There are women who enter a room and don't try to pretend anything. They seem vibrant. And perhaps that's why you remember them. Julie is one of those who doesn't carry around an image of an ideal life, but its real rhythm. Days when you manage two coffees and nothing else. Mornings when just getting out of bed is an achievement. Evenings when you're absolutely exhausted, but you still sit down with your children and read them a story. Because some moments are not to be missed.
Motherhood doesn't seem like a role for her. More like a movement. A constant re-tuning between chaos, love, fatigue, humor, fear, and energy. "Children taught me that nothing can be completely planned," she says. And even if we try to organize every detail, with children, one quickly understands that life has its own pace. Perhaps that's why she takes far fewer risks today. She's afraid to take the tram alone at night. She thinks differently about travel, sports, safety. Not because she has lost her courage — but because she no longer lives only for herself.
When she talks about her children, she doesn't talk about achievements or ambitions. She talks about relationships. About them loving each other. About them trusting each other. About them knowing that home is a place where they can always return without fear. She wants them to remember a mother full of life. Of shared journeys, spontaneous moments, and the feeling that when we stick together, we can overcome anything. Her world is not built on grand manifestos. Rather, on small certainties. Quiche with goat cheese at Paul's before every departure from Prague. Evening story time. People she can lean on. "Today, my certainty is Kevin, Rose, and Zbyněk," she says simply.
And when it comes to Oraculum? "Oraculum for me is courage, strength, creation, and Renáta."
Perhaps that is the whole magic of modern motherhood. Not in trying to be perfect. But in the courage to remain human. Alive, sensitive, tired, strong. And still open to life. Because when you love life, life loves you.