She Moved Mountains

On October first, only a month ago, my family said goodbye to my mother-in-law with a celebration of life, casual, bright, and perfect. Sitting in a sea of over 300 people, in the same garden where I spoke my marriage vows, I was overwhelmed. As I took in the stories from those who knew her best, I felt joy and sadness and awe and inspiration and regret. Encompassed by the flowers that would soon brown in the frost, friendships that spanned over 70 years mixed in with those who had only met her briefly, if at all. And one thing was predominately clear to me. This woman was a force of nature. This woman left her mark. It has taken me a bit of time to work through all the feelings I have about our relationship and the ways that it shifted the course of my life. And I am sure my current reflections are just scratching the surface when it comes to understanding the depth of beauty she brought to our lives. For now, here are my thoughts about the of life Sue Rowland.

I didn’t know Mrs. Sue when she had her famous preschool, beloved and spoken about still, nearly 20 years after its closing. I met her for the first time when I was 31. I had just opened my first business, a small but sunny Pilates and Yoga studio upstairs from a hair salon in Hailey, Idaho. She and her husband Frank showed up for my 8:30 Tuesday Pilates mat class. Sue smiled and called me honey as she introduced herself. Immediately I recognized the surname. “Are you the parents of John Rowland?” I asked. She confirmed and inquired how I knew her son. I shared that we had gone to high school together, John graduated in '91, and I in '93. I also confided to her that as a teenager I had had a huge crush on him.

That simple interaction was the point that changed everything for me. It was the point that Sue decided she had found her son a match and she set about making it happen. Sue and Frank continued to come to my morning classes and two days a week she would share news of John. He was an architect living in Hawaii. He loved mountain biking, hiking, and mid-century modern architecture. Sue shared about their family vacation in Hawaii for Christmas and described how he experienced the earthquake that did structural damage to his favorite hotel, the Mauna Kea in 2006. And I was very well informed about when John would be visiting home.

Sue was convinced that John would love Pilates and insisted on setting up a family Pilates session so he could experience the technique. Of course, I knew what she was doing. Sue, though many wonderful things, was most definitely not subtle. But I admired her spunk and I had to admit I was curious about how the years had treated John. So I indulged Sue in thinking she was being sneaky and we set up a time. Sue worked her magic behind the scenes and on a Saturday morning in late July of 2007, John walked through my studio doors.

I remember seeing his shape, filled out a little since I last saw him 15 years earlier, but still familiar. His hair, the same red as Sue's, and once long past his shoulders, was cut short and laced with grey. He smiled when he saw me. There was something about his easy gate as he walked toward me for a hug. My busy brain was unusually tongue-tied. My soul spoke loud and clear: “Well, that’s that then. He’s the one”.

And the one he was. John and I moved in together in 2010 and married in 2014. In November of 2017, we had our daughter and in December of 2020, we moved to Maui. And in August of 2022, we lost Sue.

For 16 years Sue was a presence in my life. She immediately included me in every family celebration, birthday party, and Sunday dinner. Every meal was an opportunity for celebration, every glass a reason for cheers. For a full year after our wedding, Sue dropped off a card and a small gift on our doorstep each month on the 21st, reminding us that we had been married one month, two months, nine months, and so on.

Sue loved food and wine and travel and parties. She never met a winter she didn’t ski or a summer she didn’t camp or hike. She traveled the world. She embraced everyone. She attended the high school graduation of every local kid who went through her preschool and gifted them with a card wishing them luck in the future. She was terrible at remembering names, but she was your best friend anyway. She had no filter. None. She used her voice and spoke her mind.

Sue informed me on my wedding day that I was her last chance for a granddaughter (no pressure). Three years later she walked slowly with me along the bike path and through the old cemetery when I was big as a house pregnant and couldn't do anything else. She also insisted on caring for my infant daughter, the one she had wished for, once a week. The fact that she was 76 when Oona was born didn’t remotely faze her.

There are a million little stories I could tell about Sue. But most of them might seem everyday plain to those who didn’t know her, and maybe even to many who did. Most of my memories are simple, small exchanges between two women at very different times in their lives and from very different backgrounds who suddenly became family.

At the time these little interactions felt unimportant, nothing more than daily life, simple moments that take up the time in between rushing from one obligation to another. Sometimes I walked away from Sue happy. Sometimes her incredible energy and persistence felt difficult. Sue just wasn’t a woman who took no for an answer, which can feel a bit frustrating when you are the one saying it. But these small day-to-day interactions are my favorites to remember because they are so authentic. No one worrying about posing for a picture. Just humans being humans. As it turns out, in the end, these moments matter as much as the big stuff. They speak of connection, familiarity, intimacy, and the ability to show up for your people. And love, they speak of love.

Looking back, the tense moments blend into the background. Now I see nothing but her dynamic energy. I see her incredible ability to bring people together. All kinds of different people. It didn’t matter who you were. And it didn’t matter that maybe you didn’t want to join in the whirlwind of fun. If Sue decided she wanted you included, damn it you would be.

Strange, the perspective we get as we age. When I first met Sue I was a young single business newbie just getting started. I saw the world and Sue from a young woman’s eyes. Now I am one month from turning 48. Though I don’t feel old, my lens has changed. I carry the wider perspective that comes from long relationships and parenthood and life experiences, both ups, and downs. I am different now. I have understandings that I couldn't have had back then. But if I'm being honest, I’m a little embarrassed that it took me so long to figure this part out. Why did I not see it back then? How lucky I was that Sue saw me. She saw me and wished for my happiness. She saw me as special and perfect for her John. She saw me in all the ways I wasn’t ready to see myself.

I didn't speak at Sue's memorial. My voice and my love for her went unheard. I don't know why I didn't stand to share. Was it grief that held me grounded when the offer was given? Would I have been able to vocalize anything more than random thoughts pieced self-consciously together spur of the moment? Why didn't I prepare a eulogy like the other family members?

Instead on that day, I chose to hold space for the people close to Sue who were suffering more than me. I wanted to take some weight off their shoulders. It was meant to be helpful, honoring those who had spent a lifetime with Sue. But in doing so, I abdicated my turn to speak my truth, and the missed moment ate at me. It was the opposite of what Sue would have done. She would have stood and said goodbye. And I'm sure she would tell me now that it is never too late. This is what I wish I had said and will say now.

Sue taught all of us that life is a short adventure meant to be lived to the absolute fullest. She believed in taking every opportunity to celebrate and that we should most definitely have seconds of the desert and the wine. She modeled fierce independence, incredible tenacity, and a love of exploration. She showered her kids and their kids with support, love, and unfailing attention. She encouraged everyone to stand up and sing. And I never heard her complain. Not once. Not even when she was fighting cancer.

I will live the rest of my life in gratitude for the gifts she gave so freely and authentically. And I will continue to learn and grow from her example. Without Sue, I would not have my husband or my daughter. Without her, I may have missed a very vital part of my own evolution. Without Sue, the person I am today would not be possible.

Our lives continue, but there will always be a space left empty. The space that was once filled with partially incomprehensible text messages and thank you notes on construction paper and referring to everyone as "you sweet kids" and hugs with a solid if slightly painful slap on the back, now feels immense. But with time, I hope we will fill it with laughter and stories and tears and a lot of incredible memories. Memories I share with the hundreds of students that passed through her preschool, the ski friends, and mom friends, the bridge club friends, and Hailey neighbors, the exchange students, the dear friends met traveling and Sun Valley musicians. All people she touched with her unending energy and completely unique style, who now share connections that would not have happened without her. I feel us all now, a complex fabric of individual golden threads woven together by spirit, perseverance, and the vibrant and enduring love of Mrs. Sue.

She moved mountains. I miss her.

Now I can breathe. I hope that where ever she is, she feels my love.