🎧 Bad Bunny x call to prayer

, I wasn’t expecting to find the divine wedged between Bad Bunny and a cappuccino—but there I was.

Le District was buzzing—
and for the first time in weeks, so was I.

I ordered my usual: oat milk cappuccino.
(Okay, whole milk. This isn’t LA—it’s Albania. We drink what the cows give us.)
Extra foam, if the milk gods are in a good mood. 🙃

In the near distance, the espresso machine hissed like it had just overheard the juiciest gossip.

My barista, Gerta (the espresso-slinging version of me, apparently), moved like she’d done it a thousand times—and still made it feel like a love story.

And overhead?

Bad Bunny.
Full volume.
Like it was a Friday night—or honestly, any night—at La Placita.
Not a Wednesday afternoon in a Tirana café where no one’s on their phone and everyone has something to say.

And then—because the universe loves a plot twist…

The call to prayer rose from the mosque down the street.
Soft. Steady. Sacred.

It cut through the conversations and caffeine like a hot knife through butter.

Bad Bunny in one ear.
A centuries-old prayer, unfazed, in the other.

No one blinked. Just another Wednesday in Tirana. 12:42 p.m.

It’s giving holy and unhinged.
Sacred silence meets club-level bass.
Stillness in the soul. Sazón in the hips.

And somehow? It all belonged.

Two things that shouldn’t have made sense together—but somehow, they did.
And I felt it.
In my chest.
In my bones.
In the part of me still trying to pick a side.

A year ago, I would’ve turned it into a worksheet.
Journaled about “the lesson.” Color-coded my confusion.
Tried to make the moment productive.

I thought peace came with a checklist.
With a 6-step morning routine.
A curated identity you could post, pin, and present at therapy like, “See? I’m evolved now.”

I thought I needed to become a certain type of woman in order to feel better.

You know the one—
Wakes up at 5 a.m.
Meditates in silence.
Drinks something green that tastes like lawn mower juice. And guilt.
And makes her healing journey look like a moody Pinterest board.

But now? I’m less interested in becoming.
And more interested in remembering.

This version of me doesn’t chase hustle.
She’s not refreshing her inbox hoping for a revelation.

She can sip espresso under a mosque speaker while Bad Bunny preaches through the café speakers—and feel more grounded than she ever did in a Himalayan salt bath.

Because maybe peace doesn’t arrive when it’s quiet.
Maybe it arrives when you stop trying to clean it up.
Maybe it’s in the noise.
The contradiction.
The middle that doesn’t make sense—but still feels like home.

This is what my soft girl era actually looks like.

Not bubble baths and rose quartz face rollers (though, yes to both—obviously).
But this.

Sitting in a café halfway across the world, untangling who I thought I had to be—and letting the next version of me arrive without explanation.

My soft era isn’t quiet.

It’s loud. And honest. And inconveniently beautiful.

It’s learning how to hold space for joy and grief in the same moment.
For ambition and rest.
For espresso and electrolytes.
For the girl who wanted to be the CEO… and the woman who just wants to feel good in her body again.

It’s a collage. Not a clean slate.

The truth is, I didn’t move here for a vibe shift.
I moved here because I was tired of building the kind of life where your Instagram looks like the Amalfi Coast and your insides feel like a forgotten Google Spreadsheet.

I needed more.
More peace.
More depth.
More clarity.
More mornings where I didn’t feel like I was sprinting toward burnout and calling it “success.”

And in case no one’s told you this lately?

That more you’re craving?
Probably won’t come from doing more.

It’ll come from letting yourself be fully in the moment you’re already in.

Even if that moment is weird. And noisy. And a little spiritually confusing.

Because here’s the real plot twist no one prepares you for:

Your healing won’t always look like healing.

Sometimes it’s sitting in public feeling completely undone—and more yourself than ever.
Sometimes it’ll look like crying over a rom-com you’ve already watched three times.
Sometimes it’ll look like not having the answer.

That’s the soft girl era.
Not the TikTok version.
The real one.

The one where you keep showing up—heart cracked open, playlist on shuffle, not trying to be anything other than present.

So, , if your life feels loud and layered and a little too much right now?

Good.

That’s not failure. That’s flavor.

That’s you, becoming.

You don’t need to mute the contradictions.
You don’t need to wait until it’s tidy or presentable.
You’re allowed to become in real time, without muting the soundtrack.

Because clarity doesn’t always come in silence.
Sometimes it arrives mid-chaos. Mid-song. Mid-sip.

Anyway…
That was my moment.
Kinda random. Kinda unhinged. But real.

And it made me wonder—
What’s been playing in the background of your becoming?

I’d love to know. Really.
Hit reply and send me the soundtrack to this version of you—even if it makes no sense to anyone else.
(Especially if it makes no sense to anyone else.)

Lately, mine’s been a mix of Kygo, low-volume focus tracks, and Bad Bunny on God-mode.

And somehow, it all fits.

Le District. 12:42 p.m.
Turns out, peace doesn’t need perfect conditions—just presence.

This is my soft era.
Messy. Loud. Sacred.
And I’m finally letting it be enough.

I hope you’ll join me.

Your soft era spokesperson,

— Genta 🤍

P.S. If you made it all the way here—I’m honestly touched. And if anything in this email resonated, made you laugh, or reminded you of your own soft-but-loud moment I’d genuinely love to hear it. Hit reply. I read every note—especially the unhinged ones.

P.P.S. If this resonated? You’ll love The Glow Social Club.
It’s where women like us return to ourselves—loud, layered, sacred, and slightly overstimulated. Softness isn’t optional there. It’s celebrated. There’s room for you here.