Escaping the Cannabis Closet

A personal write-in from Canna-Mom & Writer, Lisa Marie. A happily-ever-after story about a topic so many parents are worried to tackle. As cannabis consumption becomes more normalized, so will the conversations with our own family and children. Unfortunately, due to years of stigma, many of us believe we must stay in the Canna-Closet to preserve positive relationships. We hope this story can bring you confidence this holiday season.

The moment I heard the junk drawer scissors crashing onto my countertop, I knew I was cooked.

A few years ago, when the recreational cannabis market didn’t exist, (and I didn’t have my medical card yet), I had to get a little creative about procuring cannabis products.

I had been ordering gummies from a few online shops for months and never had an issue. They always arrived in plain brown boxes (no neon pot leaf stickers or bold 420 branding) and never sparked any curiosity from anyone, especially my 16-year-old son. The process was simple—I would place an order from my phone, grab it from my front porch a few days later, and medicate on nights and weekends while my son was none the wiser. Totally foolproof, right?

Photography, Direction & Publishing by Leona Kusa

Story by Lisa Marie

That day, my son made his way home from school early, so there was no way he wouldn’t have seen the large box blocking his way through our front door. Any other time, he would have opened the door, dropkicked the box into our house, and stepped over it to get upstairs to his Xbox. But on that day, he broke with tradition. Neither of us knew he was about to change the nature of our mother-and-son relationship so radically.

I forgot that my son had ordered some clothes online. He fully expected that box to be his. Eager to assess his new drip (and post a few bathroom selfies to flex), he didn’t waste a second before tearing into the package. I walked in the door mid-tear, as he was prying the box flaps apart.

I hung my work bag in the mudroom and walked quickly toward the kitchen. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my temples as the sickness in my stomach started to build. Maybe I could play it cool. There was a snowball’s chance he would realize the box wasn’t his and thereby crush the need for further discussion, and my secret would remain safely under wraps. That’s when his question snapped me back to reality.

“Mom, why the hell did you order a Styrofoam cooler?”

Full disclosure– I am the world’s worst liar, and my poker face is nonexistent. So the instant my son and I locked eyes, I knew I had to come up with a lie fast. I needed a bulletproof excuse that my suspicious and skeptical teenager would buy without question.

I could have said it was an early Christmas gift. I mean, doesn’t everyone shop 8 months in advance? Not for something that would be shipped in a cooler. Or, I could have doubled down on the ick factor and said the box was filled with sex toys and lube. That lie would surely have saved my ass and stopped the questioning immediately; But the risk of decimating my kid’s image of his mom wasn't worth the reward of kicking the can(nabis) down the road for a few more weeks or months.

Something in my heart told me to resist the urge to take the cowardly way out. I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants, took a deep breath, and came correct with the truth.

I got real. I explained how the recent death of my mom, (otherwise known to my son as Grammy) had made an incredible impact on my mental health.

As we stood by the counter with the mystery box between us, I opened up about the sleepless nights, the daily crying alone in the car on my way to work, and how the weight of missing her so much was messing with my ability to get back to normal.

I had been doing my best to be “strong” to help my son process the grief and move on. I thought that dumping my personal problems onto his already full plate was something to avoid at all costs.

Even though it was difficult, and I felt like the biggest hypocrite on the planet, I fessed up about not being ready to seek professional help for my issues (despite having asked my son to participate in therapy earlier that year). I did what I could in that space of time to help my son understand that cannabis is medicine and not a gateway to heroin or fatal drugs.

When I finally stopped nervous rambling after what felt like hours, I held onto the countertop and literally braced for impact. I was sure my son would either freak out because his mom was a druggie (thanks a lot, D.A.R.E program) or start asking if he could partake now that the cannabis cat was out of the bag. Turns out, I was half right.

Despite his age and partially developed prefrontal cortex, my son responded with a gentle kindness and understanding that I didn’t expect. He shared that he had noticed the effects Grammy’s passing had on me and that it was OK for me to feel sad. He said I “deserved” to relax and be happy after all I had been through. Can you imagine that?

Hugging my boy was the lightest and most free I had felt in months, even if it signaled the reinvention of our mother and son bond as we knew it.

*Insert screeching halt noise*

Keeping with the spirit of teenagers, my kid slammed the brakes on our beautiful Hallmark movie moment by asking when I would start sharing my stash with him. Luckily, it was just his youthful attempt to bring levity and put some air back in the room. He realized that my revelation was not an invitation, but a bridge leading to a new season of our lives. In a way, it felt like the time we had to acknowledge that Santa Claus wasn’t real. You can’t un-ring either of those bells. Moving forward, we both knew our interactions would have to be more open, honest, and authentic.

Coming clean about my cannabis consumption wasn’t easy, pretty, or anything anyone ever warned me about before I became a mom. Sneaking an edible or a quick bong rip was so easy to conceal while my son was younger, so I selfishly chose not to fix what I perceived to be unbroken. But the day my kid kicked the cannabis closet door off the hinges and forced me out, he opened a line of communication between us that we would come to rely on often in the years that followed. I credit that transparency with helping us navigate the new territory and challenges that came with campus life a few years after the big reveal.

Looking back, I wish it hadn’t taken me 16 years to admit to my son that moms have flaws. We have bad, sad, and even mad days. We shouldn’t be forced to put on a brave face or hide when we deal with our grief, disappointments, or relentless insomnia. We earned the right to sit at the table alongside the “Wine Moms” without fear of judgment or sideways looks. It’s past time to normalize self-care for moms, and it starts with being honest with our kids and ourselves.

This was a real personal experience sent in by Writer, Lisa Marie. This did not use AI.

If you would like to submit your own opinion piece, email leona@kusacollective.com.