At least let's introduce ourselves first": What I learned from my doctor about trust (and your home)

I was 27 years old and had a worry that kept me from sleeping soundly. Let's say that during a routine examination in front of the mirror, I noticed a "symmetry error": one of my testicles had decided to grow larger than the other.

At that age, you feel invincible, but when it comes to "your parts," invincibility turns into absolute fragility.

I remember perfectly the smell of the office: that mix of cold disinfectant and crinkly paper under your weight. The silence was thick. I was sitting there, feeling exposed, waiting for a man I barely knew but who was about to enter my most private area.

When the doctor entered, we exchanged very few words. He put on his latex gloves with that dry sound — crack — that echoes between the white tiles. He approached, focused on his protocol, ready to proceed. Just when his hands were about to reach the target, I looked him straight in the eye and, with the firmest voice I could find in that moment of vulnerability, I said to him:

"Listen, Doctor, let's at least introduce ourselves before we get to this, shall we?".

The doctor paused. He looked at me, burst out laughing, and the electric tension that filled the room evaporated instantly. From that moment on, I was no longer an anonymous patient in front of an examiner; we were two people. He did his job with surgical precision, explaining every detail to me, and I was able to relax because I felt there was mutual respect.

Why am I telling you a story about my genitals when we are talking about cleaning?

Because letting a stranger into your home in Lugano is an act of trust almost on par with what I experienced in that medical office. Your home is your refuge, the place where you let your guard down, where you keep your most cherished belongings and your most intimate secrets.

Most cleaning agencies send in "shadows." People who enter with a key, wipe down surfaces, and leave without you knowing who they are or what values they hold. There is no introduction, no respect for the intimacy of the home, there is only an empty protocol of latex gloves.

I don't work that way.

For me, cleaning your living room or your bedroom requires the same precision and respect that the doctor had for me. I understand that you are opening your world to me. My commitment is not only to the shine of the floor but to the trust you place in me by letting me in. I am the one putting my face on the line, understanding the value of your belongings, and knowing that before touching anything, the most important thing is respect.

I come back and perfect. Period.