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I started smoking when I was 13. I remember the day very clearly. My best friend and I discussed smoking as a way to fit in with the cool kids – to belong.

I’ve smoked for almost two-thirds of my life. I have stopped many, many times – sometimes for years. Right now, I smoke. I have felt incredible shame and disgust with myself. I have felt despair, anger and fear – all so very disempowering.

When my eldest daughter was 14, I saw a pack of cigarettes in her room, and my heart broke in that very moment filled with a deep, sinking sadness. I just stood there and felt waves of many emotions crash into me.

And I was taken back to my own bedroom at 14, my own mother storming in, raging as she confronted me; my cigarettes in her hand. My mother’s rage born of love and fear for my wellbeing. And I remembered that my mother’s way had not worked with me – my insolent nature had me rebel, resist and smoke more for spite.

Now here, faced with the same quandary, I was clear I didn’t want to push my daughter away and I wanted a different outcome than what I had. I didn’t have any answers. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to make her stop. I didn’t know how to reach her. I didn’t know what to say. I was at a loss. My world just stopped. All I had in that moment was a knowing that everything happens for a reason, even when I do not understand or don’t have it figured out. In this, I found some peace, my solace and my resolve.

I sat on her bed and all I could muster was a very quiet “Are you addicted?”
“No.” she replied. And with all I was feeling, I just smiled weakly, “That’s good.”
I patted her one more time and left.

She does not smoke. I never saw them again and we never spoke about it – until yesterday. She believed her little sister might be smoking. And she angrily blasted me; telling me to ground her; control her more; limit her friends. I witnessed her intense love and fear-based concern showing up as furious anger.

This morning I was sitting outside – smoking, thinking about smoking and what I wanted to say to my little girl. I was very disturbed. I called my mother instead. She had been my smoking buddy many years ago when she smoked. We spoke of our generations of un-serving beliefs and patterns. We spoke of self-love and inner happiness.

I then called my younger sister and our conversation turned to our own troubled teens, many moments I had forgotten, intermixed with what was going on now.

I went away in my mind’s eye, taken on a journey of angst, of wanting acceptance, being misunderstood; of not feeling heard. I saw the faces of timeless generations. And I started to cry as I remembered. I cried for the unheard girl-child within me, for the wounded child within my daughters, sisters and mother – in us all.

As the tears of bearing witness washed over me, released me, further healing me, I landed in a place called Love. I was home. I found my peace and my way again.

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