Life vs. Temporary Vices
The doctor was talking.
My son was listening.
The scan had already confirmed multiple pulmonary emboli in both of my lungs.
And all I could think was:
I don’t want to give up my vape.
Not because I didn’t understand the severity of the moment.
Not because I didn’t care about my health.
Not because I wanted to die.
Quite the opposite.
I wanted to live.
I just didn’t want to lose the thing that had helped me survive.
That’s a hard sentence to admit out loud.
Especially as a mother.
Especially as someone who publicly talks about healing, self-awareness, accountability, and personal growth.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned through recovery, therapy, and the endless process of becoming, it’s this:
Transformation begins the moment we stop lying to ourselves.
And the truth is, somewhere between grief, work stress, motherhood, heartbreak, financial pressure, trauma, recovery, and everyday life, my vape stopped being a vape.
It became relief.
Immediate relief.
A guaranteed exhale.
A predictable source of comfort in an unpredictable world.
And standing in that hospital room, I realized something that had very little to do with nicotine.
This wasn’t really a conversation about vaping.
This was a conversation about my relationship with discomfort.
The Search for Immediate Relief
I’ve spent most of my life looking for the fastest route to feeling better.
The fastest answer.
The fastest validation.
The fastest reassurance.
The fastest relief.
The fastest version of peace.
My ADHD doesn’t help.
Anyone familiar with ADHD understands that delayed gratification can feel physically uncomfortable.
We don’t just enjoy dopamine.
We chase it.
We anticipate it.
We crave resolution.
My brain has spent years wagging its tail and panting for immediate outcomes.
A text message back.
A relationship progressing.
A work problem solved.
A new opportunity.
A purchase.
A distraction.
A scroll.
A hit.
A fix.
Something.
Anything.
Just make the discomfort stop.
The problem is that life doesn’t work that way.
The most meaningful things I’ve ever created required the exact opposite.
Everything Worth Having Took Time
Recovery took time.
Motherhood took time.
Trust took time.
Healing took time.
Education took time.
Self-awareness took time.
Building a career took time.
Even Prayers & Cusswords took time.
Nothing meaningful in my life arrived overnight.
Yet somehow, I continue finding myself drawn toward things that promise immediate relief.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’m irresponsible.
Not because I don’t know better.
But because I am human.
And being human is uncomfortable.
We don’t talk enough about how much of adulthood is simply learning how to tolerate discomfort without immediately trying to escape it.
Sit with the uncertainty.
Sit with the loneliness.
Sit with the boredom.
Sit with the grief.
Sit with the fear.
Sit with the craving.
Sit with the wait.
That’s where the real work happens.
And if I’m honest, that’s where I’ve struggled the most.
Life or Temporary Vices
When the doctor explained the risks associated with smoking after blood clots, it felt like I had arrived at a crossroads.
Not life or death.
Life or temporary vices.
Because that’s what most vices really are.
Temporary relief.
Temporary comfort.
Temporary escape.
Temporary certainty.
Temporary control.
The problem isn’t that they work.
The problem is that they work immediately.
That’s why they’re so seductive.
That’s why they’re so difficult to release.
That’s why people stay in relationships that no longer serve them.
Why they stay in jobs that drain them.
Why they continue habits they know are harming them.
Why they postpone change.
Why they numb.
Why they distract.
Why they avoid.
The vice isn’t always the problem.
Sometimes the vice is simply revealing the pain we haven’t learned how to sit with yet.
And that realization hit me harder than any doctor’s warning.
Because if I remove the vape, what remains?
Stress remains.
Fear remains.
Uncertainty remains.
The pressure remains.
The responsibilities remain.
The waiting remains.
Life remains.
And suddenly the question becomes:
Can I learn to live with life as it is instead of constantly reaching for something that temporarily changes how it feels?
What I Hope My Son Learns
At one point during my hospital stay, I looked over at my son.
And I found myself wondering what he would remember about this season of my life.
Not what I accomplished.
Not what I earned.
Not what I built.
Who I was.
I hope he remembers that I was honest.
I hope he remembers that I took accountability.
I hope he remembers that I was willing to look directly at my own contradictions.
I hope he remembers that I wasn’t perfect.
I hope he remembers that growth isn’t about never making mistakes.
Growth is about being willing to confront them.
Most of all, I hope he remembers that I did hard things.
Because that’s what this season is asking of me.
Not perfection.
Not performance.
Not certainty.
Courage.
The courage to release something that has comforted me.
The courage to sit with discomfort.
The courage to tolerate uncertainty.
The courage to choose long-term healing over short-term relief.
The courage to become.
The Waiting
I think that’s the hardest part.
The waiting.
The space between who you are and who you’re becoming.
The space between awareness and action.
The space between letting go and learning how to live without what you’ve released.
Nobody talks enough about that part.
Everybody celebrates the transformation.
Nobody celebrates the withdrawal.
The loneliness.
The discomfort.
The craving.
The uncertainty.
The awkward middle.
But that’s where I am.
Not at the finish line.
Not on the other side.
Not writing some inspirational story about how I conquered anything.
I’m standing at the crossroads.
Looking at a habit that once felt harmless.
Looking at a life that is asking more of me.
Looking at a son who deserves to see what accountability looks like.
Looking at myself.
And asking a question I’ve spent years avoiding:
What is temporary relief actually costing me?
Maybe that’s the real question beneath every vice.
Maybe it’s the question beneath every distraction.
Maybe it’s the question beneath every shortcut.
And maybe the answer isn’t found in shame.
Maybe it’s found in patience.
Because every meaningful thing in my life has required patience.
Recovery required patience.
Motherhood required patience.
Healing required patience.
Growth required patience.
And maybe this next chapter will require patience too.
The kind that can’t be purchased.
The kind that can’t be inhaled.
The kind that can’t be rushed.
The kind that only comes from learning how to sit with life exactly as it is.
One uncomfortable moment at a time.
What temporary vice have you been using to avoid discomfort?
I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
I’ve faced financial instability throughout my life, constantly seeking to understand the why, how, and who behind it all. While I often blame myself, I’ve avoided confronting these feelings directly.
Now, I find myself in a place of clarity. I realize I wasn’t meant to follow the same path as everyone else; my journey is distinct, much like Libby’s, compared to my peers.
Sometimes, I wish I could go back and change things, but that’s not possible. This has truly been a struggle between my life and temporary vices.