I'm Susie.
This is why I made Soothie.
This didn't start as a business. It started at midnight in our farmhouse kitchen, with a desperate mother, a graveyard of creams, and one last idea she wasn't sure she believed in.
Three generations of our family have farmed this land. Grass-fed cattle in our fields. Raw honey from our neighbour's hives at the edge of the lane. The answer had been here the whole time. I just hadn't known to look.
I grew up knowing what clean really means.
Three generations on this land. Grass-fed cattle. Raw honey from hives down the lane. A farmhouse kitchen that has always smelled of something real.
I was that mum before I even became one. Read every label. Washed everything with Branch Basics. Organic everything. I genuinely believed that if I was careful enough, I could protect my children from everything.
I thought I was prepared for motherhood.
I wasn't prepared for this.
He scratched until he bled. Every night.
By four months old, eczema covered his arms, his cheeks, the backs of his knees. I'd lie awake with my hand on his arms just to stop him scratching himself raw.
People said "it's just eczema." Like that was something. Like watching your child scratch himself bloody every night was something you just manage and move on from.
I felt like I was failing him. Every single night. I didn't need anyone to explain eczema guilt to me. I lived inside it.
The drawer of creams that promised everything.
Aquaphor. CeraVe. Steroid cream. Coconut oil. Oat baths. Shea butter. Every miracle product recommended in Facebook groups at midnight.
The steroids cleared it. We stopped. It came back worse. Every time I applied that cream I felt a knot in my stomach. What was I doing to him long-term? What was I borrowing from his future skin to get through this week?
And the "natural" alternatives were no better. I'd been burned enough times to know that all-natural on a label means nothing. Some had fifteen ingredients — every one of them another thing his already-compromised skin had to process.
Hundreds spent. Nothing worked. Not really. Not for long.
The answer had been here the whole time.
Midnight. Another research rabbit hole on my phone while he slept fitfully beside me. One word kept coming up — tallow.
The science made undeniable sense. Tallow's lipid profile mirrors human sebum. His skin doesn't block it. It absorbs it. Uses it to rebuild the barrier from within — not coat it, not mask it. Actually rebuild it.
We had grass-fed cattle in our fields. Our neighbour kept bees down the lane. Raw honey targets the bacterial imbalance that drives most eczema flares — something no moisturiser I'd ever used had even tried to address.
Your child's skin doesn't need more things. It needs fewer things. The right things.
Day four. I couldn't stop staring at his arms.
By day three the redness was visibly calming. The angry inflammation pulling back. Day four I was on my knees beside his cot in the dark.
He slept through the night. For the first time in months, he just slept.
No rebound. No sting at application. No guilt. Just clear, soft skin — and a child who wasn't in pain any more.
I photographed his arms every single day for two weeks because I didn't quite believe it was real. I kept waiting for it to come back.
It didn't.
I know exactly where you are right now.
I started making it for friends. Then strangers from eczema Facebook groups were messaging me — mums who'd been through the same graveyard of creams that promised everything and delivered nothing.
Every jar is still made here on our farm. Our grass-fed cattle. Our neighbour's hives. Four ingredients. Nothing hidden. Nothing you'd need to Google. Nothing your child's skin has to work against.
I put my name on every jar because I stand behind every single one. If I wouldn't put it on my own son's skin, it doesn't leave this farm.
You haven't failed your child. You just needed the right thing. And you have 180 days to find out if this is it — at absolutely no risk.
Ready to try the last thing
you'll ever need to try?
Four ingredients. All food-grade. All pronounceable. Made in small batches on our family farm.
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