Writing not smoking

I’m approaching my fortieth night of sobriety in the literal desert – the cerrado – and today temptation spun its rotten web.

It came disguised as a test, maybe a tease from my ex, or better yet, a lesson from my higher power.

I was sorting through my final packing boxes, preparing to leave Brazil, when I found a pre-rolled spliff tucked inside my memory box. A relic of another version of me. A ghost.
And just like that, the old feelings returned: rage, fear, dread, and the chorus of inner saboteurs that once ruled my every decision.

Until that moment, I’d only felt proud of my progress. My mind sharper, my body lighter, my humour returned. I’ve been socialising again, dancing again, remembering things clearly for the first time in years.
I’ve been making plans to go home – to get a proper job, reconnect with my family, and raise a much-loved, though poorly timed, baby. Every day has been a balancing act of hope and logistics, of gratitude and exhaustion.

Basically, I’ve been doing great.
And still, today, I nearly caved.

When I picked up that spliff, it felt almost sacred – and disgusting. I could see my ex in it. My addict brain wanted to make it about him, about our story, about our undoing. The dread hit instantly: that sick certainty that I was going to smoke it. I even picked up my old pink Clipper and ran my thumb along the spark wheel like muscle memory.

I couldn’t even remember who rolled it or when. Only that I was about to throw away thirty-nine days of healing for one drag of nostalgia.

And that’s when the shift happened – the tiny miracle of pause.
Instead of lighting it, I picked up my phone.

First, I texted my sponsor. Then I called my ex and let myself break down completely — the tears, the rage, the truth about how strong a chokehold he and weed had over me.

He said I’d make a good mum. He said most of his friends who were pregnant gave in a few times, “when it was tough, and they were fine.” The way we began to argue out of premature contact helped me to remember that I wanted to stay clean not for him, not even for the baby anymore, but for me. For my values. For my connection to God.

And for once, I believed it.

I’ve never felt closer to God than I did in that moment – barefoot in the heat, spliff in one hand, phone in the other, trembling but still choosing life.

I opened my window and tossed the spliff into the street. Maybe someone else found it and smoked it. Maybe it gave them five minutes of comfort. Maybe that’s the best use for it now.

Then I called my mum. I told her how weak I’d been.
She told me weakness isn’t the opposite of strength – it’s the reason strength exists.

She said resisting temptation is proof I’m already stronger than the voice that tells me I’m not.

And tonight, I believe that too.