I didn’t really begin smoking until my early 20s, when I developed what could appropriately be designated my first adult friendship with a group of women I worked with. I loved the ceremonial quality of it — that we’d come together and smoke a joint and cook or craft or simply philosophize on the meaning of life. We laughed a lot, too, of course, and that ceremonial bond played a big part in cementing our relationship.

I enjoyed the effects of smoking, and so I began to do it more frequently — when I watched a movie or cleaned the house or would sit down to read. It wasn’t that weed was making me unproductive — perhaps even the opposite because it made everything feel more present, more engaged, more mindful. The more I smoked, however, the more disconnected I became from the sense of ritual that had been so meaningful for me originally.

Around the same time, I began to experience severe anxiety. I’d been prone to anxiety my whole life, going as far back as childhood when I first began having obsessive compulsive behaviors, so I don’t necessarily think cannabis was the catalyst for the anxiety. And it wasn’t like the anxiety was directly related to smoking — yes, cannabis exaggerated my symptoms and intensified my fears, but the anxiety was present regardless whether I smoked or not.

Much of my anxiety, I realize now, was rooted in the fear of losing control. Because the altered state produced by cannabis perpetuated this sense, I was no longer able to trust it. I couldn’t risk the potential of not feeling in control.

It took me a long time — many years, in fact — to work through my anxiety. There were many things that contributed to my healing journey, but perhaps the biggest of all was cultivating a relationship with plants through my study of herbalism.

Working with plants is what helped to align me, in a way. I became better aware of my own sense of wellness, and how it manifests physically in my body. I started paying attention to the imbalances and how I could work to remedy them. And I began spending as much time in nature as possible, observing and listening and simply just being. I’m no expert at any of it, and still struggle every day with making the “right” choices, but I try to remain aware and call on the wisdom and tools I’ve cultivated to be able to take care of myself.

I’m grateful now not to experience the kind of severe anxiety I struggled with those many years before, but I also know my own tendencies — that I’m prone to pushing myself to the brink, to easily becoming depleted and rapidly suffering the misery of my exhaustion.

Which is why, about a year and a half ago, I decided it was time to re-explore my relationship with cannabis again.

I visited my local dispensary and, after explaining my desire not to “get high”, per se, but to take advantage of the relaxing, sedating effects of the plant, I opted for an edible option with a high CBD-to-THC ratio.

A few nights later I ate a very minuscule portion of the gummy I’d bought and experienced a deep and lovely relaxation compelling enough to convince me to repeat the ritual the following night. Except, that following night, in spite of consuming precisely the exact same amount, I was overcome by an agitated, restless energy that had me standing under a scalding shower, desperately wishing to wash away the discomfort.

That feeling of discomfort put me right off cannabis once more, until very recently — the past six months or so — when I tentatively began experimenting again with smoking.

Canada’s legalization of cannabis has, of course, made this process that much easier, mind you. There seems to be a breadth of information and resources available now examining the different varieties of cannabis, and which strains are better suited for certain people and purposes. Which is how I discovered that strains high in CBD and very, very low in THC generate for me the deep sense of calm I desire, while being just stimulating enough to allow me to still be productive.

Most importantly, I’m much more discerning now about when I choose to smoke. I’ve learned to intuit when the right time to smoke for me is. I do it a lot when I write, for example. It’s one of the ways cannabis has always worked for me, freeing up the shackles of my overly analytical mind, allowing me to release the self-criticism that can otherwise paralyze me from taking the leap in the first place.

I incorporate cannabis into my self-care routine and will often smoke when I have a bath, taking the time to write in my journal and surrender to the therapeutic combination of water and heat.

I sometimes smoke when I spend time in nature. It heightens my senses and attunes me to things I might otherwise miss. It plants me in the present and lets me take in my surroundings more slowly, more wholly.

And I typically smoke with my close group of friends, the same ones who initiated me to it many, many years ago. Cannabis has, in fact, become a staple part of our dynamic — the ceremony, the synergy, the connection of it.

Through this practice of intention and awareness, much of the ritual aspect that originally attracted me to cannabis has been restored.