Ibiza was supposed to help. That’s what everyone said. “It’ll be easier to quit smoking out there,” they chirped, like nicotine addiction gives a damn about geography. Sunshine, sea breeze, organic smoothies. A new life, clean start, clear lungs. Bollocks.
First week on the island? I nearly cracked. Not because I missed the taste. I don’t even know if I ever liked the taste. It’s the ritual. The break. The pause between chaos. In Frankfurt, it was always between meetings. In Madrid, after lunch. In Ibiza? It hits you randomly. Like a ghost of your old self showing up uninvited with a pack of Lucky Strikes and that smug look: “Still think you’re better off without me?”
I tried everything. The gum that tastes like wet cardboard. A hypnosis app narrated by a man who sounded like he should be nowhere near a microphone. Breathing exercises. Tea. One of those ridiculous fake cigarettes that lights up blue at the end like a sad disco stick. Still the cravings come, not in waves, but spikes. Out of nowhere. Like when I’m halfway through slicing fruit and suddenly want to burn one just because my brain associates summer with smoke.
Ibiza doesn’t make it easier. It makes it weirder. Because you’re surrounded by people who either smoke like it’s still 1993 or have been smoke-free since birth and drink beetroot kefir for fun. There’s no middle ground.
The beach is the worst. The sunsets—the kind that feel illegal they’re so beautiful—they scream for a cigarette. You sit there, waves doing their thing, and there’s this little devil whispering: “One won’t kill you. One would be… cinematic.” The Mediterranean makes you romanticize your addictions.
I started reading actual science, not the feel-good Instagram fluff. I mean real stuff, like NHS quit smoking tips and what CDC says about dopamine regulation. Apparently your brain needs weeks—months, sometimes—to reset after years of conditioning. Great. So basically, I’m retraining a feral animal with a stick and a dream.
Sometimes I catch myself bargaining. Like, what if I only smoke on even-numbered days? What if I just hold one? Madness. Actual madness. But quitting isn’t this noble, clean, one-and-done thing. It’s gritty. It’s sleepless nights. It’s pacing around the villa at 2 a.m. chewing dried mango and cursing everything.
But. I haven’t had one. Not properly. There was a night—a few drags off someone else’s at a party—but I don’t count that. Maybe I should. Whatever. Point is: I’m still in the fight.
I think the scariest part isn’t quitting. It’s not knowing who I am without it. When your identity is wrapped around work, pressure, travel, and a cigarette to glue it all together—removing that glue shows the cracks.
Ibiza was supposed to help. Maybe it is. Maybe the island’s not here to make it easier—maybe it’s here to make it real. No distractions. Just me, a clear sky, and the raw, twitchy process of becoming someone I haven’t met yet.