaritas—again, not turning down a good time.

On the way, one of them coolly lit a Marlboro Light, inhaled deep, and exhaled peace. This image was all I needed to fall in love with the idea of smoking.

And it really was an idea that I was chasing. I had studied philosophy in college, and deep thinking seemed to pair with a cigarette like a fine wine. I'd always loved walking around the city, and adding a cigarette just made sense, like I was some latter-day Diogenes and the cigarette was my lantern.

Years later, I even met my wife over a cigarette. I was in my early twenties, recently fired from a job and sitting out on my stoop. I was drinking whiskey and ripping through cigarettes while playing guitar when she, my neighbor at the time, approached me to ask if she could bum a smoke. So we became two smokers together.

Over time, my smoking only got heavier. At my worst, I was smoking a pack and a half a day while working in a restaurant in Cambridge. A few years of this and I developed a persistent cough, waking up each morning having to clear my chest.

At the time, I just took it in stride. I remember rationalizing: "Hey, that's what getting older is all about, right?"

Wrong.

One morning in my late twenties, something changed. It was warm, which in New England means it was sometime between May and September. I woke up wanting to go for a walk. I got ready to leave, all the while clearing my chest from a particularly bad night of smoking.

I went outside and reached involuntarily for my pack of cigarettes. Turns out I left them in the apartment, which was a second-story walkup. I went back, huffing and puffing, and I remember it being the first time I felt contempt toward my smoker's body.

It dawned on me that I'd felt this way for a while. I hated what my smoking had done. It wasn't just the cough. I stank like smoke. My head hurt when I didn't have one for too long. It was embarrassing to hang out with non-smokers and have to excuse myself every so often just for a smoke.

After that day, I kept smoking, but started looking for a way out.

The first time I actually tried quitting was my 29th birthday. That night, I enjoyed myself into a drunken stupor. My drunk self was disgusted with my smoking self, so I threw my pack out the window of my wife's car and swore them off forever. I quit! The next day my body felt awful and I doubled down on my resolution.

One week later, after headaches, bad moods, and anxiety, I was back to smoking.
But the groundwork had been laid: I needed a way out. And for the next year, I kept trying and failing to quit over and over. Until one day, another realization hit me: The best part of not having a cigarette today is actually feeling better tomorrow.

Fueled by this thought, I threw out all my cigarettes. I went through weeks of withdrawal. And I kept focusing on the fact that I didn't want to feel like crap tomorrow.

I'd get strong cravings, just like any other time, but this time I had a secret weapon: Knowing I didn't need to quit entirely, I just needed to resist for one day.

And come tomorrow, who knew? Would I go back to smoking? I hoped not, but couldn't read the future. So I didn't have a cigarette that day. And lo and behold, I felt a little better the next day.

That first day turned to two, then 10, then 100, and now I haven't had a cigarette in about seven or eight years. To be honest, I don't remember the exact date. For me, this is one reason I think I've kept them off so long. I have no "quitting anniversary," which means I don't have to ever really think about how long it's been since I smoked.

The physical withdrawal probably lasted a few weeks. In the first month, my headaches disappeared. After a few months, my cough went away. And every year since then, my lung capacity has only gotten better and better.

The psychological withdrawal from smoking was harder to overcome. Moments that had been paired with a nice cigarette had to be paired with something else, or nothing at all. But this is where my "not smoking today" mentality really paid off.

I often think: maybe tomorrow I'll have a cigarette at sunset, but not today. And the beautiful thing is, it will always be today.

As hard as the psychological withdrawal was, it also yielded the biggest payoff. I have more control over my behavior than I ever thought. Since putting down cigarettes, I've put down caffeinated coffee, I've cut way back on drinking, and I've also gone gluten-free. That last one was for health reasons, but leaving smoking gave me a beautiful blueprint for modifying my behavior.

Could I have a cigarette right now? Of course. But I don't want to feel terrible tomorrow. So I don't want one today. Every time I think about smoking, I remember the things I don't want to feel anymore, and it becomes a no-brainer. And I remind myself that I'm very capable of not smoking today.

If you're trying to quit, I beg you to keep trying. When you attempt to stop, you're building momentum. Each time I resolved to quit, it became slightly easier than the last. My attempts gave me a road map.

It's not a quick process. Like most good things, it's a long and drawn-out affair. Your first time won't be your last time, but it's your first step in getting there.

Will this be it? Will I never have a cigarette again? I'm no fortune teller, and neither are you. What I do know is I haven't had one today.

And it's been one hell of a day.

Peter August is an admission counselor, writer, musician, and life coach who lives in Worcester, Massachusetts. You can visit his website here.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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