Page 1 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

I never intended to become the queen of grief.

In fact, until a minute ago, when Maisy Miller referred to me as such, it never dawned on me that I could be the queen of anything.

Yes, women sometimes stop me on the street and call me an inspiration.

They usually ask if we can be friends, tell me they follow me on social media, or say that they have read everything I’ve ever written.

And, yes, sometimes they cry as they spill their own sad stories.

But I’m not anyone’s guru or spiritual guide, and I’m sure as hell not anyone’s queen.

Now, however, is not the time to work through my ongoing identity crisis—not with Maisy Miller, the biggest name in daytime television, and her studio audience staring at me.

Maisy’s perfectly curled, long red hair and deep-green eyes are captivating as she waits for me to speak, but I need to stay focused.

“I love that people relate to my writing so much,” I say, grabbing a little tighter onto the edge of the velvet armchair onstage, “but I hope they also see in my words that I’m still trying to figure out how to navigate life after loss just like they are. I’m no different.”

The audience lets out a collective murmur of appreciation. Maisy purses her lips, nods, and gives that rehearsed look of understanding that her on-screen personality has mastered.

“That’s the humble Gracie Harris your readers have come to love over the last year,” she says, reaching across the table between us and placing her perfectly manicured hand on mine.

“A year ago, you wrote an essay that went absolutely viral. I’m wondering if you might tell us a bit about the night you wrote it and what you were feeling. ”

On the night of Ben’s memorial service, I was unbearably lonely.

The kids were finally asleep, and the house was quiet.

I had spent the day receiving more affection than I could possibly absorb.

A few times, as someone new leaned in for a hug, I thought I heard Ben’s ghost laughing from the front pew, watching me embrace the hundreds of people who had shown up to support me and remember him.

There had been awkward huggers, sincere huggers, people who held on for far too long, and those blessed few who provided the momentary relief of a graceful side hug.

It was obvious who, like Ben, thrived on physical touch.

Everyone assumed I did, too, or that I would appreciate some extra love that day.

My true and old friends knew to grab my hand for a quick squeeze or to put a gentle palm on my back.

The essay that changed my life took shape that night through eyes too tired to cry and a mind too overstimulated to think twice about the words that filled the screen. It took me just forty-five minutes to write the one thousand words that would change everything.

When I woke up the next day, the laptop was by my side.

I popped it open and read the essay once.

Then twice. Everything I felt in the aftermath of Ben’s death and the overwhelm of the days that followed was captured in those words.

Without a second thought, I pulled up the submission form for Modern Love .

This is a story I’ve told a million times to friends but never in public.

I’m grateful for all of the prep work that my publicist, Lucia, and I did to prepare for this moment because, of course, I still don’t feel brave enough to share all this with the world.

It’s still too raw, even a year later. I need to separate my public persona from my private one to get through the days, let alone the rest of the segment.

Instead of the whole truth, I give Maisy and the audience an abbreviated story full of platitudes before succinctly wrapping things up.

“I copied and pasted my essay into that form and hit Submit,” I say with a nervous smile. “And then everything changed.”

Again, the audience takes a big joint sigh, and for a moment my anxiety drifts a bit from the surface. Writing essays for people from afar has an air of anonymity, even after all this time. Talking to this live audience is an entirely different thing—but I can do this.

“Gracie, I love the way you talk so openly about grief and loss. Your willingness to share your journey has inspired and comforted so many people. One thing I’ve never heard you share is the story of the day you lost your husband. Would you be willing to open up to us about this?”

We knew this line of questioning was inevitable. I take a deep breath to maintain my composure and will my brain to remember the answer Lucia and I practiced over the phone just last night.

“Up until the moment it became the worst day of my life, it had been a completely normal day,” I tell her, staring into her eyes, fighting every instinct to run right off this stage.

“I took the kids to school, went to work, had lunch with a friend, and then went out to a business dinner.

The most normal day, albeit a little busier than usual.

“That’s the thing about losses like mine,” I say, before turning to the audience and gesturing toward them, “and like so many of those that y’all have faced.

Sometimes we get to plan for a loss or at least a long goodbye, but sometimes they are sudden—so painfully sudden—that it feels like from that moment on there is only the before and the after.

That day felt like the end of one life and not just Ben’s.

I’ve had to completely reimagine what my life was supposed to look like.

I’m honestly still working through that, as my readers are well aware. ”

Maisy smiles and puts her hand to her heart as the audience claps in approval. I’ve given them an answer without giving them anything of value. Not a single material detail about Ben’s death. As rehearsed, as practiced.

“You and Ben have two children, is that right?” Maisy asks.

“That’s right—I have a son and a daughter,” I answer nervously. We kindly requested that my kids be kept off the discussion list, but an acknowledged request isn’t the same as a promise.

That’s when Maisy unleashes. Her questions come fast and hard. What are you doing to support them? What have you gotten wrong along the way?

I stammer through the answers as best as I can, but quickly my right leg starts to vibrate. At first, it’s a manageable rattle, but soon it transforms into the telltale rapid shake. I discreetly spread out my long dress, hoping to hide the tic that has plagued me for months.

It also quickly becomes the least of my worries because Maisy doesn’t relent. Are the kids in therapy? Are you in therapy? What’s been the hardest thing for them about losing their dad? What are your greatest fears about raising them without Ben?

Maisy’s questions about the kids strip away my ability to perform a safe version of grief. She has adeptly wrested control from my carefully prepared hands. And once she has it, I lose myself completely.

The edges of my vision begin to blur as I talk about my kids’ mental health.

Breathe , I think. You have to breathe. I struggle to fill my lungs as I talk about holiday concerts and family dinners always being one person short.

Before I can answer the last question, however, I feel the room start to spin and voices drift away.

“Maisy,” I say in a low, desperate voice. “I need a minute.”

Over the last year, grief has taught me that it’s rarely the obvious things that send you over the edge.

It’s not the anniversaries or the birthdays or even the missed soccer games.

Today, on this stage, it’s divulging how the single empty chair at the dining table breaks my heart in two every night.

Sharing this delicate detail with a room of strangers was all it took to send my stress, nerves, and sadness over the edge.

The other truth about grief—deep, visceral, unrelenting grief—is that it puts observers into their own state of shock. Maisy is staring at me with a lethal cocktail of horror, pity, and fascination.

I put my head in my hands, close my eyes, and simply try to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Maisy tries to speak and I put my hand up and gently shake my head. Minutes feel like an eternity. Quiet whispers passed between audience members become white noise.

Finally, I sit up and open my eyes. I’ve regained my composure, but if the goal was to keep my dignity, I’m fairly certain that’s off the table. Nobody stops a Maisy interview with the cameras rolling.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used to talking about these things,” I say, rubbing my clammy palms into one another. “Maybe that’s why I’m a writer.”

A soft, nervous laughter travels around the studio.

Maisy squints, recognizing she’s only got one question left to ask.

The audience might turn on her if she attempts to go for round two.

I also sense a hint of disappointment that I didn’t actually keel over, although this is still certain to be a thing when the episode airs.

“Do you ever regret going down this path…sharing so much with the world?” she asks.

“ Regret is a strong word, but I do sometimes wonder if I’ve taken on more than I can handle,” I say. “I guess only time will tell.”

“Well, we wish you the best of luck,” she says, before turning to look directly into the camera. “Don’t forget—in addition to reading Gracie’s essays twice a month, you can now preorder her memoir!”

I force a smile, just in time for Maisy to turn to me one last time and add with a smirk, “Maybe this will make the book?”

I quickly remove my mic and rush backstage to safety.

—

“That was a complete disaster,” I say to Jenny once the door to the greenroom closes behind me. The wide eyes of every production assistant that I passed on the thirty-second walk between the stage and my best friend’s arms told me all I need to know. Total. Disaster.