Freedom is a DJ residency at The BOX

A couple of months after turning 26, I found myself in New York, visiting my sister, and DJing for the first time at The Box. If you know, you know that the Box wasn’t just a nightclub—it was a microcosm of New York’s rawest edges. A sex show that teased the line of taboo, drawing you in with an edge of discomfort that somehow felt thrilling. People talked about it. Rules melted away there. It was equal parts seductive and chaotic, glamorous and gritty. And it was here—a sex club where people went to escape—that I decided to scratch the surface of self-discovery. 

It was a Tuesday night in fall, just before the cold started to creep in, and I felt invincible. The crowd responded differently than I was used to in LA—less distracted, more alive, like they actually heard the music. I finished my set at 4 a.m., buzzed but wired with the kind of energy that only New York at 4 a.m. can give you. I walked to Papaya Dog on 5th and 9th—the one that’s since become a Juice Generation. Sitting on the curb with a hot dog in hand, I thought: This is it. This is the taste of freedom. 

I continued to DJ there for months. They called it a “residency” and paid me $600 dollars a week for Tuesdays and Thursdays. Just enough to crash on my sister’s couch until my big opportunity came knocking. And it WOULD come because now I was living authentically or so I thought. I’d left the confines of my past behind me — my childhood trauma, a boyfriend of 3 years and a corporate job—and DJing was just the entry point for changing the world. 

Before you judge me for that last statement, a reminder that this was 2013. A time when New York was at the heart of the burgeoning cool-kid consumer startup culture, new careers were bursting out of Instagram feeds and everybody wanted to be somebody. DJs giving Ted Talks (fine…TedX) at Davos was the vibe, and NYC was the hub. The city was alive, the music was captivating, and I was at the center of it all: DJing for brands, playing at the hottest clubs, rubbing shoulders with everyone who was in the process of becoming the next big thing. 

This was the beginning of perhaps my most fulfilling—and most toxic relationships of all—and that is the one I have with New York. I fell in love with the city because it told me I could be whoever I wanted to be, and for 10 years I believed it. I was so intoxicated with its energy that I thought saying “yes” was enough to get me to the next level. Yes to any gig, yes to the party, yes to the manager of The Box asking you to sleep with him in the bathroom. Maybe I thought pleasing him would give me some kind of clout, or maybe I thought it’d be the perfect comedic drop of “never have I ever…”  

Every weekend, I’d hang out at the since-closed McNally spot, Schiller’s. I said yes to the hipster accessory of choice: a yellow pack of American Spirits, even though I had no idea how to inhale. I continued to “smoke” those cigarettes for six months because I thought it defined me. I had no day job, no boyfriend tying me down, no one telling me what to do. I had complete freedom—and I loved it.

What I didn’t realize, like many mid 20 year olds, was how much I was hiding. Up until that point, I’d had very little real interaction with the world outside my bubble—men, hustlers, people who were actually building futures out of nothing, people who were writing their own stories, not victims of their lives—these were not really the people I interacted with. The DJ booth felt like a safe space to cosplay badass but really it was the thing holding me back the most. It was my biggest addiction—escapism. Just like my notes on Instagram. A safe space for me to hide and observe, to dip my toes into life without diving deep in. Behind the booth (or a screen) I didn’t have to interact with people. I didn’t have to participate in the party, the noise, the social games. I could stand there, create energy, and leave without anyone expecting more from me. In that space, I could control the vibe, but not the real chaos of my mind.

Freedom has been a recurring theme in my life, something I’ve always believed would cure the sense of worthlessness that plagued me. It’s what I’ve always wanted but never truly felt I had. I was trapped in a version of myself from my youth, a victim I couldn’t escape. And trapped in a mind that played tricks on me. No matter how many distractions I threw at it—alcohol, drugs, sex, work, clothes, money—nothing quieted the noise. Somewhere along the way, I started to believe that if I could just get enough money—if I could finally make it—I would silence that voice forever.

My “residency” at the box eventually concluded. And my early 30s marked a different phase. But not a terribly evolved one, I must admit (cut to my notes to my selfie essay). I learned the expensive lesson that a “DJ booth” could take the form of many things…a business, a podcast, any platform where you could feel empowered without knowing who you are. I guess there’s probably something about imposter syndrome in here too, but that’s too much to handle for one essay. I guess I’ll just say that New York, DJing, Memes, Entrepreneurship—they can all give you that same sense of false security. 

You earn freedom by facing the parts of yourself you're avoiding. 

Back then I didn’t even know what I was avoiding, I just knew I was great at escaping.

The Box, August, 2013