The Slow Burn: Finding Myself in a Cloud of Smoke

I spent most of my twenties being everything to everyone. Chameleon. Sales machine. Perpetual traveler. I had a killer job that paid me to crisscross North America and Europe nearly 45 weeks out of the year. On paper, it looked like success. The kind you’re supposed to chase. The kind that convinces you to ignore that little voice in your head that whispers:

“Who the hell am I, really?”

When you live on the road that long, you start to lose track of yourself. Airports, conference rooms, hotel bars…it all blurs together. You learn how to smile on cue, close deals over steak dinners, and pretend you’re exactly the person your client expects you to be. It’s exhausting. It’s easy to forget the parts that make you, you.

My introduction to smoking was less than glamorous. My grandma was the original chain smoker. She’d burn through a pack and a half with an oxygen mask strapped to her face. The woman was tougher than a coffin nail, but the sound of her wheezing still echoes in my memory. Then there was my uncle, whose mantra was basically “wake and bake.” He had a pretty functional relationship with the green stuff, but he smoked everything like it was going out of style. Between them, smoking was something I swore I’d never touch.

Well, until I did.

There was a brief, regrettable stint with clove cigarettes. Djarm Blacks. They were a staple of whatever scene I thought I belonged to at the time. I guess we all have our “trying to look cool” phase. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: If everyone thinks it’s cool, it probably isn’t.

Then, somewhere between time zones and client dinners, someone handed me a Cohiba Siglo. It was smooth and elegant. Nothing like the stale haze I’d grown up around. Like most things I get into, I went all in. Within a few months, I’d become insufferable, a self-declared Cuban purist. If it wasn’t rolled on an island, I didn’t want it. I oozed pretension. I’d talk about terroir and vintage with a straight face, like I actually knew what I was saying.

Eventually, I grew out of that phase and started exploring heritage brands. The ones with real stories and real craftsmen behind them. But it wasn’t until I walked into a local lounge that didn’t carry a single brand I recognized that everything shifted.

I was ten years into smoking cigars and thought I’d seen it all. But standing in that humidor, I realized I hadn’t scratched the surface. It felt like stepping onto a magic carpet, corny, but true. A whole new world opened up. It was magical. Like Aladin chasing Jasmine, I was in the clouds.

That moment stuck with me because it was the first time in a long time I was curious instead of performative. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I wasn’t trying to be anyone. I was just a guy, holding an unfamiliar cigar, excited to discover something new.

Somewhere in that cloud of smoke, I started to find myself again.

Brolo Cigars was born out of that feeling, the desire to strip away the labels, the posturing, and the ego. To slow down, be present, and just enjoy the ritual for what it is.

If you’ve ever lost yourself along the way, maybe you’ll understand why that matters to me.

Here’s to the slow burn, and to finally being comfortable in your own skin.