I started smoking around 16. Now, nearly eight years later, I’m what you’d call a "young veteran smoker." People rarely ask why I lit that first cigarette. The truth feels almost too absurd to admit—a reason so foolish it still brings a flush of regret. After all, I’m an adult now, well aware of smoking’s dangers through endless health warnings online and offline.

It wasn’t peer pressure, curiosity, or stress that led me to smoke. Back then, I barely understood what cigarettes even did. I just knew adults smoked them; they seemed ordinary, almost mundane. At that impulsive, consequence-blind age, I lacked any real understanding of tobacco.

So how did it happen?

At 16, drowning in naive romanticism, I asked my boyfriend what kind of girls he liked. He offhandedly said, "Girls who smoke look kinda cool." Maybe I took it as a hint. Later, alone, I bought a sleek white pack of Zhongnanhai cigarettes with blue lettering—chosen purely for its pretty packaging. In my room, I lit my first cigarette. It tasted mild, unremarkable. Feeling nothing, I mindlessly chain-smoked half the pack. When I stood up, the room tilted violently. I stumbled, collapsed onto my bed, and swam in dizzying vertigo—a sensation forever etched in memory. Later, I learned it was nicotine poisoning. And just like that… I became a smoker.

Eight years passed. There was a time when I smoked obliviously, detached from its harm. By the time I understood the risks, the ritual and addiction had sunk deep roots. I tried quitting countless times. My longest stretch was 21 days—the fabled "habit-breaking" period. Years have blurred how that attempt felt, but I vividly recall the moment I relapsed.

I had raised a kitten since birth—my shadow, my companion. I took him everywhere, even on outings. When he was just over a year old, an accident took him from me. Shattered, I bought a pack of cigarettes and sobbed while smoking half of it. Honestly, in that tidal wave of grief, I felt no relief from the smoke. Yet that relapse skyrocketed my habit: from 2-3 packs a week to a pack a day. Soon, every emotion—joy, stress, boredom—demanded a cigarette. Socializing, drinking… smoke became my shadow. I even convinced myself smoking steadied my nerves, lifted my mood, offered comfort.

Now, with clearer eyes and a body that protests daily, I see little good in it: dull skin, heart strain, lung heaviness, constant coughs, dry mouth, bitterness, dizziness, fatigue… the discomforts pile up. Yet the addiction holds. I’ve quit and failed countless times. I know it hurts me, yet I still reach for one cigarette after another. This cycle exhausts me.

I’ve watched documentaries, quit-smoking videos, "before and after" comparisons. It all looks effortless. But for me? Hours without a cigarette bring brain fog, absent-mindedness, frayed nerves. I hate feeling so unmoored—that’s why I’ve always relapsed.

Sometimes while smoking outdoors, kind elders would say, "Young one, don’t smoke—it’s bad for you." Family lectured me. I brushed it off. Friends argued, "Life’s short, enjoy it! Just cut back." But I feel its damage now—not some distant threat, but daily discomfort, tangible bodily decline.

So I’ve stopped declaring, "I’m quitting!" My vows ring hollow even to me. When I say it now, no one believes me. Fine. I’ll write my success story only after I’ve truly quit. Who knows how long that’ll take? But I hope to find a way—a way to become someone free of smoke, for myself and for those near me breathing it in. When I do succeed? If anyone offers me a cigarette, I’ll cut them off. Permanently.

The Turnaround

For years, quitting felt like slamming into the same wall. Then, during a moment of resolve—my "10,086th" fresh start—I stumbled upon Vapepie. Skeptical but desperate, I tried it. Unlike my previous methods, this wasn’t about sheer willpower or enduring misery. The familiar hand-to-mouth ritual remained, but without tar, ash, or that suffocating burn. Gradually, the urges softened. The dizziness, the dry mouth, the anxiety between cigarettes… they faded.

Weeks passed. Then months. For the first time, quitting didn’t feel like a war. Vapepie became a bridge—not a replacement, but a path away from dependency. My senses sharpened. Food tasted richer. My skin brightened. That heavy, persistent cough? Gone.

Today, I’m smoke-free. Not by gritting my teeth, but by finding a smarter exit. When I smell tobacco now, it’s not nostalgia I feel—it’s relief. Relief that the cycle is broken. Relief that my story, finally, has this ending.

Now? My skin’s clearer, my cough’s gone, and I feel lighter—like I can finally breathe. Reflecting on it, I can’t believe I let smoking steal so much of my time and health. But I’m proud I made it out. Eight years, countless failures, and one random e-cigarette later, I’m free. If I can do it, anyone can. So, to anyone struggling: keep going. Your VapePie moment might be closer than you think. And if you ever try to hand me a cigarette now? We’re done—single-sided breakup, no questions asked.