The Moth - The Moth Podcast: Resolutions

Episode Date: January 3, 2025

For the New Year, we've got two stories about resolving to quit some bad habits. This episode is hosted by Michelle Jalowski.Storytellers:Ian Stewart does his best to quit smoking.Melissa Earley learns some lessons on a post-divorce vacation.Podcast # 900

Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Michelle Jalowski. It may be a new year, but I've got pretty much the same resolutions. I'm going to start reading a book every week, I'm going to take more walks, I'm finally going to find a way to keep that Trader Joe's Orchid alive for more than a month. Check back with me in March to see how I did. But sometimes, the best thing you can do isn't to start something new. It's to think about your old habits that you don't love, the things and ideas that aren't serving you, and decide to leave them behind.

On this episode, we've got two stories about the good that can sometimes come from quitting. First up is Ian Stewart, who told this at a mock story slam in Portland. Here's Ian live at the mic. I remember my first cigarette, Here's Ian, live at the moment. I remember my first cigarette almost as well as I remember my last. My first one, it was all love and honey. It tasted good. It felt good on my lips.

It melted my brain like chocolate under a hot marshmallow. Last one, not so much. It was one of those random summertime hailstorms, and I was huddled underneath this little overhang, smoking it with abandon, desperate need. I smoked it all the way down to the filter, flicked it into this little flower pot, that poor little thing never saw anything beautiful. And I felt so frustrated in myself, so ashamed. I'd tried to quit plenty of times before and there I was again.

I felt like I was letting myself down. I felt like I was breaking a promise, which I was. I went back inside, and I went into my bedroom where I've got this big white board. It was my quit board, and it was huge, and I only had like 60 little tallies in a corner. And when I got the thing, I was very sure I was gonna fill this up. I only had like 60 little tallies in a corner. And when I got the thing, I was very sure I was going to fill this up, no sweat.

I was going to maybe just keep on going and turn it into one of those dungeons that has little tallies all over the walls. And as I'm sitting there looking at it, I see 60-something tallies representing around two and a half months. It's pretty good and I Remember it being so I was so frustrated to look at that Look at all that effort In between each of those lines represented an entire day of fighting cravings Cravings that they were like a parasite, man. They would dictate

everything I did throughout the day. Every single one of those tallies represented an entire day that I went, I woke up, didn't smoke. I didn't smoke during my first cup of coffee or my second. I didn't smoke after breakfast. I didn't smoke before work on and on and on. I'm wet, I'm cold, I'm so frustrated, just so much self-pity. I take my hand and I just swipe all those tallies away. A quit board goes back down to zero days without a cigarette. Again, that frustration. I was mad. I could feel myself just writhing in it.

And ironically, in those moments, the thing you really want is a cigarette. I go back out to the kitchen where I left the pack. And there's one left rattling around in there. It's like the last match, my little lifeline before the darkness of no more smokes. And on my hand below the pack, I could see this blue smear. It was the smear of 60-something little lines and 60-something little times where I said, I went this entire day without a cigarette.

In that moment, I didn't see that necessarily as a failure. That was a collection of successes, a lot of successes. Over 20 a day for 60-some days. Felt pretty damn good. I put that pack back down. And the next day, around the the same time I drew my first line on the quit board. Well again, my first line again.

The next day I did it again. Two became four, four became 20. Before I knew it I had a long yet gradually easier year of tallies behind me. Right on, Appreciate that. I still get cravings on my hardest days. I still have a little bit of envy when I'm at the bar and I smell smoke. It still smells good to me. I know it's weird. I don't tally anymore. That got kind of weird. Like, the dungeon look, not as cool as you might think. But to this day, tucked away inside of my nightstand, it's all crusty and just a shell of a thing now. I still have that last smoke. Thank you.

That was Ian Stewart. Ian is a writer and hobbyist of many things, who tends to burn the candle at both ends. He is the author of Bitter Sweet, a collection of short stories, and lives in Portland, Oregon with his soon-to-be wife and their two cats. Now, for a story about a different type of quitting, here's Melissa Early, at a StorySlam in Chicago. It was my first solo trip a year after my divorce. I'm in a cave in Guatemala with a bunch of 20-year-olds. I'm nearly 50. They're all in, or the girls are, at little bikinis and I didn't

bring my bathing suit to Guatemala so I'm in long pants and a t-shirt. They give us a rope to hold on to that's anchored to the cave wall and a candle for light. The water gets deeper and deeper and deeper and pretty soon I'm in water over my head trying to pull myself along with the rope and keep the damn candle lit. The 20 year olds are all getting giddier and louder and giddier and I am certain that something is gonna go horribly, horribly wrong. I'm in this stupid cave because it's what my 20 something

self would have done. My marriage unraveled so quickly I didn't see it coming. It's like I stepped on a piece of black ice, and I was on my ass before I knew what happened. When I was single and in my 20s, I loved traveling alone. I love that feeling that the world was holding me in benevolent hands and it just revealed itself to me one step at a time. So when I decided to take this solo trip, I planned it like I had in my 20s. Central America on the cheap, not many plans ahead of time. When I decided to see the turquoise pools of Semuc Champe,

I opted for the cheap option, which was the caving adventure inclusion. I don't even like caves. As we're going along, the 20-somethings love it, clearly. They love it when we have to wedge ourselves through a narrow little keyhole. They love it when we go up not one, but two ladders under waterfalls. While water is exploding in our faces, they're all, woo-hoo! I'm looking around for safety helmets. The cave opens to a really large cavern with a high platform.

They all start scampering around like little goats yelling and carrying on. It's great America in there. They're jumping off the platform into a deep pool. It's Cannonball City and I'm sitting huddled, cold, tired, and pretty certain someone is gonna die. After about two hours or it could have been two years, I don't know, we are finally almost out of the cave. I could literally see the light at the end of the tunnel.

And my foot slips on a rock. I try to catch my balance. I reach for the cave wall, and I miss. And I fall, and I slam my back hard against a rock. It hurts so bad for a minute I thought I broke my back. I sit in the cold water. I kind of hide my face because I don't want anyone else to see my tears.

I am so ashamed. I am the old lady who fell. I get up slowly. I can walk but barely. I slowly make my way to the locker room, my back seizing up at every step. When I get to the locker room, I know there's no way I can change out of my wet clothes into dry ones without help. Thankfully, the person I ask is an Australian nurse, and she assures me that I haven't done any permanent damage and that it's going to hurt like hell for a few days. And it did. But on my twenty-something bucket list was the ruins at Teak Hall. So I am the next day on a small van shuttle and the jump seat that you know does this the whole time.

Feeling every bump, jostle and ditch and my my back just tightens up. It just sends shock waves of pain through my whole body all the way up to Flores. When we finally get to Flores, I get out, my whole, my body just locked in a tight grimace. That night, I'm sitting in, on my hotel terrace, and I finally admit that my 20-something travel days are over. I am a grown ass woman. I have a real job. Maybe I can afford a hotel with hot water. And

then I realize it's it's not my age I'm struggling with. It's my fragility. It's one thing to trust the world when you believe you can't get hurt. It's my fragility. It's one thing to trust the world when you believe you can't get hurt. It's something totally different when you know you can. I don't let my 20-something travel self make my travel plans anymore. But I do let her in on decisions I make. I may be single and fragile, but it's still sometimes worth risking crashing again. Because you can only not get hurt if you don't go anywhere or do anything or love anyone. I'm learning to be fragile and brave at the same time. That was Melissa Early. Melissa is a United Methodist pastor.

In 2023, she moved from the Chicago area to Leadville, Colorado to make space in her life for writing, hiking, and creativity. She's the pastor of St. George Episcopal Mission and co-founder of Sage Mountain Institute for Writing and Spirituality. That's it for this episode. From all of us here at The Moth, listening to our podcast is a habit we hope you never quit. Michelle Jalowski is a producer and director at The Moth, where she helps people craft and shape their stories for stages all over the world. This episode of The Moth podcast was produced by Sarah

Austen-Giness, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Salinger. The rest of The Moth leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluchet, Suzanne Rust, Leanne Gulley, and Patricia Ureña. The Moth would like to thank its supporters and listeners. Stories like these are made possible by community giving. If you're not already a member, please consider becoming one or making a one-time donation today at themoth.org slash give back. When you give to The Moth, you help us bring storytelling to students and community groups across the country. Thanks for your support.

All Moth stories are true as remembered by their storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org. The Moth podcast is presented by Purex, the public radio exchange,

helping make public radio more public at purex.org.