I want to tell you the real story of how our upcoming collection came to be.
Not the polished version. The true one.
Twelve years ago I started Eadie because design made my heart race. Because there was a freedom in creating beautiful things that felt, genuinely, like the best version of myself. I had no idea what I was doing in many ways, and that naivety was its own kind of magic. I wasn't second-guessing what people wanted. I was making what I loved. And somehow, that was enough.
Then the business grew. And I got very busy surviving it.
A decade of hustle. Of managing and strategising and carrying and showing up, long after the joy had quietly packed its bags and slipped out the back door. I was running a brand I loved but I was no longer running it from love. I was running it from obligation. From responsibility. From the momentum of something I had built and now had to keep going, regardless of how I felt inside.
I had given over a decade to my energy. Grinding, managing, trying to be competent, trying to be more. And somewhere in all of that, I lost access to the softer, freer, more instinctive version of myself. The one who made things simply because they were beautiful. The one who let her heart lead.
I tried, probably six times, to step back enough to breathe. To find my way back to that feeling. Each attempt taught me something, but none of them quite landed. And eventually I stopped expecting them to. Not because I gave up believing it was possible, but because I had become so accustomed to the treadmill that I had stopped being able to feel much at all. Like I was no longer getting oxygen.
Then I went to India. Not for the first time, I've made that journey more than twenty times over the years. But this time carried a weight the others hadn't. This time it felt like my last chance to roll the dice, to see if that woman, the one who made things from pure love, still existed somewhere inside me.
And in the colours of soft butter and lilac, I found her.
Normally I would have talked myself out of it. Kept myself on the practical leash. Made the sensible choice. But this time I didn't. And with each small rebellious step toward what genuinely moved me, something woke up. My heart engaged. Enthusiasm came back. Possibility started to appear like I was watching a movie on a big screen. Vast and full of light.
That feeling, I now know, is my creative flow. And it felt like coming home to a woman I had almost forgotten existed.
The last three years had been some of the hardest of my life. A business that literally burned down and had to be rebuilt from nothing. The ending of my marriage. Years of surviving things that left marks I'm still making sense of. But somewhere in India, in the colours and the craft and the quiet, I started to understand those experiences differently. To feel genuine gratitude for what they had taught me, rather than letting them define me.
I began to think about what I would tell myself now, if I could write a letter to the little girl who started all of this. All the things I know now about life and love and loss and beauty and what actually matters.
Love letters to my younger self.
That's what this new collection is. Soft, sensual, vulnerable, wise. Made from a place of genuine intimacy with myself, perhaps for the first time. Colours I chose because I loved them. Techniques I explored because they excited me. Details considered not with the question will this sell but with the question does this come from love.
Every piece in this collection carries that intention.
And I suppose what I want you to know, as someone who brings Eadie into your home and your life, is that when you hold something from Love Letters, you're holding something made in the spirit of reclamation. Of a woman coming back to herself. Of creativity returning after a long absence. Of love, in the truest, most unglamorous, most real sense of the word.
Thank you for being here for this one. It means more than you know. I can't wait to share it with you.
With love,
Trudie