I could smell the cigarette smoke as soon as I got near my friend. Now the stale smell bothers me, but when I was younger, I had no room to complain because I was a smoker.

I started smoking when I was a teen. My dad smoked and even though I didn’t like his habit, I told myself I was being “cool.” Unlike other types of teenage rebellion, smoking wouldn’t land me in jail.

I successfully hid the cigarettes from my parents until a family car trip. My mom was complaining about my dad’s smoking, and he went off on a rant that he was an adult and could do as he pleased. I’d recently turned 18, so I reached into my purse, pulled out a pack of Benson & Hedges and lit one up.

There was complete silence in the car, even though my siblings knew I smoked.

“When did you start smoking,” my dad asked quietly.

“A while ago,” I remember saying.

That was all he could say.

I kept up the habit until the day I found out I was expecting my first child. The minute I got the news, I tossed the pack to my best friend and told her I was done with cigarettes. I never smoked while I was pregnant because I wanted a healthy baby.

But when my son was about a year old, I went through some tough times and picked up the cigarettes again.

I rationalized I wasn’t hurting anybody and had almost convinced myself I could indulge in this one little vice.

Until one summer evening.

My toddler son was playing in the living room, and I was smoking a cigarette watching him. We had window air conditioners at the time, and I noticed that the smoke was staying in the room – I could see the haze near the ceiling.

I realized my child would be breathing in that second-hand smoke, and I was the one putting toxins in the air he was breathing. Feelings of guilt and shame swept over me. Over the next week, I tried to quit, but I couldn’t, and it scared me – I was hooked.

At about the time I realized I was addicted, my office offered a sweet deal to the employees – if they enrolled in a smoking cessation class for $50, anyone who was smoke free six months later would get their $50 back.

Believing my prayers had been answered, I signed up. The instructor had a logical and emotional game plan to help us stop smoking.

First, we had to switch to menthol if we smoked regular cigarettes and vice versa. His reasoning was it’s easier to quit something you don’t like instead of something you do like. Those cigarettes also had to have half the nicotine of the brand we were currently smoking.He told us cigarettes were our little buddies and that stopping smoking was as much an emotional break up as a physical separation.

The last two weeks, we had to give up one cigarette a day, starting with our favorite cigarette. Roger said it would be easier to break the habit of associating a cigarette with something we liked, like that first cup of coffee or after lunch, if we knew we could have another one later in the day.

On the last day of class, all of us smoked the last cigarette together. We were nervous because we weren’t sure we’d make it. But I felt I could be strong, if not for myself but for my son.

Six months later, I collected that $50 and I haven’t had a cigarette in over 35 years.

Putting down the cigarettes for good was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and one of the few times I’ll pat myself on the back for achieving a goal.

Now when I hug my friend and the smell of cigarettes smacks me in the face, I know that will never be me again. I don’t have to worry about burning holes in my clothes, spending money on an addictive habit or having nicotine stains on my fingers.

And that’s a great feeling.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.