Not long ago, I moved back in with my parents. Gone were the days of loudly inappropriate conversations with friends, questionable houseguests, and drunk-eating leftovers at 4 a.m. Now I had to pass by my 12-year-old sister's bedroom to get to the bathroom. Smoking weed had to become a clandestine activity once again.

Despite the many years away at college, I felt like I had cycled back to being 17 again—the age when I'd clumsily roll joints near open windows or in the bathroom during a shower, smear fragrant lotion on my hands, carry eye drops, smoke with my jacket off outside shows, or light up only when I knew everyone in my house would be gone for more than four hours. I deeply believed that this code that I devised myself, this set of religiously followed rules, would obscure this very stinky, very obvious proclivity of mine.

That's some teenager shit.

I respected my family too much to treat them as if they were idiots. Moving back home, I was initially resistant to the idea of having to curb anything about what I wanted to do (I was an adult!). But it was their house, and anyway I have asthma, so I decided to give up weed altogether. I wanted to prove that I could do it. A change of pace. A precautionary measure to prevent one of my younger sisters from finding me in our backyard, bussing down a fat joint and then inevitably trying to convince her that, no, I was not smoking, and, yes, if she could please keep quiet about it, I'd really appreciate it.

After a few steady months, I became undone after binge-watching Broad City. As one does. Seeking a more discreet and immediate alternative to smoking cannabis (and after I clarified that it is not the same thing as dabbing), I turned to vaping. And goddamn. Vaping makes me feel expensive. Grown, even. Like a woman who owns a different, less frilly set of underwear to put on when she's on her period. No more filling my lungs with smoke—just a cloud of strawberry- or blueberry-smelling vapor that, when exhaled, wafts above me, fading into the ether.

The high is not as strong, which gives me more control. The smell doesn't linger. I don't find myself shoving nubby, stinky, half-smoked joints into my purse. No more fumbling for a lighter or stepping outside into the cold again. Vaping is all about convenience, elegance, and cunning.

I vape under my covers, in bar bathrooms, at the bus station, on the way to the movie theater, in the movie theater, in front of my bedroom mirror as I'm twisting my hair. A few weeks ago, Stranger colleague Lester Black pressed the cutest vape into my palm. Shaped like a digital-camera battery, this square little vape (called a CCELL Palm) is discreet enough that when I accidentally left it in the car I share with my father, it slid between seat cushions unnoticed.

I do miss the ritual of smoking up. The careful grinding, packing, and lighting of the weed. The smell that clings to your fingertips—one of the dankest scents to have on your hands, like freshly cut garlic or oranges. Weed can feel ritualistic, meditative, something you do just for you. It feels like a prayer. But as with all forms of prayer, it sometimes must change to fit the times you're in.

For me, vaping is how I now channel the divine, discreet spirits I need to sustain and nourish me—especially in this weather.