Anthony Jarrett

When I woke up the morning after my 50th birthday, I lit a candle instead of a joint. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture—just quiet determination. I’d promised myself long ago that when I turned 50, I would stop smoking weed. Not because I hated it. Quite the opposite. It had been my constant companion since I was 15. In my neighborhood in Portmore, Jamaica, smoking wasn’t a rebellion—it was tradition. At family gatherings, joints were passed like snacks. No one questioned it. It soothed me, gave me rhythm, helped me coast.

But as the years rolled on, coasting started to feel more like dragging. I worked in a café where half the staff smoked. Customers too. It was part of the vibe. I fit in, but inside, I was growing weary. In my late 30s, I noticed the fatigue. Not just physical—my thoughts felt slower, heavier. I’d tell myself I was just tired from work, or that everyone felt that way. I didn’t want to admit it might be the weed.

Then, around 46, I caught a bad flu. Against all logic, I smoked through it. One afternoon, after a joint, I felt my heart pounding in my ears and my vision narrowing. I collapsed on my bed thinking: Is this it? It wasn’t. But it scared me enough to start questioning things.

Still, quitting wasn’t instant. Old habits don’t break on fear alone. But I held onto that promise to myself—age 50 would be the line. And I kept it.

Now I’m 54. I don’t wake up foggy anymore. I started going to a small gym near my apartment, lifting weights, nothing fancy. I feel stronger—in body and in will. My friends joke that I’ve become a monk. Maybe I have. But I’ve found something I didn’t know I was missing: clarity.

I don’t regret the years I spent smoking. It was a part of my journey. But I’m grateful I stepped out of that haze. Life, as it turns out, is sharper in focus.