Psychologist, anthropologist, and writer Julieta París has created a body of work that challenges not only the mind, but also the soul. Her second book, La belleza de la ausencia (Siglantana, 2025), offers a radical perspective: learning to live with what is not there, with what is missing, and finding an opportunity for transformation in that absence. On the occasion of her visit to Zaragoza on October 28 and 29, we talked with her about emptiness, grief, success… and her own nostalgia.
You are returning to Zaragoza, your hometown, to present a book that talks about what is not there. What does this return mean to you?
In the last chapter of the book, the word “return” is very important. It is an immense verb. That’s why returning to Zaragoza is, in a way, returning to my roots. I still say “returning home,” even though my home is no longer in this city. It’s returning to my roots. To the place where the seed was planted that would later sprout, albeit several miles away, and which I now dedicate myself to sharing.
Your proposal is provocative: to look at absence not as emptiness, but as fertile space. How did you come up with that idea?
At first, the title of the book was “What is not,” and so I began to write about what is missing, about what does not turn out as one plans or desires… about what we miss, and not only people, but also our own health, the children who do not arrive, or security. As I wrote, I found—or rather discovered—the beauty in all those absences, because although nostalgia is not always beautiful, it always gives rise to beautiful behaviors.
“We all miss someone. We all miss something. My proposal is: let’s talk about it.”
What kind of absences do you explore in The Beauty of Absence?
Over the years, I have heard many people say that they miss someone, but also “this” or “that,” so I have focused on the absences that I have encountered most often in my practice: missing vital security, health, a person, love, connection with others, joy, an unborn child, truth… I even talk about absence itself. We all miss someone. We all miss something. My proposal is “let’s talk about it.”
You say that a full life is not necessarily a fulfilling life. How can we distinguish between what fills us and what nourishes us?
That’s a very good question because that’s precisely where the great confusion lies. Just as not everything we eat nourishes us, not everything we experience feeds us deeply. When there is a void in life, of whatever kind, we become voracious people who are never satisfied. People often confuse a full life with a fulfilling life, and so they fill their lives with noise, things, shopping, or food… Fulfillment does not come from emptiness, but from feeling complete.
In the book, you talk about “nostalgia for oneself.” What does it mean to miss the person we used to be?
It means that at some point in our life journey, we lost ourselves. Sometimes we face life crossroads that lead us down the wrong path—although in the end, we discover that losing ourselves is necessary in order to find ourselves. Losing ourselves is not that difficult: a period of hard work. Caring for others—elderly parents, but also our babies, a dependent family member or friend—takes us down a path where we stop looking at ourselves and seeing ourselves.
“Fulfilment does not come from emptiness, but from feeling complete.”
Another powerful idea you mention is: “What if we don’t fear failure, but success?” Can you elaborate on that a little more?
There is a widely held belief that people are afraid of failure in the same way that we love success. In my experience as a sports psychologist specializing in high performance (Olympic and international athletes), I have seen that we often fear things going well more than we fear them going badly. In psychology, this is called the “Jonah Complex,” as it is what happened to Jonah, a biblical prophet whose first impulse was to disobey God when He gave him an important task. If we fail in life, things will more or less remain as they are; on the other hand, when there is success, there are many implications and decisions to be made, and I think that is what we ultimately fear when I say that we fear success.
A quote from the book says: “Live, because you can. Live for those who cannot.” How do you live with that awareness without falling into guilt or demand?
Because we’re not talking about giving up, we’re talking about living. We’re talking about valuing what we have for those who don’t have it. We’re talking about valuing this sunrise, this opportunity, for those who don’t have it. When a loved one, a beloved person, leaves, we have a responsibility to continue living, not to die with them in life.
What place does silence occupy in your life and in your work with patients? Can silence be a form of presence?
Silence is very important to me. So is certain types of music that, paradoxically, connect me with inner silence. Because for me, silence is not just the absence of noise, it is the absence of disorder, or of thoughts. I can spend many hours at home in silence. In sessions with a patient, silence is often superior to any words we might say. For me, maintaining silence is the most consistent form of presence.
“Live, because you can. Live for those who cannot.”
What would you like readers to take away after closing La belleza de la ausencia (The Beauty of Absence)?
I would love for them to be left with hope. And when they close the book, I would like them to feel a huge hug from someone who is saying to them—in silence—I know where you’ve been, because I’ve been there too. Something like that.
Your training encompasses clinical psychology, anthropology, mindfulness, art… How do all these disciplines intersect in your writing?
I can’t separate them. I can’t conceive of one without the other. I can’t imagine clinical psychology, psychotherapy, without an anthropological perspective where each person’s context is as important as their biology. I can’t conceive of life without symbolism, and art is a good vehicle for that. The rest is incidental, but this is essential for me.
What daily habit or gesture do you recommend cultivating in order to learn to live with what is missing?
Stop for a few minutes at the end of the day to write in a notebook; to take several conscious breaths. And above all, I recommend walking. Walking aimlessly, without rushing. Because that’s where life is.
Interview by Alfredo Cortés
