The Moth Podcast: Resolutions

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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 mop story slam in Portland.

Here's Ian, live with the map.

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 with myself, so, 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 whiteboard.

It was my quit board,

and it was huge, and I only had like 60 little tallies 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 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.

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 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, 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 Bittersweet, a collection of short stories, and lives in 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 Story Slam 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 in 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 going to 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 Samouk Champei,

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 going to 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 gonna hurt like hell for a few days.

And it did.

But on my 20-something bucket list was the ruins at T Call.

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 back just

tightens up.

It just sends shockwaves of pain through my whole body all the way up to Flores.

When we finally get to Flores, I get out, my body just locked in a tight grimace.

That night, I'm sitting 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 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 Austin-Janesse, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Solinger.

The rest of the Moth leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Clouce, 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 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 PRX, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at PRX.org.

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