Page 56 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“Do you really have ten godchildren?” Benji asks while holding his hand out to shake Josh’s.

“It’s true,” Josh says with a smile.

“Do you know all of their names?” Ava asks.

“I do,” he says, before realizing the kids want the full answer. “Lucy, Max, Theo, James Jr., Emma…Olivia, Mia…Noah, Liam, and Riley.”

He has to pause a bit to think on the names in the middle but gets all ten. Benji and Ava are impressed. It’s easy to forget the sorts of things that impress kids.

“Mom says that all summer you’ve been asking her fun questions to get to know her. What’s your favorite thing that you’ve learned?” Ava asks.

Josh’s experience as the cool uncle and godfather comes in handy as he considers how to answer this question. He chooses a crowd-pleasing fact.

“Your mom likes to pretend she’s all serious,” he says, getting down to their level and looking them in the eye. “So, my favorite thing I’ve learned is probably that your mom loves fart jokes.”

This makes them both cackle and say, “So true.” Ava claims that twelve-year-old boys don’t even find fart jokes as funny as I do.

“Just part of what makes me so special,” I say to my adoring fans.

“I was wondering,” Benji starts, having held in his curiosity for long enough, “if there are any projects left to do that I could help with. Especially any that I could use some power tools for.”

Josh makes a thinking face, and I can tell he’s going through his mental to-do list to dig out some mostly kid-safe options.

“Absolutely. I need to put some shelving in your mom’s office, so we could use the drill for that. And there are some old boards on the deck out back that we need to cut using a miter saw. I also have a cool paint sprayer we can use on the shed out back,” Josh responds.

Benji’s eyes light up at the thought of working on projects and using tools. Some parents may worry, but Benji is usually so responsible that I expect him to wear safety goggles, a vest, and gloves without being asked.

“That’s the way to Benji’s heart,” Ava playfully observes. “By the way, I really like my room. Thank you. The whole house is pretty awesome, actually.”

“I had a lot of fun fixing things up and spending time with your mom,” Josh adds.

“She’s the best,” Benji says, sidling up to me for a hug.

We spend the next few hours hanging out, eating dinner, and unloading the car.

Thankfully, Josh went to camp when he was young, so he’s not shocked by any of the clothes, pillows, and blankets that fall out of the SUV trunk.

Everything about the evening together feels perfectly normal.

Nothing is forced. Sure, there are some clumsy moments for each of us, but that happens in every family.

At 9 p.m., I send the kids upstairs to get ready for bed and spend a few minutes with Josh before he heads out. He gets a fist bump from Benji and waves goodbye to Ava.

Josh and I sit on the front porch swing, and I curl up into him.

“I can’t even describe how I feel right now,” he says, pulling me in tight and tender. “Tonight was perfect.”

“I think maybe in a few days you can spend the night,” I say. “Or we could do a camp-out at your house. They would love that.”

“There are so many things I want to show them in Canopy. You didn’t tell me they were so outdoorsy. Ava will love the scenic outlook on the trail just south of town. And Benji? James and I will take him to the best fishing spot he’s ever seen.”

I know him. I can see his thoughts moving a mile a minute, formulating fun plans for us. He’s got the same childlike excitement he had the first time I brought him a BLT for lunch and this grand adventure of ours began.

“They really like you, Josh. It’s so obvious. You have to be able to tell,” I say, looking at him in those big brown—and now glassy—eyes.

“I feel like I was meant to be a part of this family. It’s going to be the honor of my life if you guys decide to keep me around,” he says.

“We’re not going to let you go anywhere. Well, tonight we’re sending you home, but in the long run, I think you may be stuck with us.”

—

I sneak downstairs bright 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 with The New York Times is 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 my New York Times column 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 been you all along building me back 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 of you need to be reimagined and rebuilt?

What’s keeping 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.