By the time I picked up a slim volume of "The Discourses of Epictetus," I had been smoking for a couple of years. Not socially. Not occasionally. I smoked in the way that defines identity — the kind of smoker who doesn’t ask if a break is coming but when. The pack-a-day kind. The stress, the habit, the illusion of control. Then, Epictetus, a crippled Greek slave-turned-philosopher, challenged everything I thought I was in control of.

It’s been 1.5 years since my last cigarette. I owe that decision — and the strength to stay with it — to Stoicism.

Epictetus opened with a simple idea: “Some things are up to us, and some things are not.” It sounds obvious. But when you start applying that filter to your own life, it’s staggering. What was smoking, if not a daily surrender to something outside myself — a chemical, a craving, a false comfort? I had always told myself I chose to smoke. Epictetus showed me I was only choosing to rationalize my enslavement.

He often said, “It is not events themselves that disturb us, but our judgments about them.” I had judged stress as something intolerable, something needing relief. I had judged cigarettes as a salve. But the stress was not mine to control — only my response was. And each time I lit up, I was choosing the wrong response.

Quitting smoking wasn’t the result of willpower. It was the result of clarity. Stoicism doesn’t demand you become superhuman — it simply demands that you recognize what being human actually is. The Stoics believed virtue lay in aligning your actions with reason, with nature, with what’s within your power. Smoking wasn’t reasonable. It wasn’t aligned with nature. It wasn’t within my power — not while I was still convincing myself it brought me peace.

So I began practicing what Epictetus prescribed: watching my thoughts, questioning my impulses, rehearsing adversity. I told myself, You will want a cigarette today. And you will not have one. That is the test. And then I watched the craving rise and pass — like Epictetus said it would. “If you want to be free,” he wrote, “then wish nothing to be as it is not.”

I began to see that real freedom wasn’t doing what I wanted in the moment. It was choosing what was best for me despite the moment.

Stoicism didn’t just help me quit smoking. It changed the architecture of my day-to-day thinking. I journal now — not emotionally, but reflectively, asking questions like: What did I do today that was within my control? What did I do that was not? What bothered me? Why? This isn't therapy. It's training.

I fail, still. I procrastinate. I say the wrong things. I still feel anxious, or angry, or sad. But the difference now is that I no longer see those feelings as signs that something’s wrong. I see them as practice — as invitations to respond instead of react.

I used to think of Stoicism as cold, rigid, unemotional. But what I found in Epictetus was not austerity — it was empowerment. His words were a mirror: sometimes harsh, but always honest. He asked, What kind of person do you want to be? And he made it clear: your actions are the only true answer.

I quit smoking because I no longer wanted to be the kind of person who surrendered to desire. I wanted to be someone who chose — with clarity, not compulsion. That’s what Stoicism gave me.

A year and a half later, I’m still choosing that path. Every day. Every craving. Every challenge. Not because it’s easy — but because, like Epictetus taught me, it’s mine to choose.