I was introduced to nicotine pouches (or snus, as it’s commonly known) at a dinner once, and then again at a party. I can’t remember the dose level of the first one, but it was enough that, when it kicked in, everyone around the table was laughing.
A waviness, a rush, a feeling of clumsiness and disorientation—I felt high. The experience exceeded my expectations. For such a small dose, it packed quite a kick. Granted, nicotine hit me harder than the average person since I had never been a smoker or taken nicotine in any other form.
The second time I tried it was at a party. This time, it was a brand called Pablo, Killa. I mean, if the name wasn’t enough of a warning… This stuff hit me sideways. Huge disorientation, struggling to stand, barely able to walk a few yards. In a party atmosphere where everyone was letting loose, it served its purpose—adding a bit of novelty.
But then this happened…
The Experiment
I started experimenting with the rush it gave me during sex. In the heat of the moment, I’d slip a pouch in while getting down and dirty. The combination of nicotine and the natural high from arousal created an intense, almost euphoric experience.
And as the nights went on, I found myself using more and more.
I read somewhere that one of these pouches equaled taking a hit from 20 cigarettes. I was using three high-dose ones a night. It was fun until I started noticing my urge to take them more frequently.
To rationalize it, I started buying the lower-dose ones. I excused myself after reading about nicotine’s effects on the brain. Neuroscientist Andrew Huberman spoke on his podcast about how, at a low dose, nicotine can actually be used as a stimulant to improve focus.
That was all the plausible deniability I needed. I was always looking for ways to enhance focus for work, so I convinced myself that this was a productivity tool.
And, to be fair, it worked. There were definitely tasks on my desk that I powered through more efficiently. When you think about the tobacco field workers chewing on leaves to get through long days, it makes sense.
But what we don’t talk about enough are the negatives…
The Downward Spiral
I had become a chain-smoke pouched user.
“Nicotine is a highly addictive substance” — no shit. Wow.
One pouch finished, another one went in.
Sometimes, I’d wake up and take one before even having breakfast. Then came the physical effects—lowered immunity, rashes, constantly scratching my skin. It started replacing the natural dopamine hits I used to get from exercise, good food, and daily wins.
Worst of all, it pushed me further away from my partner. She even said, this stuff is getting between us.
I wasn’t the same affectionate guy she was used to. My attention was elsewhere. I was addicted.
The Wake-Up Call
One night, I was sitting in front of the TV, scratching my legs again. My girlfriend turned to me and said, I think you should stop these.
She echoed what I had already been telling myself internally.
And that was it. I had to get myself back.
Evenings were the hardest—I was easily irritated, and I knew I was experiencing withdrawal. But each day, it got better. My diet was back on track. My motivation to go to the gym returned.
When I felt weak, I told myself, don’t be a pussy—exercise discipline.
Nicotine is more accessible than ever. Cigarettes, vapes, pouches—there’s a version for everyone, including those who would never normally touch nicotine. That’s the trap.
Don’t fall into it. Don’t push people away.
For those who have been using for years, maybe take a moment to think about how much more you can give to the people who matter once you let go of nicotine.
On a broader level, maybe the devil knocks on your door in different ways—alcohol, porn, drugs, an ex who shouldn’t be back in your life.
Anyway.
Today, I walked past the shopkeeper who used to sell me my pouches. He smiled, we exchanged a head nod, and I kept walking—gripping my sporty water bottle as I strode back from the gym.
I realized I had traded my relationship with the shopkeeper for a relationship with the gym.
The Relapse
I’m in a bad way.
I’m chronically ‘dipping’ again. My girlfriend seems more tolerant this time, and I recognize that I’m doing it constantly.
The excuse? Stress. I’m stretched thin with both of my businesses, and I tell myself snus is helping to alleviate the pressure.
Come Christmas, I’m back with my family, hiding my habit—sneaking pouches when I go upstairs, discreetly disposing of them on tea trips to the kitchen. I feel ashamed. I sit in my childhood bedroom, thinking about what my body felt like before nicotine.
It didn’t feel like this. It wasn’t an improvement.
I decided: once this tin was finished, that was it. Cold turkey.
The timing was ideal. My girlfriend was visiting her family in China until mid-January. I imagined taking a two-week countryside retreat to ride out the worst of it.
New Year’s Eve came. I stayed in, isolating myself. I wasn’t fit to be around anyone.
The Withdrawal
Withdrawal is an interesting experience. You can actually feel your brain recalibrating.
Emotional instability. Mild psychosis. Vivid nightmares. Insomnia.
Geez—I was lying awake until 5 AM, my body twisting to find the perfect ratio of cold pillow and duvet.
It was rough.
But this time, I had anchored so much emotion into quitting that I knew it was over.
The sweating was unreal. My body smelled toxic, like it was literally trying to purge chemicals. My skin, my appetite, my routine—it had all gone out of whack.
The worst of it was the first week. Then, I started waking up without a headache—the same headaches that came from going nicotine-free for 7–8 hours overnight.
Each day, I got better. I kept my mind busy—cleaning, organizing, sorting through clutter. Every small win made me happier.
My gym routine returned. My diet fell back into place. My sleep improved. I felt human again.
The Final Takeaway
I still get triggers—watching Mad Men when they’re chain-smoking, or when I need deep focus for work.
But I recognize these moments for what they are.
I don’t like the label ‘addict.’ It feels like an excuse to keep failing. I understand why people relapse—they want to feel normal again.
But there’s a better normal. The version of you before you started. The version you deserve to be again.