💭 this used to be a fantasy

Listen, I wasn’t trying to romanticize my own Tuesday night.

But there I was—horizontal in bed, husband next to me, windows open, and Tirana humming in the background like a lullaby written for the overworked and formerly corporate.

“I love how quiet it is here at night,” I said.

“Same,” he replied. “It’s really peaceful.”

I smiled. Took a breath. Let it land.

And in that moment, I felt it: I’d become her.
The woman I used to daydream about on lunch breaks I didn’t take.

You know the one—the woman who pauses to mentally monologue about her own life like she’s in a Nancy Meyers movie.

(Cue the soft jazz, dim lighting, and slow camera zoom on the woman realizing she is, in fact, the main character.)

Because peaceful?
Peaceful used to feel… illegal.
Or at least like something that only happened on PTO-approved Fridays when your boss finally stopped emailing you about the Q3 roadmap.

Now?

Peace is just… Tuesday.
And I’m still getting used to it.

_____

Let’s rewind.

A year ago, I was that girl.
Not the slow-sipping, lake-gazing, moved-to-Europe soft girl.

The other one.
The one who scheduled her joy in 15-minute calendar blocks between meetings with people named Chris.

The one who wore productivity like perfume and tried to “optimize” her burnout with magnesium gummies, blue light glasses, and whatever HustleTok was preaching that week.

The one who got praised for being so “on top of everything” while quietly spiraling inside a Google Sheet called Q3_Crisis_FinalFINAL_2.xlsx—but you’d never know it from her email etiquette.

She meant well.
She tried hard.
But let’s be honest—she was one missed Slack ping away from crying in a Whole Food’s parking lot.

Eventually, it caught up with me.

Not in a dramatic, crash-and-burn kind of way.

More like the slow unraveling of someone who’s too good at holding it all together.

The skipped meals. The Sunday scaries. The creeping dread that maybe this was just… it. Again.

I wasn’t breaking down. I was breaking open.

And the question that kept echoing was:

Is this what success is supposed to feel like?

Because if the answer was yes—why did I feel like I was holding my breath all the time?

Maybe you’ve felt it too, .
That quiet knowing that something about the way you’re living… isn’t quite working.
Even if it looks great on paper.
Even if everyone says you’re “killing it.”

That’s the thing no one tells you about burnout.
It doesn’t always look like falling apart.

Sometimes it looks like answering emails at red lights.
Like smiling on Zoom while your stomach’s in knots.
Like calling a granola bar at your desk “lunch” and pretending it counts.

But what if there is no next after?
What if you’ve built your whole life on a rhythm that doesn’t actually work for your body?

That was the question I couldn’t un-hear.

And once I let myself sit with it—not fix it, not optimize it, just hear it—
the truth was loud and simple:

This isn’t sustainable.

Not just the schedule, but the standard I was holding myself to.

The version of me that could carry it all, manage it all, be it all…
She wasn’t thriving.
She was surviving.
Polished. High-functioning. Well-liked.

So I started listening.

Not to another productivity podcast. Not to the voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like a past manager.

But to my body.

To the part of me that was tired of squeezing life into margins and calling it “balance.”

I didn’t make a five-year plan. I made a decision:

What if I let life get softer… on purpose?

What if I stopped performing “okay” and started designing something that actually felt good to live in?

It didn’t happen overnight.
But little by little, I stopped chasing a version of success that left me feeling empty.
And started building a life that fit.

Not perfectly. But fully.

And that brings me here, .
To this moment.
To this life I once thought was impossible, but turns out—was just waiting for me to stop asking permission.

If you're reading this, congratulations—you’ve officially made the guest list.

No "plus one" required. No dress code, unless you count "preferably wearing something you can eat carbs in."

Because this May?

We’re not slow-launching our soft life era. We’re not beta-testing it. We’re not quietly journaling about it on a notes app and hoping no one notices.

We are hard launching it. LOUDLY. Joyfully. Preferably while sipping something bubbly and getting emotionally attached to a body of water.

When I look at my May calendar, it reads more like a "choose your own adventure" novel written by someone who finally retired from Hustle Culture’s Olympic team.

✨ Farm-to-table dinners at Mrizi i Zanave in Albania, where the tomatoes taste like summer and the wine knows all your secrets 🌾

✨ My birthday celebration on the edges of Lake Como, armed with prosecco, “Grazie Mille,” and a dress with no business surviving the cobblestones 🎈

✨ Road trips through Croatia where the only thing on the itinerary is "find joy" (and maybe a really good pastry) 🍰

✨ Wandering the sun-baked streets of Rome fully main-character’ing your way through gelato detours, cappuccinos, and possibly a Lizzie McGuire reboot 🛎️

✨ Pausing mid-journey just to be—because sometimes presence is the whole plan.

It's giving "soft life, global tour" energy.

And somewhere between stuffing a suitcase, booking flights, and negotiating aggressively with my hair curler about whether it’s essential travel gear—it hit me:

This isn't just "a season of life." This is the life I was building all along.

Now that it’s here? I’m not shrinking it to fit someone else’s comfort. I’m giving it the hard launch it deserves.

The soft life I’m launching isn’t perfect. It’s not an aesthetic. It’s not an 18-step morning routine designed to be pinned and performatively admired.

It’s slow mornings with second (okay, third) coffees.
It’s dancing badly in foreign cities.
It’s answering emails at 10pm—not because you’re behind, but because you spent the afternoon living.
It’s eating the good cheese and not googling "best low-fat alternative" five minutes later.

It’s being in the moment. Not managing it.

And here’s the truth I’m carrying into this new season like a particularly smug piece of carry-on luggage:

You don't "earn" the soft life. You choose it.

Even if it feels scary. Even if the to-do lists whisper "be responsible." Even if there's no productivity metric or Pinterest board to validate it.

Softness isn't weakness.
It’s a flex—and a quiet rebellion.
A declaration that you are not an endless battery to be drained by someone else's expectations.

So if you're feeling it too—that pull toward a slower, fuller, softer life?

This is your invitation. Not to escape. Not to prove. Not to "finally get it right."

Just to live it. Even before it makes sense. Even before it looks impressive. Even before anyone else understands why you’re smiling at your second croissant like it's a spiritual experience.

So this month, I'm raising a glass (and probably a gelato) to:
choosing presence over perfection
letting the journey be part of the joy, not just a means to an Instagrammable end
believing that "soft" is a superpower (not a shortcoming)
and remembering—the best moments won't always come with captions.

They'll sneak up on you. Halfway through a meal. Mid-laughter. Barefoot on a balcony. Under a sunset so good it feels fake.

That's the soft life. That's the launch party. That's the whole point. ✨

Your RSVP—
If your soft life had a signature cocktail, what would it be called?
What song would be playing when the doors open?
What’s one thing (or person) that does not get an invite?

Hit reply—I want all the delicious details.

I’ll be reading answers from a café table somewhere scenic, ordering a third Aperol Spritz and calling it market research.

Because “too much” doesn’t exist here.
Only what feels right.
Only enough.

And right now?
You, me, this moment? More than enough.

Your fellow Soft Life Launch Co-Founder,

— Genta 🌸

P.S. Big (soft, sacred, slightly unhinged) things are coming inside The Glow Social Club this month. You’ll want to be there. ✨