Page 11 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

My favorite essaysand book chapters that I’ve written fall into two distinct categories: they either flow hot and heavy like an erupting creative volcanoorrequire the patience and extraction techniques of an archaeological dig. Some stories come easy, but others want you to work for every single word that hits the page. Both are rewarding.

“Can We Stop Competing in the Grief Olympics?” falls into the category of fast-moving lava. An eighteen-hundred-word draft is done and dusted in a little over an hour. My own editing takes just another hour on top of that.

As usual, I spend the most time agonizing over my targeted pull quotes. If my career in marketing taught me anything, it’s theimportance of a killer hook. Plus, sometimes consumers need to be guided to the best choice for sharing. I try to put one or two obvious “quotable” lines in every essay. These are the quotes that my social media intern (yes, I have one of those) will drop into graphics and share across social platforms.

These are the lines Iexpectpeople will latch onto the most. Pull quotes are what help essays go viral, which means more readers, which brings more social followers, which results in more book presales. The marketer in me knows that pull quotes are the kindling that lights the Web-traffic and book-sale fire. They matter. Today’s pull quote has my classic marriage of contemplative and humorous tones.

Grief isn’t a competition. If it were, it would look something like a bunch of us trying to win the heptathlon without ever training. We lack the skills for every piece of the competition and only manage to get to the finish line by observing and learning from the ways we all crash and burn. That’s no competition I want to be part of.

I text Danny, my beloved editor atThe New York Times.New essay incoming. I think this is a good one…I hope you enjoy it.

With a few steps still remaining in my complex nighttime skin-care routine, I hear my phone buzz from the bedside table.

This is a classic Gracie essay. Thank you. Edited version in your inbox by tomorrow evening.

Chapter 6

A few days later, traditiondictates that the kids and I pile into Ava’s room to kick off their sibling sleepover. This started Ava’s first year of camp, when then five-year-old Benji was distraught over the thought of her leaving for so long. That first year of camp was only a week long, but in his sweet little mind it must have felt like forever. A few years later, neither of them got a good night’s sleep because Benji was so excited forhisfirst camp experience that our usually quiet kid couldn’t keep his mouth shut. I remember Ben and I leaving the room around 10 p.m. in a fit of giggles while Ava playfully pleaded with Benji toplease stop talking. Last summer? They didn’t go to camp and we missed more than just this tradition. It felt like we were missing the world.

For an hour, I lie on the floor talking with them about their hopes for camp while they drift off to sleep. I doze off for a few minutes but then wake up and walk quietly to my room for one more good night of sleep in a familiar place before I spend the summer getting to know a new one all alone. There is a strange sense of nostalgia for this home I haven’t left yet. Ben is everywhere here—notjust in the photos on the wall, but in every decor choice (he loved buying ridiculous carved-wood animals everywhere we went) and furniture arrangement. We built this house together. It feels inconceivable to say goodbye to it, even for just one summer.

A predictable but still miserable wave of sadness hits me as I lie down in the bed, fully clothed, to wonder if this life I’m living will ever get a little easier. Unfortunately, easy is not on the agenda tonight.

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The fetal positiongets a bad rap. Too many people view it as emblematic of a complete collapse. The reality is more nuanced.

For me, it’s the ultimate act of self-preservation that acknowledges all shades of the devastation color wheel while simultaneously easing my body out from the stresses of the world. The curved spine, the tucked head. It’s a brilliant act of release against the rigidity of the worst seasons of life.

One side of my body gets warm against the crisp linen duvet while the other feels the fresh breeze from the fan above. I am stifled and free all at once. It’s the best position for that sticky mix of exhaustion, overwhelm, and loneliness that I feel this evening.

Of course, the fetal position is how Ava finds me an hour after I leave her room.

“I couldn’t stay asleep—I’m too excited to leave tomorrow,” she says, cracking the door slightly to witness tonight’s mental malaise. She raises her eyebrows when she sees me. “Is everything okay?”

I’ve mostly hidden my worst moments of grief from the kids,but it’s a delicate balance. I want them to know it’s healthy, normal, and admirable to experience grief. If you tuck away grief too much, it makes it harder to deal with when it jumps out at you when you least expect it. Being open and honest about our grief is something that we’ve handled pretty well as a downsized family of three.

Tonight’s situation is an entirely different beast. It’s a full-body-and-mind grief-induced exhaustion that borders on paralysis. Despite my best efforts, a few times over the last year Ava has found me in a variation of this scene: curled up in my trusty fetal position, fully clothed, lying on the unmade bed, trying to muster the will to get up, do the nightly skin-care routine, and crawl back into bed with a whisper of hope that tomorrow will be better.

Early on it was fairly common for me to be fetal and sobbing. Lately, however, I can’t seem to cry. Maybe it’s the sensory overload of my life or maybe I’ve just cried so much since Ben died that there are no tears left in my body. Tonight, I’m mostly numb.

“Have you sent a note to the group chat?” Ava asks, crawling into the bed to face me, tucking a lock of hair gently behind my ear.

“Do I look that pathetic?” I ask back.

“You look like you need Aunt Jenny,” Ava says, examining me with the curious and judgmental eyes that only preteens can fully master. “Maybe even Keke.”

I smile through the stress. The group text has ten amazing women from all stages of my life. The local girls are the ones who jump in when I need a night out or a meal delivered. Friends who live states away are often the ones who take long or late-night phone calls. Different time zones are an unexpected gift after years of bemoaning long-distance friendship.

Jenny is my oldest and closest friend. I’ve known her since wewere ten years old in Charlotte. Although she’s not my actual sister, she’s Ava’s godmother and practically family. Keke is a clinical professor of psychology. The fact that these are the two people Ava thinks I need tonight—well, it suggests things look even worse than they feel.

More times than I care to admit over the last year I’ve sent a note to the group text akin to a bat signal.I need to talk. Today was the worst. I can’t believe I have to live without Ben forever. If I have to decide what to make for dinner one more night, I’m going to lose it. Will I ever have free time again?To be fair, those last two sentiments were shared in the pre-widow days, too.

Every time, without fail, a video chat request comes through from one or more of the girls within minutes. Some of my friends are more lighthearted, like Jenny, and others are more serious, like Keke. The universe always seems to find exactly the right friend for me to talk to in the moment.

“Where’s your phone?” Ava asks.

I gesture to the nightstand, and she rolls over to Ben’s side of the bed to grab it.

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