There are some conversations that don’t just answer questions — they shift something in you. Sitting with Julia’s (@liafische) words feels like stepping into a slower rhythm, one guided not by urgency, but by intuition, light, and a deep trust in what is meant to unfold.
In this journal, we step into her world — exploring the meaning of home, the pull of faraway places, and the inspiration she gathers along the way.
Where did you grow up, and how has that shaped the way you see the world today?
I grew up between two worlds — and I think that tension never really left me. Munich gave me roots: nature, stillness, the kind of community and protection that holds you. the Mediterranean called to me from early on, like something I remembered rather than discovered. Growing up moving between landscapes taught me to read a place by its feeling, not its name. It shaped me into someone who is always searching for that alignment between where I am and who I am — and I think that search shows up in everything I create.
At this stage in your life, what brings you the most genuine happiness?
The simple things, always. Salt on my skin after a swim. The quiet that comes with making something with my hands — a stitch, a seam, a row of crochet that slowly becomes something whole. Creating outdoors with natural light around me. Being in honest company with people who love freely and give without keeping score. And that specific feeling when something clicks into place — when the vision I had inside becomes real content out in the world, in the sun, near the sea. That balance fills me completely.
You’ve spent so much time living between places — what does “home” mean to you now?
Home is a feeling, not an address. It's the smell of the sea on a warm morning. It's a table full of people I love. It's Munich in autumn when the mountains appear behind the mist and I remember why this city holds my heart too. For now, home is split between salt water and alpine air — and maybe that's exactly right for this season of my life. I've stopped trying to choose. I let both places claim me."When something is for you, it will not run or hide. You won't need to chase it — it will feel easeful, grounded, and safe."
Is there a place in the world that has changed you deeply or stayed with you in a meaningful way?
Especially Mallorca. There is something about that particular blue, that particular light, that particular way the rocks meet the water that feels like oxygen to me. I don't say that poetically. I mean it literally: I breathe differently there. I think more clearly. I become more myself. It doesn't just inspire me — it returns me to myself.
What draws you to a place when you’re travelling — is it a feeling, the landscape, or something more intuitive?
Always intuition first. I follow the pull — the places that make me want to slow down, look closer, and create something. Natural light matters enormously. Raw coastlines. Textures that make my heart curious. I'm drawn to places that remind me that life moves slowly when you let it. I'm not a list-of-sights traveller. I'm more interested in the quiet corner, the local rhythm, the afternoon that has nowhere to be.
What is something you always carry with you when you travel, no matter where you’re going?
A project made by hand — something I'm crocheting or knitting. There is something grounding about carrying work that requires slowness and presence. It keeps me from rushing. It reminds me, even in the middle of a travel day, that I value making things with care. And honestly, there's nothing quite like finishing a row while watching the sun set somewhere new.
How do you like to spend a completely unplanned day in a new place?
I like to wake up early enough to catch the first light, to watch a place slowly come alive. There is something sacred about a sunrise in an unfamiliar place — seeing the bakers, the early walkers, the real rhythm of somewhere before the day performs itself. I let that energy tell me what comes next. I walk without a route, follow my nose to the local market, the neighbourhood café, the dish someone has been making the same way for decades. I find water if there is any and I stay near it for longer than feels reasonable. I photograph what moves me, not what I was supposed to photograph. I remind myself constantly that I don't have to see it all — that the mundane, unhurried moments are the ones that actually stay with you. The unplanned days always are.
In what ways does your environment influence your creativity and the way you capture moments?
Completely and always. I need natural light the way plants do. I need air and texture and space. When I'm near the sea, something opens up — the images I make feel more alive, more honest. I work best when I'm physically inside the environment I'm trying to capture: climbing rocks, jumping into the water, getting my hands dirty. I never want to observe from a distance. I want to be inside the moment, and then bring someone else inside it too. The Mediterranean light does something to everything it touches — and I'm lucky to call it my muse.
What does inspiration feel like for you — and how do you know when you’ve found it?
It feels like a sudden, quiet urgency. Like something taps me on the shoulder and says: pay attention to this. It's rarely loud. It comes in the colour of the water, in watching someone do something they genuinely love, in a stitch pattern I haven't tried, in stillness — real stillness, not the kind we perform. I know I've found it when I stop thinking about what I should create and I just want to. When the idea feels like mine in a way that doesn't need explaining.
What are you currently feeling drawn to in this season of your life?
Softness. Slowness. I'm thinking a lot about how we hold ourselves to impossible standards and what it costs us. About how we leave this planet. About what truly impedes us from being fully ourselves — and whether we have the courage to remove it. I'm drawn to community, to handmade things, to a future somewhere warm with people I love and work that feels like an extension of who I am. I see myself creating freely, surrounded by a small family, rooted in both earth and sea. I'm not chasing it. I'm trusting that what is meant for me will not miss me.
What lingers most after reading Julia’s reflections is not a destination, but a feeling — one of permission. Permission to move slowly, to trust the pull toward what feels right, to create without force, and to let life meet you where you are.
There is a quiet certainty in the way she speaks about the world, as if she has learned that nothing meant for her requires chasing. And maybe that is the real takeaway: that a life built on intuition, softness, and presence is not something distant or ideal — it is something we can begin choosing, in small, deliberate ways, starting exactly where we are.
Follow Julia on her journey: @liafische
