water, water everywhere...

The floor was dry.

That’s what I noticed first.

Not just dry, but smugly, impossibly dry—like it had something to prove.

No puddles creeping toward the bathmat like some slow-motion lava flow.
No mop standing in the corner like a bathroom bouncer, ready to break up the next splashy incident.

Just… warm, still tile.

It stopped me in my tracks.

I wrapped my towel tighter, half-expecting to find a leak or rogue puddle hiding behind the toilet.

(Trauma.)

But no.
That morning, I stepped out of the shower and didn’t do the towel-hop-shuffle-panic because the floor was, for once, not soaking wet.
It was calm. Contained. Dare I say… spa-like?

And that’s when it hit me:
We had a shower curtain now.

⤶ Let me back up.

It was Day 8 in Tirana.
Still new enough to be disoriented by light switches and overly enthusiastic about fruit stands.

We were adjusting—slowly, mostly.
Except for one area: the bathroom.

Every shower was a group activity.
Me. The water. The floor. The walls. The mop.

It wasn’t a bathroom—it was a production.
Full cast. No rehearsal.

Just water, (so much water), soap, and a slow-building sense that we were all in this together…

The result?

Bathmat? Drenched.
Socks? Betrayed.
Floor? A slip hazard and a spiritual lesson.
Control? Missing, presumed drowned.

After a few mornings of drying off with what can only be described as a damp apology of a towel, Danny gently floated the idea:

“Do you think maybe we could… get a shower curtain?”

And as an Albanian woman with full ancestral knowledge of the local plumbing situation, I smiled with the kind of weary wisdom that says,
Sweetheart. No.

Shower curtains?
A Western luxury…

IYKYK
And if you don’t?

You either get a sleek glass enclosure that folds in on itself like a Rubik’s cube—or the entire bathroom is the shower.
It’s not broken. It’s tradition.
There’s a drain. There’s a mop. There’s a system.
It’s chaos, yes. But organized chaos.

Still… the water kept winning.
No matter how fast we moved, no matter how far we flung the bathmat, the entire room always ended up soaked. Like the bathroom itself was resisting domestication.

It was funny at first.
Then soggy.
Then kind of spiritual.

☕ Then came Tuesday.

One of those soft, sunny mornings where you can feel your nervous system start to unclench—not because life is less chaotic, but because you’ve finally stopped trying to win against it.

We were heading down to the local coffee shop, and there was Zemrita — our landlord and resident goddess—already outside trimming the garden bushes with precision that would make a French château jealous.

I have no idea how she does it, but everything she touches looks cleaner, sharper, more grounded.

Including us, honestly.

We walked down the street together, ordered our morning cappuccinos, and chatted over clinks of ceramic cups.

The sun hit just right.
The low hum of Tirana waking up.
That peaceful buzz you get when your day has nowhere urgent to be.

Afterward, she mentioned she was heading to the butcher shop—her usual spot—and invited me to come with her.

Of course I said yes.

The butcher shop was immaculate with cuts of meat displayed like jewelry. ✨
The air smelled clean—sharp tile, cool air, and a trace of spice that made me want to stay longer than necessary.

She chatted with the owner like they’d known each other for years (because they had), picked out some meat for tavë kosi—which she casually mentioned she’d be making for us the next day—and I stood there, quietly losing my mind in the most grateful way possible.

And then—because why not add magic to an already perfect morning—we stopped in at a home goods store nearby.

One of those places that feels like a secret Pinterest board exploded in real life.

Everything was beautifully organized.
Stacks of folded linens.
Polished wood shelves.
Rows of candles, curtains, ceramics.
Neutral-toned heaven.

I could’ve spent hours in there just touching dish towels and pretending I’m a person who organizes her spice rack alphabetically.

I was deep in thought over a particularly aesthetic vase when she turned to me and said it:

“I was going to get you a shower rod for your bathroom… but I had trouble putting it up alone. Can I get you one, and maybe Danny can install it? I already have a beautiful curtain for you at home.”

The entire store faded.
The lighting shifted.
Time paused.
I’m pretty sure the soap dispensers applauded.

“Yes, please,” I said—a little too fast, like someone who’d just been offered emotional safety in the form of linen.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the moment.
The simplicity of someone seeing a problem you didn’t ask them to fix—and wanting to help anyway.

Later that day, we installed it.

Danny held the rod steady while I stood back, offering the kind of supportive commentary that’s technically helpful but also mostly vibes.

The curtain went up—a soft cream linen with delicate threading that matched the tile like fate, as if it had been waiting for this bathroom its whole life.

It wasn’t just a curtain.
It was a declaration: this space is now functional and emotionally stable.

And the next morning?

, I floated through that shower.

The air stayed steamy. My towel stayed dry.
I didn’t slip-slide across the bathroom floor like a cartoon banana peel.
I shampooed with confidence. I conditioned without fear.
I even did that thing where you just stand under the hot water for a second too long like you’re starring in a moody music video about self-discovery.

I stepped out.
The floor was dry.
And I had to laugh, because somehow… that felt like everything.

It wasn’t just about the floor.
It wasn’t about the mop, or the puddles, or even the curtain.

It was about what it meant to feel held.
Without having to ask.
Without having to earn it.

It was about the shift.

From survival mode to softness.
From “I’ll handle it” to “let someone help.”
From being quietly resigned to the mess—to letting it be easier.

It was about a woman named Zemrita who noticed something we hadn’t even labeled as a problem—and decided to fix it anyway.

Not because it was urgent. Not because she had to. But because she could.

It reminded me how much we normalize our own discomfort.
How we build entire lives around things that secretly exhaust us.
And how sometimes, all it takes is a curtain—literal or otherwise—to remind you that ease is allowed.

So I made you something.

Not because you need to fix anything.
But because I thought… maybe you could use a moment.
A pause. A breath.
A soft little curtain to close out the noise and come back to yourself—even just for five minutes.

It’s short. It’s gentle. And it’s yours.

👉 Listen to Let It Be Easier

We all deserve a Zemrita.
But if yours hasn’t shown up yet—
this one’s from me.

With softness (and a mop that is officially out of office),

— Genta 🤍

P.S. If you loved this newsletter, just know my other love language (besides spa-like showers) is words of affirmation—and I’d genuinely love to know what you thought. Click reply and say hi. I’m on a hot streak of answering every message we get, and your notes always make my day. 💌

P.S.S. Spots for my 1:1 mentorship open on April 22—and if you’re craving deeper support, strategy, and a wellness routine that actually works with your real life, you’ll want to be on the waitlist. Join here and get first dibs before it goes public.