It was the colour that got us first.

Purple.
Her favourite.

It was everywhere after she passed — not by design, just… there.
A scarf she used to wear.
A candle on a windowsill.
A wildflower that bloomed out of nowhere.
And every time we saw it, it felt like a whisper.
A reminder.

Her name was Eileen.
Our big sister.
Our best friend.

When we lost her, we didn’t just lose a person.
We lost a part of our foundation.

The days that followed were heavy in a way we didn’t know life could be —
filled with shadows, panic attacks, long nights that stretched out without sleep.
You know that kind of silence that’s so loud, it feels like it might swallow you?
That was our home for a while.

And here’s the part no one tells you:
Grief doesn’t just take the person.
It takes your sense of safety.
It cracks open something you didn’t know existed.

But inside that space — that raw, aching space —
something unexpected began to take root.

One of us reached for Reiki — not because we understood it,
but because touch felt like a language we hadn’t spoken in a long time.
The other found stillness on the yoga mat,
learning how to breathe again,
how to sit with the storm instead of run from it.

We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were healing.
Slowly.
In our own ways.

And that’s what changed everything.

See, healing didn’t look like a straight line.
It didn’t look like a five-step plan.
It looked like remembering to breathe.
Lighting a candle.
Letting a scent carry us out of our heads, even for a moment.

It looked like reconnecting with the body —
like softening the heart, opening the throat, quieting the mind.
It looked like tuning in to something deeper:
the third eye, that quiet center behind the brow where knowing lives.
The space of intuition. Of memory. Of inner sight.
The place where we still feel her.

That’s why we created Purple Eye —
not as a product, but as a practice.

A collection of seasonal candles, inspired by what helped us find our way back to ourselves.
Each one holds space — for grounding, for peace, for remembering.
For aligning the parts of you that grief may have scattered.

Because healing, like the seasons, isn’t static.
It circles. It shifts.
Winter asks for stillness.
Spring stirs something awake.
Summer invites us to soften.
And autumn reminds us how to let go.

Time passes.
We heal.
Not all at once —
but breath by breath, flame by flame.

Whether you’re sitting in meditation
or simply closing the door on a hard day,
this is your moment.
A moment to be with yourself.
To remember what’s still here.

Because what we’ve learned —
and what Eileen taught us, even after she left —
is that light isn’t gone.
It just changes