The Rhythm of Falling Rocks

The other day, someone said something I didn’t expect.

He mentioned how it must be hard to drive by the old Tatsuda’s lot—

to see the space where I once poured so much time, energy, and care—

and have it be gone.

His comment caught me off guard.

Very few people have ever named that loss out loud.

We talked about it.

The truth is, I don’t think about it much anymore.

Enough time has passed; those wounds have mostly healed.

But there was a time when it hurt deeply—

not just losing the building,

but losing the living thing it had become.

For over a decade, I poured my entire self into that place.

I spent years transforming the culture from the inside out—

helping our team grow,

developing leaders,

creating a workplace that felt like family,

solving endless problems, trying, failing, and trying again to keep business growing,

and building a store that was more than just a store.

It was a community hub.

A place where everyone was welcome, cared for,

and could find what they needed when they needed it.

All the while, I was raising three kids, basically on my own.

Every day was a balancing act between motherhood and management—

packing lunches, attending school events,

and then running a business that never really stopped.

There was no off switch.

I just kept going.

By 2015, we were preparing for our 100th anniversary,

and I took on the role of construction project manager

for a multi-million-dollar remodel.

I taught myself everything as I went.

That year nearly broke me.

I hardly slept, herniated two discs,

had surgery, then an infection in the incision,

and surgery again.

Holy shit, that year was hard.

But the outcome was incredible.

We had built something beautiful—

a one-of-a-kind store filled with heart and soul.

I saw it as my job to take care of all of Ketchikan.

And then it was gone.

What had taken generations to build

and years to nurture was suddenly wiped away.

After the dust settled,

I had to face a question I’d never allowed myself to ask:

Was it worth it?

I spent a decade in chronic stress—

sacrificing my body, my peace, and pieces of myself

in the name of the family business.

Even now, my nervous system carries the imprint of those years.

And yet, when I ask that question today,

the answer is yes.

Solid yes.

Because I know what I’m capable of.

Because I learned more about leadership, resilience, and service

than any classroom could ever teach me.

Because what I built mattered.

I am proud of my accomplishments.

I am thankful for the lessons.

And I am equally thankful to be free—

though freedom came with its own cost.

I am still rebuilding my identity.

These days, the lot houses boats in need of repair.

An essential service for our area.

But—energy, life, and care are missing.

What was once a living, breathing entity

now exists only in memory.

That is strange—

and incredible at the same time.

Because it doesn’t just live in my memory.

It’s embedded in the foundation of our town—

in the generations who shopped with us for

quick snacks and weekly dinners,

birthday cakes and family celebrations,

the kids who spent their allowance money at the counter.

It lives in the people who knew

my great grandparents,

my grandfather, and my dad,

those who knew me in it,

and everyone who worked beside us to serve this community.

So yes, it was painful to lose all that time and energy.

But how lucky am I

that it lives on in so many people’s memories.

And still, there are moments when I drive past and feel the quiet tug—

not grief exactly,

just a small reminder of how life moves on,

and how despite everything,

rocks still keep falling.

I know the rhythm of falling rocks

and the art of building and rebuilding again.

I might shed a lot of tears

and spend some time in bed.

But the art of building and rebuilding—

that’s what I do.

It’s who I am.