Page 83 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

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I sneak downstairsbright and early the next morning before the kids are awake. Nothing feels better for a kid than the first night in a cozy bed after two months in a cabin. My best guess is that I have at least two hours before I hear their little feet tapping down the stairs.

With the coffee brewing nearby, I grab my laptop and set it on the counter. For the second time in two days, I find myself sitting down to write something hard but necessary. My contract withThe New York Timesis up for renewal, and I’ve decided to call it quits. I spoke with my column editor, Danny, a few days ago to tell him. In the year to come, I need to focus on my family’s new life and bringing my baby—my book—into the world. Oh, and the newsletter. I now know that Lucia was right about that. I want to write about lots of things, not just grief.

I would love to do it all, but I can’t. I need to focus on a select set of priorities. Ironically, officially quitting my job at the state tourism magazine will be the easy part; the sabbatical helped with that.Leaving the readers of myNew York Timescolumn behind is much harder. So, I grab a cup of coffee and settle in to write my last first draft for Danny.

How do you know when it’s time to move on? Maybe not on, but to move forward and to do so with purpose and intent. To move forward with new relationships or jobs. To new adventures or places. How do we close one chapter and give ourselves permission to try something new? I don’t have all of the answers, but I’ve learned a thing or two in the last year.

That’s why I know it’s time to say goodbye. A part of me wanted to hold on to this column, to keep it as a remnant of a life that I used to live. Over the last few weeks, however, I’ve discovered there is a real beauty in letting things go free.

Fifteen months ago, I wrote an essay for this newspaper that completely altered the trajectory of my life. It has been an extraordinary privilege to write for you and to share some of our hardest experiences with one another. I’m deeply grateful for each and every one of you who has read, commented on, and shared my essays.

Every other week, you joined me on this miraculous and demanding journey of grief. You met me some weeks when things seemed clear and my advice was firm. You met me other weeks when what I had to offer was hazy at best. Without fail, after every single essay, someone would reach out and say something so magnificently perfect that I knew that whatever it took to write that particular essay had been worth it. You made even the toughest moments worth it.

I’m deeply grateful for the readers who approached me in coffee shops and grocery stores, on planes and in doctors’ offices. You would often share your own stories of grief and then apologize for drowning me in your sorrow. But the truth is that your stories did exactly the opposite—they kept me afloat. Because you made me realize that I was never, ever alone.

The essays that you read each week were almost always inspired by conversations with friends and other wonderful people who crossed my path over this last year. So, allow me to express a bit more gratitude.

I’m thankful for television personalities who asked tough questions and the votes of confidence from the pros who prepared me for them. I’m thankful for a small-town community that brought me out of my shell with stories and laughs.

There will certainly never be praise enough for my oldest friends who carried the weight of my loss alongside me and the new friends who gave me a chance to be myself without any baggage at all. My gratitude knows no bounds for the people who told me to dream bigger and those who insisted on loving me even when it was very, very hard.

Yes, I’m even appreciative of those among you who had very unconventional ways of telling me you disagreed with the things that I shared. Looking back, I realize you toughened me up and strengthened my resolve.

When I started writing this column, I naively thought that I’d be the one sharing all the wisdom and helping to expand your horizons around grief, but it turns out it’s beenyouall along buildingmeback up.

Every time one of you told me that you read my work and valued my words, you helped to construct a new version of me, brick by brick, allowing for a firmer foundation on which I could expand. I now need to focus on spending time with those closest to me to finish out the rest of the work.

For a long time, I tried to hide from the messiness. The hard truths. The things that made me uncomfortable. Of course, avoiding things just because they are hard often makes situations much more difficult. In reality, we don’t always get to choose the things that break us down or build us back up again. Often, what’s best for us is going down the hardest road. The darkest road. Because on the other side, things seem so much brighter.

I have some plans for this next phase of life, but much of it is still unknown, and that feels unbelievably, surprisingly freeing. And fortunate. What a gift it is to have the opportunity to rebuild myself, to emerge from the depths of sorrow as a new version of who I’m meant to be. Not better, but different. I’m forever altered not just by my loss, but by each of you.

I write to you today as an unfinished Gracie Harris. And you know what? I’m in love with this rough, still-under-construction version of who I am, and I’m not rushing to figure the rest out. It will come with time. I hope that you will continue to find me in new places—not just in bookstores next spring, but on the many different paths that I expect life to take us all down.

As my last act of service to you, let me ask you this: What pieces ofyouneed to be reimagined and rebuilt? What’skeeping you from fully allowing yourself to grow and change? I challenge you to meet those things head on, let go of anything that’s holding you back, and, most importantly, let others help you on your path to get there.

For the last time, I paste in a link to the document, plug in Danny’s email address, and fill the subject line with the title: Gracie Harris Is Under Construction.

Chapter 34

Last night, after a familymovie and before Josh went back to his place, we told the kids a bit more about how we plan to ease into our new life in the coming months. When we get back home, I’ll officially leave my job at the tourism magazine and work as a writer full-time. In addition to writing the newsletter and editing the book, I’ve started kicking around ideas for a few novels. It’s all still in the brainstorming stage, but it’s exciting. I’ve got more than enough savings and anticipated book royalties to give us a few years to see how this new career path goes.

Josh has his own plan, too. After speaking with Tommy and the rest of the company leadership team, he’s going to focus on spinning off a new line of business restoring old homes, one at a time. He won’t do that alone, either; a few guys are coming over to help out with that. Tommy will run the primary business, and over time, the hope is that Josh will give him part ownership of the company.

The kids are thrilled that I won’t need to regularly travel for work anymore. Even those short day or overnight trips in NorthCarolina stressed them out. We’re all thrilled that I’ll have more flexibility in my days and maybe even some actual free time. Josh and I are both excited to own our schedules a bit more, which will make splitting time between Canopy and Chapel Hill a little easier. We all still have lots of questions about how to make this work but are committed to figuring it out as a team.

This morning, Josh and Benji have spent hours outside painting the shed out back while Ava has played video games in her room. Me? I’ve been editing the final bits of the memoir. There will be many rounds of edits to come once Jeannie gets her hands on it, but at around 11 a.m., I push Print on the last chapter to share with Josh and step away from the desk. There is only so much I can do by myself. It’s time to let someone else read it from cover to cover.

I walk outside and call Felicity. We’ve been through so much together this past year, and she’s the first person I want to share the good news with.

“I’m done,” I tell her. “The manuscript will be in your inbox by noon.”

“Gracie, you can’t see me right now, but I’m literally doing a happy dance. My calendar is cleared, and I’m spending the next three days reading your magnificent memoir,” she says, before adding, “which I will, of course, be redlining and sending back to you for one round of edits before we send it to Jeannie.”

“I would expect nothing less,” I tell her. “I truly cannot thank you enough for all that you’ve done for me over this last year. This book would not be possible without you.”

We chat a bit more—including her telling me about her latest date—but then she instructs me to hang up the phone and hit Send on the email right away before she goes crazy.

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