It started, apparently, with her dad’s corduroys. Which—OH MY GOD—feels almost aggressively normal in a moment where everything else feels… not. Tory Burch said she was asking herself the big question backstage (the one we’re all quietly panicking about): what actually lasts? What sticks around when the world feels loud and chaotic and kind of exhausting. And her answer wasn’t some grand, conceptual thesis—it was familiarity. Memory. Her father’s worn-in trousers. Practical. Slightly slouchy. Completely unpretentious. Clothes that have lived a life.

So she took those corduroys and… gently reworked them. Not in a LOOK AT ME way, but in a quiet, everyday way. Wide wale, relaxed, worn twice in the fall lineup like a subtle reassurance, paired with crewnecks and round-collar button-ups, sleeves shoved up to the elbows like someone actually had something to do (emails to send, places to be, a life to get on with). It felt safe, sure—but not BORING. And that’s the thing Burch does well: she knows how to sneak in a detail that makes you pause, that makes something familiar suddenly feel special again.

There was gold badla embroidery glinting across otherwise humble wool Shetland cardigans (that little oh! moment), metallic-shot landscape jacquards turning cocoon coats into something almost cinematic, almost indulgent. Small joys kept bubbling up—silver fish pins, pendant necklaces, woven raffia and leather basket bags inspired by the “Deadhead bags” she and her high school friends used to carry (nostalgia doing its thing), ankle-strap pumps with just enough embellishment to feel intentional. And yes, the woven leather belt… quietly, insistently everywhere. Blink and suddenly it’s an It item. Whoops.

Hovering over it all was Bunny Mellon—gardener, tastemaker, keeper of a certain mid-century elegance. The Bunny knot motif on quilted bags nodded to her legacy, and you could feel that bygone polish stitched into parts of the collection. Shirtwaist dresses with jaunty little bows at the neck, roomy enough to actually move in (imagine gardening, or at least pretending you garden). Stonewashed silk shifts cinched with bakelite-ish hip belts felt like a time warp—earlier, softer, almost sweet. The deconstructed drop-waist flapper dresses… less so. A slight wobble. An odd note that didn’t quite land.

But then—snap—back to now. Fine-gauge, nearly sheer ribbed knits closed the show and grounded everything again, reminding you this wasn’t about costume or nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It was about continuity. About what survives. And honestly? Quite a lot of what walked this runway tonight feels like it might.