Writing not smoking

Picture this: my pregnant belly is popping, my breasts are unexpectedly perky, and I’m standing on the outdoor furniture, holding a bottle of 0% beer aloft. Cheers to triple digits.

In the past 100 days of sobriety, I’ve surrendered to my Higher Power, leaned into the chaos of raw, unfiltered existence, learned to trust my intuition, and watched colour seep slowly back into the world.

My dreams are vivid.
My memory is shot.

It’s easier to connect with people now, even though I’m more physically isolated than I’ve ever been.

I’ve built a plan – one that actually makes sense. One that doesn’t make the people who matter to me gasp, raise eyebrows, or politely look away.

Sobriety and early motherhood feel like a blessing I wish I’d chosen sooner.

That said, I’ve also been grieving the most brutal breakup of my life while growing a baby boy – my saviour. Somewhere along the way, I met the girl I might have been if I’d never picked up smoking in the first place. She shows up daily. She weeps with me.

The grief isn’t over. But the waves are easier to spot now, rolling in from a distance instead of knocking me flat without warning.

Tomorrow is Christmas Day. Once upon a time, I would’ve gotten high while my parents went to church. Instead, tomorrow I’ll take a bath. I’ll shave my legs, paint my toenails, pluck the stray chin hairs. Small rituals. Quiet care.

It might sound boring – but it’s something. It’s my autonomy. My right to tend to myself. To clean up what I once polluted.

Today is a happy day.
And it’s also just another day.

Here’s to many more of them – free from the shackles that once sustained me.