On being a creative, outgrowing old circles, and learning that your perseverance can make other people uncomfortable.

There is a side of being a creative that people rarely talk about.

We talk about the struggle to make it. We talk about rejection, financial uncertainty, burnout, doors closing, and the courage it takes to keep showing up when nobody seems to be paying attention.

But we don’t talk enough about what happens when you keep going and the people around you don’t.

Sometimes, the very people who once shared your dreams, understood your ambitions, or walked beside you on a similar path begin to look at you differently when you refuse to stop chasing yours.

And that is a lesson I have had to learn throughout my own life.

The dream doesn’t always die. Sometimes, we abandon it.

I’ve spent decades building a life around creativity.

Music. Art. Wellness. Entrepreneurship. Reinvention.

I’ve worn many hats, taken different roads, started over, and learned how to create opportunities when the ones I wanted weren’t available to me. I’ve experienced moments when things seemed to be moving forward and others when I questioned everything.

I’ve also watched how life can change people.

Responsibilities grow. Bills have to be paid. Families need us. Our priorities shift. Sometimes we become exhausted from trying to make something happen that doesn’t seem to be happening fast enough.

And sometimes, we simply get tired of fighting for a dream that other people don’t understand.

There is no shame in changing direction. Not every dream is meant to follow us through every season of life. Sometimes letting go is necessary. Sometimes we need to rest, reassess, and decide what matters most.

But there is a difference between consciously choosing another path and quietly resenting someone who continues walking the one you once wanted for yourself.

That distinction matters.

When your perseverance becomes a mirror

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that your continued growth can become a mirror for other people.

When you keep creating, releasing music, pursuing opportunities, showing up in your community, developing your talents, and believing there is still more for you to do, you may unintentionally remind someone else of the things they once wanted for themselves.

Your movement can bring up their disappointment.

Your courage can remind them of their fear.

Your willingness to try again can make them confront the moment they decided it was too late.

And sometimes, instead of confronting those feelings within themselves, people direct their discomfort toward you.

They may minimize your accomplishments, question your motives, become distant, or suddenly have less to say about the things that once brought you together.

Not everyone who becomes distant is resentful. People have their own lives, struggles, and reasons for changing. I’ve learned not to assume I know what’s happening inside someone else’s heart.

But I have also learned that I don’t need everyone to understand my journey to continue walking it.

Someone else’s disappointment with their own path does not mean I should feel guilty about continuing mine.

I can have compassion for where someone is in life without making myself smaller to make them more comfortable.

I’ve learned that success isn’t always what people think it is.

People see the DJ gigs, the music releases, the photographs, the invitations, the creative projects, and the moments when something finally comes together.

What they don’t always see is everything that happened before those moments.

They don’t see the years of practice. The money invested. The opportunities that never materialized. The doors that closed. The emotional labor of believing in something before there was any evidence that it would work.

They don’t see the times I had to encourage myself because the encouragement I needed wasn’t coming from anyone else.

They don’t see how many times I’ve had to reinvent myself while carrying the weight of everything else life requires.

At this point in my life, I understand that success is not simply about being recognized. It is about becoming the person who can keep creating, growing, and finding meaning through every season.

I’m still learning. I’m still evolving. I’m still figuring out what the next chapter looks like.

And that is precisely the point.

I am not finished.

At 53, I refuse to believe that my most meaningful work must already be behind me. I refuse to believe that I have to shrink my ambitions because I have reached a certain age or because someone else has decided that their own season of dreaming is over.

I have too much life left to live, too many ideas left to explore, too much creativity left to express, and too much love for what I do to voluntarily silence myself.

The loneliness of becoming

Growth can be lonely.

Not because everyone around you is against you, but because becoming who you are meant to be sometimes requires you to release the need to be understood by everyone who knew you before.

Some people knew an earlier version of you and feel comfortable keeping you there.

They understand the old conversations, the old struggles, and the familiar version of your life. But when your vision expands, your boundaries change, and your priorities become clearer, the relationship may need to evolve, too.

I’ve learned that not every relationship is designed to travel with me through every chapter.

Some people are part of the beginning. Others accompany us through the middle. A few will be there when we reach a place we once could only imagine.

And sometimes, people who genuinely love us simply won’t understand the direction we’re going.

That doesn’t automatically make them bad people. It means we must learn to distinguish between people who challenge us because they care and people who consistently discourage us because our growth makes them uncomfortable.

I no longer believe I have to explain every decision, defend every ambition, or convince everyone that what I’m building has value.

I can appreciate where I’ve been without remaining there to keep someone else comfortable.

I am not in competition with anyone.

This is something I want to be clear about.

I am not trying to win a race against people I once knew. I’m not trying to prove that I’m better than someone who chose a different life. I’m not measuring my worth by who gets booked, who gets recognized, who has more followers, or who appears to be succeeding faster.

I have my own journey.

My own purpose.

My own relationship with God, creativity, and the people who came before me.

As a woman who has spent decades building across different creative and entrepreneurial spaces, I’ve learned that comparison can steal the joy from work that was supposed to be an expression of who we are.

I want to make music that moves people. I want to create art that makes people feel something. I want to build experiences that bring people together. I want my work to mean something beyond a moment of attention.

And I want to enjoy the life I’m working so hard to build.

There is room for more than one person to thrive. Someone else’s success does not diminish mine, and my success does not have to diminish theirs.

We can all choose to support one another.

We can celebrate someone else’s breakthrough while we are still waiting for our own.

We can be genuinely happy for someone whose journey looks different from ours.

But we must be honest enough with ourselves to recognize when someone else’s progress is stirring up something we haven’t healed within ourselves.

That is not a reason for shame. It is an invitation to reflect.

What I’ve learned about protecting my peace

I used to think that if people understood my heart, they would understand my decisions.

Now I know that good intentions do not guarantee understanding.

I can explain myself beautifully and still be misunderstood. I can show up with love and still disappoint someone. I can work hard, remain humble, and do my best to treat people well without being universally accepted.

That is part of being human.

So I am learning to protect my peace differently.

I pay attention to how I feel around people. I notice who celebrates the small victories, who checks in when there is nothing to gain, and who can sit with me in an uncertain season without needing me to perform success.

I value people who can tell me the truth without trying to diminish me.

I am learning that access to me is not an entitlement, that boundaries are not punishment, and that I do not have to carry guilt for choosing a life that feels authentic to me.

Most importantly, I am learning not to confuse being understood with being supported.

Sometimes, the healthiest thing you can do is keep your plans close, your intentions clear, and your energy focused on the work in front of you.

Not everyone needs a front-row seat to your becoming.

My ancestors did not bring me this far for me to abandon myself.

There is something deeper that keeps me moving.

I think about the people who came before me. The sacrifices they made. The things they endured. The dreams they may have carried but never had the freedom, resources, or opportunity to pursue.

I think about the strength that made it possible for me to be here.

And I feel a responsibility to honor that history by living fully.

Not perfectly. Not without fear. Not without days when I need to rest and question everything.

But fully.

I don’t believe honoring those who came before us means we must exhaust ourselves or turn every dream into an obligation. We are allowed to rest. We are allowed to change. We are allowed to choose peace.

For me, it means refusing to let fear, discouragement, rejection, or someone else’s opinion become the final authority over what I believe is possible for my life.

I have come too far to abandon myself simply because the road is longer than I expected.

My ancestors’ resilience is part of my inheritance. What I choose to do with that inheritance is my responsibility.

And I intend to keep creating.

You are allowed to keep dreaming.

If you are a creative reading this, I want you to remember something.

You are allowed to keep going even when other people have stopped.

You are allowed to change your mind, begin again, learn something new, and pursue an opportunity that would have frightened you ten years ago.

You are allowed to outgrow the version of yourself that other people have grown accustomed to.

You are allowed to be proud of your progress without apologizing for it.

And you are allowed to recognize when a relationship no longer has the space to support the person you are becoming.

Do not assume that every critic is jealous or every quiet person is against you. Stay humble enough to receive constructive feedback. Stay grounded enough to acknowledge your mistakes. Stay open enough to learn from people who see things you cannot yet see.

But don’t let the possibility of someone else’s resentment become the reason you abandon your own calling.

You never know who is watching you continue.

Someone who has been afraid to start may find the courage to begin because they see you doing it. Someone who thought their opportunity had passed may realize that they still have time. Someone who has been struggling in silence may feel less alone because you refused to hide your journey.

Your perseverance may be doing more than you realize.

And you do not have to prove anything to anyone for your life to have meaning.

Keep creating because it is in you.

Keep growing because you are still becoming.

Keep dreaming because your life is not over just because someone else’s vision has changed.

And if you need to rest, rest without guilt. You do not have to be in constant motion to be committed to your purpose.

Just remember that you get to decide when your story ends—not fear, not rejection, not the people who don’t understand, and certainly not the expectations of those who have stopped believing in themselves.

I am not here to make my life smaller so that someone else can feel more comfortable with theirs. I am here to live it.

And I intend to keep doing exactly that.

LOLO KNOWS

Club Kid Diary: Notes on creativity, culture, healing, and becoming.

https://linktr.ee/LoloKnows

On the anniversary of her passing, I’m reflecting on grief, legacy, and the reminder that life is meant to be lived while we’re here.

Today marks the anniversary of my mother’s passing.

And today, I feel good overall.

I think that’s worth saying because grief doesn’t always look the way people expect it to. Sometimes we cry. Sometimes we feel a heaviness that follows us throughout the day. Sometimes a memory catches us off guard, and suddenly we’re right back in a moment we wish we could experience one more time.

And sometimes, we feel okay.

I’ve come to understand that feeling okay doesn’t mean you miss someone any less. It doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten them or that their absence no longer matters. It simply means that grief and gratitude can coexist. We can acknowledge the loss while still appreciating the life we have in front of us.

Today, I’m thinking about my mother, Carmen. Not just the day we lost her, but the woman she was while she was here.

And in so many ways, she was a lot like me.

Of course, we had our differences. But when I look back on her life, I recognize pieces of myself in her, and that realization makes me smile.

My mother was deeply dedicated to her ministry and her faith. But she was also a woman who loved a good party. She loved to dance, cook, entertain, and bring people together. She was a talented seamstress who could create something beautiful with her hands. She loved her friends and enjoyed hosting her own gatherings.

She was always on the move. There was always something to do, somewhere to go, or someone to see.

And she was funny without even trying to be. You know those people who can make you laugh just by being themselves? That was my mother.

Carmen loved her life and lived it as fully as she could.

When I think about her today, I don’t want to remember only the moment her life ended. I want to celebrate the life she lived before that moment ever arrived.

The woman who danced.

The woman who cooked.

The woman who created.

The woman who gathered her friends and made room for laughter, fellowship, and good times.

Because our loved ones deserve to be remembered for more than the moment we lost them.

Grief Doesn’t Always Look Like Sadness

We don’t talk enough about the different ways grief shows up.

There seems to be an expectation that anniversaries of death must be filled with tears, that remembering someone means feeling their absence as intensely as the day they left us. But grief doesn’t follow a script, and it certainly doesn’t operate on a schedule.

Some years are harder than others. Some memories bring comfort, while others bring an ache we weren’t expecting. Sometimes we want to talk about the person we lost. Other times, we want to sit quietly with our thoughts.

And sometimes, life feels good, even on a day when we’re remembering someone who is no longer here.

I want anyone navigating loss to understand that there is no right or wrong way to feel.

If you’re sad, let yourself be sad.

If you find yourself laughing at an old memory, laugh.

If you feel peaceful today, allow yourself that peace without questioning whether you loved them enough.

You don’t have to perform grief to prove the depth of your love.

Losing someone doesn’t mean we have to stop living. And continuing to live doesn’t mean we’ve stopped missing them.

Both things can be true.

Today, I can miss my mother and still feel good. I can acknowledge that she is no longer physically here while remaining grateful that I got to know her, experience her personality, and share a part of this journey with her.

That’s where I am today.

And I’m allowing myself to be there without guilt.

The People Who Came Before Us Live On in Unexpected Ways

As I get older, I find myself reflecting more on the people who came before me and the ways they helped shape who I am.

Sometimes we inherit more than physical features. We inherit mannerisms, humor, creativity, habits, and ways of moving through the world that we may not fully recognize until years later.

When I think about Carmen, I see a woman who loved to create experiences for other people. She enjoyed entertaining, bringing friends together, preparing food, and making things with her hands.

When I look at my own life, I recognize that same desire to create, connect, and bring people together.

Music has been a major part of my journey. So have art, wellness, and creating experiences that allow people to feel something beyond their everyday routines.

I have spent years exploring my gifts, building businesses, pursuing creative opportunities, and finding different ways to express myself.

And here was my mother, in her own way, doing what she loved, too.

I can’t say that every part of who I am came from her. I’m my own woman, with my own experiences, decisions, and dreams. But I can acknowledge that the people who come before us leave impressions that continue to unfold throughout our lives.

Sometimes we don’t recognize those connections until we have enough life behind us to look back.

Perhaps that’s part of the beauty of growing older. We begin to see our parents not only as the people who raised us, but as individuals who had their own personalities, talents, friendships, dreams, and stories.

My mother wasn’t just my mother.

She was Carmen.

A woman of faith. A talented seamstress. A cook. A hostess. A friend. A woman who loved to dance, laugh, and stay busy.

She was a whole person, and her life was made up of so much more than her relationship to me.

I want to honor that woman, too.

A Reminder to Stop Waiting for Life to Begin

Perhaps one of the things loss teaches us is that our time here is precious, even when we don’t always know how to make the most of it.

We spend so much of our lives waiting.

Waiting for the right opportunity. Waiting for more money. Waiting until we feel ready. Waiting for the circumstances to be perfect before we allow ourselves to enjoy the things we’ve been dreaming about.

We postpone happiness as if tomorrow is something we can guarantee.

But life is happening while we’re waiting.

My mother loved to entertain. She loved her friends. She loved to cook, dance, create, and keep herself occupied with the things that brought her joy.

She lived her life in motion.

And when I think about her, I’m reminded that there is something beautiful about a person who makes room for the things they love.

That doesn’t mean life is always easy. It doesn’t mean we won’t experience disappointment, heartbreak, financial struggles, or seasons when we have to find our footing all over again.

It means that even with life’s complications, we can still make room for joy.

We can call the friend.

We can put on the music.

We can host the gathering.

We can wear the outfit, pursue the dream, take the trip, create the art, or dance in the kitchen when nobody is watching.

We can stop waiting for life to become perfect before we participate in it.

And living fully doesn’t always have to mean doing more. Sometimes it means slowing down. Sometimes it means protecting our peace, choosing ourselves, or appreciating a quiet afternoon without feeling the need to be productive.

Living fully looks different for everyone.

The important thing is that we remain present for our own lives.

I don’t want to spend so much time preparing to live that I forget to enjoy the life I’m building.

And remembering my mother is one of the things that brings that thought into focus.

To Anyone Who Is Missing Someone Today

If you’ve lost a mother, father, sibling, partner, child, or dear friend, I want to make room for you here, too.

Maybe you’re still learning how to navigate a world that looks different without them.

Maybe you have a thousand things you wish you could tell them.

Maybe you miss their voice, their laugh, their advice, or even the little things they did that once seemed ordinary.

Maybe your relationship was complicated, and your grief carries feelings that are difficult to explain.

Or perhaps, like me today, you’re doing well overall. You can remember the person you lost with love and appreciation without feeling consumed by sadness.

Wherever you find yourself, give yourself grace.

You don’t have to rush your healing. You don’t have to find a lesson in every painful experience. And you don’t have to turn your grief into something inspirational for other people.

Sometimes you simply need to get through the day.

Other times, you may find comfort in telling stories, preparing a favorite meal, listening to music, looking through photographs, or doing something that reminds you of the person you miss.

There is no expiration date on love.

And there is no deadline for grief.

You can celebrate someone’s life while acknowledging how much you wish they were still here. You can carry their memory into new experiences without feeling that you’re leaving them behind.

You can laugh again.

You can fall in love again.

You can discover new dreams, create new memories, and build a life that brings you joy.

None of that diminishes the love you shared.

If anything, perhaps part of honoring the people we lose is allowing ourselves to continue experiencing the beautiful things life still has to offer.

Not because we have to make the most of every moment, but because we are still here, and our lives still matter.

Today, I Remember Carmen

Today, I remember my mother with love.

I remember her faith and her dedication to her ministry. I remember her talent as a seamstress, her cooking, her love of entertaining, her friendships, her dancing, and that natural sense of humor that made her who she was.

I remember a woman who always seemed to have something going on.

And I smile knowing that some of those same qualities live on in me.

I don’t believe we ever have to stop missing the people we love in order to move forward. Perhaps, over time, we simply learn to carry their absence differently. We make room for new experiences without abandoning the memories that helped shape us.

Today, I can acknowledge that my mother is gone and still appreciate the life she lived.

I can miss her without spending the entire day in sadness.

I can honor her by remembering her as a woman who loved her faith, loved her people, and found ways to enjoy her time here.

And I can continue living my own life, carrying what I learned from her while making my own choices about the woman I want to become.

I hope that when people remember me someday, they remember the whole woman, too. The artist. The DJ. The wellness entrepreneur. The woman who loved music, creating, connecting with people, exploring her gifts, and finding new ways to express herself.

I hope they remember that I lived, not just what I accomplished.

That I laughed. That I loved. That I kept dreaming.

That I made room for joy along the way.

Because one day, we all become part of someone else’s memories.

Today, I honor my mother not only because I lost her, but because I was blessed to know her.

And to anyone reading this who is remembering someone you love: may you find comfort in your memories, gentleness in your grief, and permission to keep living.

The people we love may no longer walk beside us, but the stories we carry, the love we shared, and the ways they touched our lives remain part of who we are.

Today, I remember Carmen.

And I am grateful for the life she lived.

❤️ Lolo

https://linktr.ee/LoloKnows

A question for you, dear reader:

If you’ve lost someone you love, I’d love for you to share their name and one thing you hope people never forget about who they were.

Let’s make room for their stories, too.

Who gets paid when the underground becomes mainstream, and what happens to the people who built the culture?

A list of the world’s highest-paid DJs recently made its way across my feed.

At first glance, it was just another industry ranking.

But then I started looking at it differently.

Who was there?

Who wasn’t?

And, more importantly, what does a list like this tell us about the evolution of dance music?

DJ Fathom made a statement that sparked the conversation:

“Zero Black women on the list of the 50 highest-paid DJs in the world. Not one.”

That deserves attention.

But as a Brown, Latina woman who has spent years in this culture, I couldn’t help but think:

Where are the women of color?

Where are the Latina DJs?

The Afro-Latina DJs?

The women who have spent decades building scenes, playing rooms, supporting other artists, and contributing to a culture that existed long before it became commercially attractive?

That question led me down a much bigger path.

House Music Didn’t Begin With the Mainstream

Let’s remember where this music came from.

House music emerged in Chicago in the late 1970s and early 1980s, deeply connected to Black and Latino communities and LGBTQ+ nightlife.

Frankie Knuckles.

Ron Hardy.

Jesse Saunders.

Marshall Jefferson.

Larry Heard.

These names are foundational.

At the same time, Detroit was developing another branch of electronic music that would change the world: techno.

Juan Atkins.

Derrick May.

Kevin Saunderson.

Again, Black artists creating something futuristic from the sounds, technology, and culture around them.

And Chicago wasn’t simply Black.

Latino communities were an important part of the city’s house culture too. Puerto Rican and Mexican communities, DJs, dancers, promoters, and clubgoers were part of the ecosystem that helped house music grow.

Then there were the LGBTQ+ communities that created and protected spaces where people could dance, express themselves, and simply exist freely.

This history is bigger than one demographic.

And that’s important to say.

Because sometimes conversations about representation unintentionally leave out the very Brown and Latino people who were there too.

Then the Culture Became an Industry

Today, electronic music is a global business.

DJs headline festivals in front of tens of thousands of people.

There are major brand partnerships.

Las Vegas residencies.

Global tours.

Streaming deals.

Sponsorships.

Corporate investments.

And some DJs make extraordinary amounts of money.

Good.

Artists should be paid.

I’m not interested in tearing down someone else’s success.

What interests me is something much bigger:

What happens when the culture created by marginalized communities becomes a global commercial product?

Who gets the biggest opportunities?

Who gets the biggest stages?

Who gets the marketing budgets?

Who gets the brand deals?

Who gets positioned as the face of the culture?

And who remains underground?

The Pandemic Changed the Audience

Then COVID happened.

Clubs closed.

Festivals disappeared.

DJs started livestreaming from their homes.

People who had never been to a house party were suddenly watching DJs for hours.

Social media algorithms became discovery engines.

Electronic music reached people who might never have walked into an underground club.

And honestly?

I love that.

I want people to discover house music.

I want people to dance.

I want people to experience what this music can do to your spirit.

But I couldn’t help asking myself:

Did people discover the culture, or did they discover the trend?

Because those aren’t necessarily the same thing.

I’ve Seen Both Sides of This

I’ve been in this culture for a long time.

I remember going to parties when house music wasn’t something everybody suddenly wanted to be associated with.

I remember rooms where Black and Brown people were a tiny percentage of the audience.

Sometimes less than five percent.

And overwhelmingly white crowds.

That was my experience.

I’m not saying that was every city.

It wasn’t.

Chicago has always had its own history.

Detroit has its own history.

New York and Newark have deep house traditions.

Miami has its own relationship with dance music.

Black and Brown communities never disappeared from house.

They never stopped creating.

They never stopped dancing.

But outside of those historic hubs, I watched many house spaces become predominantly white while hip-hop and R&B remained deeply embedded in Black American culture.

And I think there’s a reason for that.

Hip-hop and R&B spoke directly to generations of Black people in ways that house music, particularly outside its original communities, sometimes didn’t.

And that’s okay.

Every community develops its own relationship with music.

But it makes today’s explosion of house music even more interesting to me.

So What Are People Really Falling In Love With?

This is where I’m curious.

Not judgmental.

Curious.

When someone discovers house music because it’s suddenly everywhere, do they become interested in the history?

Do they go looking for Frankie Knuckles?

Do they learn about Ron Hardy?

Do they discover the Warehouse?

Do they understand Detroit techno?

Do they learn about the Black and Latino communities that created these spaces?

Do they seek out the women who were there?

Do they support their local underground?

Or do they simply see:

House music is hot right now.

And jump on the wave?

There’s nothing wrong with discovering something because it’s popular.

That’s how many of us discover music.

But there’s a difference between following a sound and becoming part of a culture.

Time reveals that difference.

What About the Women?

This is where that original statistic keeps bothering me.

Zero Black women on the list.

But I don’t want the conversation to stop there.

Because I’m not a Black woman.

I’m a Brown Latina woman.

And I know I’m not alone.

Latina women have been part of dance music culture for generations.

Black women have been part of it.

Afro-Latinas have been part of it.

Queer women have been part of it.

Women from countless backgrounds have been behind the decks, behind the scenes, in the studios, on the dance floors, promoting parties, building labels, creating communities, and keeping scenes alive.

So the question isn’t simply:

Where are the Black women?

It’s:

Where are the women of color?

And why does the industry’s highest level of financial success still seem so difficult to reach for us?

That’s a conversation worth having.

And Then I Realized Something

When I read:

“The local DJs who’ve spent decades nurturing scenes that never made headlines.”

I stopped.

Because I realized:

That’s me.

I’ve been that local DJ.

I’ve been the person showing up.

Building.

Creating.

Playing.

Promoting.

Connecting people.

Developing a sound.

Supporting other artists.

Doing the work when nobody was watching.

And I know I’m not the only one.

There are DJs in cities all over this country who have spent years nurturing their local scenes without ever becoming household names.

They aren’t necessarily making millions.

They may not have a festival sponsorship.

They may not have millions of followers.

But they are the reason the culture continues to exist in their city.

Without those people, there is no underground.

And without the underground, there is no mainstream.

This Isn’t About Taking Anything Away

I want to be very clear about that.

I’m not saying successful DJs don’t deserve their success.

They do.

I’m not saying every white DJ is exploiting Black culture.

I’m not saying every person who discovered house during the pandemic is a poser.

And I’m certainly not saying people shouldn’t enjoy electronic music unless they know its entire history.

Music belongs to everyone.

But history belongs to all of us too.

You can love where the music is going while respecting where it came from.

You can celebrate the new generation without erasing the previous one.

You can welcome new fans without forgetting the communities that created the dance floor.

Culture Has a Memory

That’s really what I’m trying to say.

Culture has a memory.

And sometimes, when something becomes successful, we get so focused on the people standing on the biggest stage that we forget the people who built the stage.

House music came from people who created something out of very little.

They created freedom.

They created community.

They created a place where Black, Brown, and LGBTQ+ people could dance without asking permission to be themselves.

That history matters.

And so do the people continuing that work today.

So Who Gets Paid When Culture Goes Mainstream?

Maybe the better question isn’t simply who gets paid.

Maybe it’s:

Who gets remembered?

Who gets credited?

Who gets invited into the room?

Who gets invested in?

Who gets to build a career instead of simply contributing to somebody else’s?

And who gets to become part of the future of the culture they helped create?

Because house music is bigger than any list of 50 DJs.

It is bigger than festival stages.

Bigger than streaming numbers.

Bigger than social media.

It belongs to the people who created it.

The people who carried it.

And the people who continue to believe in it.

The underground may not always make headlines.

But the mainstream wouldn’t exist without it.

And I’ll keep saying that.

Because I’ve been there.

I’ve seen it.

I’ve lived it.

And I’m still here.

If this conversation resonated with you…

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Culture deserves context.
The underground deserves recognition.
And the people who built the foundation deserve to be remembered.

During Hispanic Heritage Month, I want to talk about a history that is bigger than the version many of us were taught.

I’ve been thinking a lot about who gets remembered when we talk about the origins of hip-hop and house music.

And lately, with hip-hop legends like Busta Rhymes speaking publicly about the origins of hip-hop and the Caribbean presence within the culture, I’ve found myself going back through the history, not through social-media arguments, but through documented accounts, biographies, interviews, scholarship, and the stories of the people who were actually there.

Because there is something that needs to be said clearly:

Puerto Ricans were not latecomers to these cultures.

We were there.

In the Bronx.

In Harlem.

In Brooklyn.

On the block.

At the parties.

Behind the turntables.

On the microphone.

In the dance crews.

In the record stores.

In the clubs.

And eventually, in the studios and record labels that helped take this music around the world.

This isn’t an argument that Puerto Ricans invented hip-hop.

It isn’t an argument that Puerto Ricans invented Chicago house.

Those claims would be historically inaccurate.

Hip-hop’s foundations are deeply rooted in Black American culture and the Bronx, while Chicago’s Black and queer communities are central to the emergence of house music.

But those truths do not erase the Puerto Rican story.

In fact, when we look closely at the history, the Puerto Rican presence is impossible to ignore.

And during Hispanic Heritage Month, I think it’s time we talk about it.

I’m Not Looking at This From the Outside

This subject is personal for me.

I’m a Puerto Rican/Afro-Latina DJ, producer, vocalist, writer and artist who has spent decades participating in house-music culture.

And right now, I’m celebrating Hispanic Heritage Month through the thing that has been part of my life for so long:

music.

I recently had the honor of DJing the Latin Festival in Akron, Ohio.

And on Friday, October 2nd, I’ll be DJing MIX at the Cleveland Museum of Art as part of its Hispanic Heritage Month celebration.

So while I’m writing about history, I’m also living its continuation.

I’m standing behind a set of turntables carrying sounds that traveled through generations.

Black music.

Latin music.

Disco.

Soul.

Funk.

Salsa.

House.

Hip-hop.

All of these sounds have crossed paths throughout my life.

And that’s why this conversation matters so much to me.

Because I know what it means to love a culture deeply and still sometimes feel like your people have been edited out of its official story.

Let’s Start Where Hip-Hop Started: The Bronx

The South Bronx of the 1970s is widely recognized as the birthplace of hip-hop.

But the Bronx wasn’t culturally one-dimensional.

It was home to Black Americans and large Caribbean immigrant communities, including Puerto Ricans and Jamaicans.

The Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History puts it plainly: Latinos were “at the very root of hip-hop.” Its history of the Bronx describes hip-hop emerging through relationships among African Americans, Caribbeans and Latinos. (National Museum of American History⁠)

That matters.

Because when we tell the story of hip-hop, we sometimes make it sound as though a group of people created something in isolation.

But that’s not how the Bronx worked.

The Bronx was a collision of cultures.

People lived next to one another.

They went to the same schools.

They went to the same parties.

They heard the same records.

They danced to the same music.

They fought.

They collaborated.

They competed.

They influenced one another.

And out of that environment came hip-hop.

Before Hip-Hop Had a Name, There Was Salsa

One of the most fascinating parts of this history is the role of percussion.

Early hip-hop DJs were obsessed with the break, the part of a record where the rhythm and percussion became the centerpiece.

And the Bronx was already surrounded by Latin music.

The Smithsonian explains that salsa’s extended percussion breaks had an important similarity to the breaks early hip-hop DJs were looking for.

Latin percussion was simply part of the sonic environment in which these DJs were developing their craft. (National Museum of American History⁠)

That’s an important distinction.

I’m not saying salsa became hip-hop.

I’m saying that Puerto Rican and Caribbean music was part of the musical vocabulary surrounding the people who created hip-hop.

Sometimes influence doesn’t happen because someone says:

“I’m going to incorporate this genre.”

Sometimes influence happens because that’s the music you’ve been hearing your entire life.

It’s in the apartment.

It’s in the car.

It’s coming from the block.

It’s playing at the family party.

It’s coming through the windows.

It’s part of the neighborhood.

And eventually, it finds its way into what you create.

DJ Disco Wiz: A Puerto Rican at the Beginning

One of the most important names in this story is DJ Disco Wiz, born Luis Cedeño.

The Smithsonian identifies him as being of Puerto Rican and Cuban descent and documents his early participation in hip-hop alongside Grandmaster Caz. He began DJing in 1974. (National Museum of American History⁠)

Disco Wiz has long been identified as the first Latino DJ in hip-hop.

He and Grandmaster Caz formed the Mighty Force crew, one of the early DJ crews in the Bronx.

And Disco Wiz himself has described his exposure to salsa at home as influencing his attraction to the breaks that became so important to hip-hop.

Think about the significance of that.

A Puerto Rican/Cuban kid growing up in the Bronx.

Hearing salsa at home.

Hearing the emerging hip-hop culture in the streets.

And putting those experiences into his DJing.

That’s not an afterthought.

That’s part of the foundation.

DJ Charlie Chase: Bringing Salsa Into Hip-Hop

Then we have DJ Charlie Chase, born Carlos Mendes.

Puerto Rican.

DJ.

Musician.

Co-founder of the Cold Crush Brothers.

And one of the important early figures in hip-hop.

The Smithsonian documents that Chase had played in a salsa band before becoming involved with hip-hop. He would discreetly incorporate salsa rhythms into his hip-hop sets. (National Museum of American History⁠)

And that detail fascinates me.

Because Charlie Chase wasn’t necessarily standing up and saying:

“Today I am going to make Latin hip-hop.”

He was simply bringing the music he knew into the music he was learning.

The salsa rhythms were already in him.

So they found their way into the set.

This is how culture evolves.

Not always through declarations.

Sometimes through instinct.

Grandmaster Caz Remembers Charlie Chase

There’s another reason Charlie Chase matters.

Grandmaster Caz himself has described the Cold Crush Brothers as being built around Charlie Chase, calling him a Puerto Rican DJ who played break beats at a time when that was unusual. (Pow Mag⁠)

That is an important firsthand perspective.

Because this isn’t simply a modern historian looking backward and deciding Puerto Ricans were involved.

One of the people who was actually there is telling us:

Yes. He was there.

And It Wasn’t Just Two People

This is where I want to expand the story beyond Disco Wiz and Charlie Chase.

Because if we only name two Puerto Rican pioneers, we risk creating another simplified version of history.

Academic work on Puerto Ricans and hip-hop identifies a much broader early presence.

Among the Puerto Rican figures documented in the early rap scene were:

• DJ Charlie Chase of the Cold Crush Brothers

• Devastating Tito of the Fearless Four

• DJ Master O.C.

• Prince Whipper Whip

• Ruby Dee of the Fantastic Five

• Prince Markie Dee of the Fat Boys

• The Real Roxanne

A scholarly account of Puerto Ricans and hip-hop specifically identifies these artists as Puerto Rican participants in the early commercial rap scene between 1979 and 1983. (ePortfolios⁠)

That’s a lot harder to dismiss as “a few Latinos were around.”

This was participation across multiple roles.

DJs.

MCs.

Groups.

Performers.

Women.

Men.

And different neighborhoods.

Prince Whipper Whip deserves particular attention.

He was of Puerto Rican descent and an original member of Grandwizard Theodore & the Fantastic Five. (Wikipedia⁠)

He is often identified as one of the earliest Puerto Rican MCs in hip-hop.

And that matters because it expands the conversation beyond the DJ booth.

Puerto Ricans weren’t simply providing percussion or musical flavor.

We were on the microphone.

We were participating in the actual construction of hip-hop performance.

And then there was Ruby Dee, another member of the Fantastic Five.

She is particularly important because she reminds us that the Puerto Rican story isn’t only about men.

Women were there too.

The history of early hip-hop is frequently told through male pioneers, but women were part of the culture’s development as performers, dancers, writers, DJs, organizers and audience members.

When we talk about Puerto Rican contributions, we need to make sure we’re not repeating the same gender imbalance.

Then there’s Devastating Tito of the Fearless Four.

The Fearless Four became one of the earliest hip-hop groups to sign to a major label, and Puerto Rican participation was part of that history.

Again:

not peripheral.

Not somebody standing outside the culture.

Inside it.

Then we have Prince Markie Dee Morales of the Fat Boys.

His story becomes another important bridge between Puerto Rican identity and the commercialization of hip-hop.

The scholarly literature on Puerto Rican participation specifically identifies Prince Markie Dee Morales among Puerto Rican figures in early commercial rap. (ePortfolios⁠)

By this point, the pattern should be becoming pretty obvious.

Puerto Rican participation wasn’t a single DJ.

It wasn’t a single neighborhood.

It wasn’t one isolated crew.

It was a recurring presence.

And Then There Was the Culture Around the Music

This is another piece that gets overlooked.

Hip-hop wasn’t only records.

It was a culture.

DJing.

MCing.

Breaking.

Graffiti.

Parties.

Crews.

Fashion.

Street identity.

And community.

Puerto Rican youth were participating across these elements.

Even academic accounts of early hip-hop describe Puerto Rican participation as extending beyond performance into the broader social infrastructure surrounding the culture. (Mr. Mark Beland’s Classes⁠)

That’s important because you don’t build a cultural movement simply by making records.

You build it by showing up.

Now Let’s Move to House

Here’s where I want to be extremely careful.

Because I know exactly what the critics will say:

“House music came from Chicago.”

Yes.

Chicago is essential.

Frankie Knuckles.

The Warehouse.

Ron Hardy.

The Music Box.

The Black and queer communities that created the environment in which house music emerged.

Those people deserve their history.

I’m not trying to take Chicago’s story.

I’m trying to tell the story of what happened when house music moved through New York’s cultural ecosystem.

Because New York had its own history.

And Puerto Ricans were deeply embedded in it.

Enter Little Louie Vega.

Born and raised in the Bronx, Vega is of Puerto Rican ancestry.

He grew up in a musical family.

His father was a saxophonist.

His uncle was salsa legend Héctor Lavoe.

And Vega began DJing as a teenager. (AllMusic⁠)

Think about the musical education contained in that family.

Jazz.

Salsa.

The Bronx.

Disco.

Hip-hop.

House.

That is the ecosystem from which one of New York’s most influential house producers emerged.

Vega would eventually become one half of Masters At Work with Kenny “Dope” Gonzalez.

Kenny “Dope” Gonzalez

And this is another name I absolutely would not leave out.

Kenny “Dope” Gonzalez is of Puerto Rican heritage.

In a Red Bull Music Academy conversation, Gonzalez described growing up in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, which he described as primarily Puerto Rican, surrounded by reggae, rock, electro, alternative music and Latin music. He specifically talked about his father playing Latin music and how those sounds eventually became part of his understanding of music. (Red Bull Music Academy⁠)

That is crucial.

Because Gonzalez wasn’t simply borrowing “Latin sounds” as a producer.

He grew up inside that culture.

And then he and Little Louie Vega became Masters At Work.

One of the most influential production teams in New York house music.

Nuyorican Soul

Then they created Nuyorican Soul.

And honestly, the name itself should be enough to make us stop and pay attention.

Nuyorican.

New York Puerto Rican.

Soul.

Their project deliberately connected Latin music, jazz, soul, disco, house and hip-hop.

The Los Angeles Times described the music as fusing salsa, jazz, disco, hip-hop, house and dance club styles, with musicians including Tito Puente, George Benson, Roy Ayers, Jocelyn Brown and India. (Los Angeles Times⁠)

This wasn’t accidental.

It was an intentional acknowledgment of the musical world they came from.

India: The Voice

And this brings me to one of the most important pieces of the story:

India.

Born Linda Viera Caballero in Puerto Rico and raised in the Bronx, India became one of the defining voices connecting Latin music, freestyle and house.

She began singing professionally young and eventually worked closely with Little Louie Vega.

Her early house recordings included remixes by Vega and David Morales, and her career developed during the transition from freestyle into the house sound that became associated with Masters At Work. (Los Angeles Times⁠)

India matters because she proves something that gets forgotten when we tell DJ-centric histories:

The voice is part of the architecture.

House music isn’t only kick drums and hi-hats.

It is also gospel.

Soul.

Emotion.

Desire.

Heartbreak.

Sexuality.

Spirituality.

And the human voice.

India carried Puerto Rican identity into that world through her voice.

Sandy Rivera

Another name worth putting into this history is Sandy Rivera, the producer behind Kings of Tomorrow.

AllMusic identifies Rivera as being of Puerto Rican heritage and describes him as growing up surrounded by New York’s Latino, hip-hop and rock sounds, which he fused into his early DJ and production work. (AllMusic⁠)

Again, this is not an isolated example.

We’re seeing a pattern:

Puerto Rican identity.

New York.

Hip-hop.

Latin music.

House.

And a generation of DJs who heard these things as connected rather than separate.

And What About Todd Terry?

This is where I want to be especially responsible.

Todd Terry absolutely belongs in this article.

The reliable biographical material I found identifies Terry as a Brooklyn-born Black house pioneer who began DJing hip-hop as a teenager before moving toward house. His career became enormously important to the development of New York house, and his production bridged house, hip-hop, disco and breakbeat aesthetics. (AllMusic⁠)

And his Puerto Rican/Nuyorican connection is still significant.

Terry was closely connected to Little Louie Vega and Kenny “Dope” Gonzalez.

He gave Kenny Dope a drum machine.

He worked with Vega.

And, remarkably, Terry temporarily used the Masters At Work name that Kenny Dope had originated before Vega and Gonzalez eventually made it their own. (AllMusic⁠)

David Morales Deserves a Place Here Too

Another name worth discussing is David Morales.

Morales became one of the defining DJs and remixers of New York house music.

He worked with artists including India, and his remixing helped shape the sound of New York dance music.

There are sources identifying Morales as Puerto Rican, although the biographical sourcing around his ancestry is less consistent than what we have for Vega, Gonzalez, Rivera or India.

So I’d include him, but phrase his ancestry carefully unless we find a stronger primary source.

What isn’t debatable is his importance to New York house.

And that matters because his career sits directly inside the same ecosystem we’re discussing.

The Singers Need Their Own Chapter

One thing I want to emphasize is that Puerto Rican participation isn’t just a story about DJs.

It’s a story about voices.

India is the obvious major example.

But the wider New York Latin dance ecosystem included singers and groups moving between freestyle, Latin pop, hip-hop and house.

Artists like TKA, Brenda K. Starr, Safire, Lisette Melendez and Judy Torres emerged from that broader New York Latino dance-music environment.

Freestyle itself is important because its history is intertwined with hip-hop, electro, Latin music and New York’s club culture.

A scholarly history of Puerto Rican hip-hop notes that freestyle emerged partly from Latino communities navigating the racial and cultural boundaries surrounding hip-hop at the time. (ePortfolios⁠)

That means the story doesn’t stop when someone puts the word “house” on the record label.

The cultures were continuously bleeding into one another.

This Is Why “Latin Influence” Isn’t Enough

I have a problem with the phrase “Latin influence.”

Not because it’s always wrong.

But because it can become a convenient way of making people disappear.

“Latin influence” doesn’t tell you:

Who?

Which people?

Which neighborhood?

Which DJ?

Which singer?

Which family?

Which record?

Which community?

Which rhythm?

When we say “Puerto Rican,” suddenly the history has names and faces.

Disco Wiz.

Charlie Chase.

Prince Whipper Whip.

Ruby Dee.

Devastating Tito.

Prince Markie Dee.

Little Louie Vega.

Kenny Dope Gonzalez.

India.

Sandy Rivera.

And many others.

Now we’re talking about actual people.

We Also Need to Talk About Afro-Puerto Ricans

And this is particularly important to me.

Because Puerto Rican identity isn’t a racial category.

Puerto Ricans can be Black.

White.

Mixed.

Afro-Puerto Rican.

And everything in between.

The history of Puerto Rican participation in Black American music therefore cannot be reduced to a simple “Latino versus Black” story.

Some Puerto Rican participants in hip-hop were themselves Black or Afro-Latino.

That complicates the neat categories people sometimes try to impose on the history.

And I think that’s exactly why the conversation needs to be more sophisticated.

The Bronx wasn’t a spreadsheet.

People didn’t walk around saying:

“You are Black. You are Puerto Rican. You are Caribbean. Therefore we cannot make music together.”

They were neighbors.

They were friends.

They were competitors.

They were dancers.

They were musicians.

They were kids.

They were creating.

The Culture Was Built Through Exchange

This is what I think gets lost when people fight over who “invented” something.

Culture is rarely created by a single person.

One person might invent a technique.

Another might create a sound.

Someone else might build the party.

Someone else might create the record.

Someone else might create the dance.

Someone else might take it around the world.

Then somebody else’s kid hears it thirty years later and makes something completely new.

That’s culture.

That’s why I don’t need to say:

“Puerto Ricans invented house music.”

I don’t believe that’s historically accurate.

I don’t need to say:

“Puerto Ricans invented hip-hop.”

I don’t believe that’s historically accurate either.

What I can say, and what the historical record supports, is:

Puerto Ricans were deeply involved in the creation and development of hip-hop from its earliest Bronx years, and Puerto Rican/Nuyorican artists became important contributors to New York’s house and broader dance-music culture.

That’s powerful enough.

Because it’s true.

Erasure Doesn’t Always Look Like Hatred

Sometimes erasure is simply omission.

You make a documentary about the Bronx and don’t mention Puerto Rican participation.

You talk about the birth of hip-hop without talking about Disco Wiz.

You talk about the Cold Crush Brothers without talking about Charlie Chase.

You talk about early Latino participation without mentioning Prince Whipper Whip or Ruby Dee.

You talk about New York house without talking about Little Louie Vega.

You talk about Masters At Work without talking about their Nuyorican identity.

You talk about house vocals without talking about India.

You call something “Latin-inspired” without naming the communities that carried those sounds.

None of those omissions necessarily mean somebody is deliberately trying to erase anyone.

But collectively, they create an incomplete history.

And incomplete history becomes the history people remember.

So What Are We Actually Claiming?

This is where I want to be crystal clear.

Black Americans created the cultural foundation of hip-hop.

Black and queer communities were central to the emergence of Chicago house.

Those histories should never be erased.

But:

Puerto Ricans were present at the birth and early development of hip-hop in the Bronx.

That is documented.

Puerto Rican musicians and communities helped shape the musical environment of the Bronx.

That is documented.

Puerto Rican DJs and MCs were active participants in early hip-hop.

That is documented.

Puerto Rican/Nuyorican artists became major figures in New York house music.

That is documented.

Little Louie Vega and Kenny “Dope” Gonzalez created Nuyorican Soul as an explicit expression of their Puerto Rican/New York identity and musical influences.

That is documented. (Red Bull Music Academy⁠)

That’s the argument.

And honestly?

That’s enough.

Because We Were There

This is the part that matters most to me.

During Hispanic Heritage Month, I’m not interested in creating another argument about who owns the culture.

I’m interested in remembering the people who helped build it.

Because I’m still here.

I’m still DJing.

I’m still producing.

I’m still writing.

I’m still creating.

I’ve helped build and shape the house music culture in my own cities, Cleveland and Akron.

And I recently stood behind the decks at the Latin Festival in Akron, celebrating Puerto Rican and Latino culture through music.

On Friday, October 2nd, I’ll be doing it again at MIX at the Cleveland Museum of Art for Hispanic Heritage Month.

When I stand behind those decks, I understand something that history books sometimes fail to communicate:

Music is lineage.

You inherit sounds.

You inherit rhythms.

You inherit records.

You inherit stories.

And then you add your own chapter.

That’s what I’m doing.

We Were There.

Puerto Ricans were there.

In the Bronx.

In Harlem.

In Brooklyn.

At the block parties.

At the battles.

Behind the decks.

On the microphone.

In the dance crews.

In the record stores.

In the clubs.

In the studios.

And on the dance floors.

We weren’t there to decorate somebody else’s history.

We were participants in it.

And we’re still participants in it.

So during Hispanic Heritage Month, I don’t want Puerto Rican contributions reduced to a footnote.

I don’t want “Latin influence” to be the end of the conversation.

I want the names remembered.

I want the records played.

I want the singers acknowledged.

I want the DJs documented.

I want the dancers remembered.

I want the women remembered.

I want the Black Puerto Ricans remembered.

I want the Nuyoricans remembered.

And I want the next generation to know that when they walk into a club, step onto a dance floor, pick up a microphone or put their hands on a mixer,

they didn’t come from nowhere.

They came from somewhere.

We were there.

We are still here.

And we’re still making the music.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I’m publishing this during Hispanic Heritage Month because this conversation feels especially personal right now.

So I’m not writing about this history from a distance.

I’m deeply connected to it.

I’m a Puerto Rican/Afro-Latina DJ, producer, writer, artist and longtime participant in house-music culture.

I’ve spent decades in these spaces.

I’ve watched people come and go.

I’ve watched music change.

I’ve watched certain names become part of the official history while other names became footnotes.

And I’ve experienced what it feels like to contribute to a culture and still wonder whether people will remember that you were there.

That’s why I’m writing this.

Not to erase Black history.

Not to claim that Puerto Ricans invented hip-hop or house music.

And not to create another simplistic “who did it first?” argument.

I’m writing this because history can hold more than one truth.

Black artists and communities built the foundations of hip-hop.

Black and queer communities were central to the emergence of house music.

And Puerto Ricans were deeply involved in the development of hip-hop and became important contributors to New York’s house and dance-music culture.

All of those things can be true.

In fact, they have to be.

Because that’s what makes the history beautiful.

It’s complicated.

It’s multicultural.

It’s Black.

It’s Puerto Rican.

It’s Caribbean.

It’s New York.

It’s Chicago.

It’s queer.

It’s working class.

It’s immigrant.

It’s American.

And it’s still evolving.

One final note for anyone reading this who wants to fact-check me:

Please do.

That’s the point.

Tell me what I’ve missed.

Point me toward the records, interviews, photographs, documentaries, books and firsthand accounts that can make this history even more complete.

Because I don’t want to write the final word.

I want to open the conversation.

KEEP READING. KEEP LISTENING. KEEP DANCING.

If this piece resonated with you, subscribe to Club Kid Diary.

This is where I write about music, culture, identity, art, wellness, visibility, creativity, aging, women in music, and what it means to keep creating when the world sometimes acts like your story has already been told.

And if you want to step into the rest of my world:

Music • Art • Wellness • DJing • Culture

https://linktr.ee/LoloKnows

And there’s more music coming.

Friday, November 27, 2026

My new EP drops on Aliens On Mushrooms, the label founded by Gettoblaster.

The EP features my original track with remixes from:

Mike “Agent X” Clark — Detroit
Col Lawton — UK
Sen & Sei — Seattle

Another record.

Another chapter.

Another contribution to the lineage.

And I’m still here.

Subscribe to Club Kid Diary.

Share this article.

Send it to somebody who needs to know this history.

And if you’re Puerto Rican, Afro-Latina, Latino, Black, Caribbean, a DJ, a dancer, a singer, a produce, or simply somebody who cares about music history,

tell your story, too.

Because the culture is bigger than the people who got written into the first draft of history.

And the beat remembers.

This was not an article I expected to write today.

I woke up thinking about motherhood.

Thinking about my son Justice, who just celebrated his 28th birthday.

And then I heard the devastating news that Presley Gerber, the 27-year-old son of Cindy Crawford and Rande Gerber, had died.

According to reports, Presley died at a rehabilitation facility on September 20. His cause of death has not been disclosed, and the family has asked for privacy as they navigate what no parent should ever have to navigate, the loss of a child. (Reuters⁠)

And something in me cracked open.

I cried last night before I went to bed.

Not because I knew Presley.

Not because I have some connection to that family.

But because I am a mother.

And because I looked at my own children and felt an overwhelming gratitude that they are still here.

Still breathing.

Still growing.

Still working.

Still figuring out who they are.

Still making mistakes.

Still becoming.

Still here.

And sometimes we need moments like this to remind us how precious “still here” really is.

We don’t know the day or the hour.

That sounds like something we’ve all heard before.

But sometimes a piece of news makes those words feel completely different.

We move through our lives believing there will always be another birthday.

Another phone call.

Another dinner.

Another argument that eventually gets resolved.

Another hug.

Another chance to say, I love you.

Another opportunity to tell our children how proud we are of them.

We assume tomorrow.

Until something reminds us that tomorrow has never actually been promised to any of us.

We are all walking our own paths.

We don’t know the circumstances.

We don’t know the day.

We don’t know the hour.

And that is both frightening and deeply humbling.

Motherhood doesn’t come with guarantees.

One of the hardest things about being a mother is realizing that our love cannot protect our children from everything.

We can teach them.

We can pray for them.

We can support them.

We can encourage them to make good decisions.

We can try to recognize when something is wrong.

We can open our homes and our hearts.

We can tell them, Call me. Anytime. Day or night.

But our children are still human beings living their own lives.

They have their own struggles.

Their own choices.

Their own wounds.

Their own battles that sometimes we can see, and sometimes we can’t.

Mental health struggles and substance use can devastate entire families. And they do not only happen in one kind of household.

They don’t ask how much money you have.

They don’t care what your last name is.

They don’t care whether your mother is famous.

They don’t care whether you grew up with privilege or without it.

They don’t care how beautiful your life may look from the outside.

Pain doesn’t check your bank account before it enters your house.

And neither does addiction.

Neither does depression.

Neither does grief.

Neither does fear.

Privilege doesn’t make us immune to suffering.

That is one of the things I have been thinking about the most.

We sometimes look at people who appear to have everything and unconsciously assume they must be protected from the things that happen to ordinary families.

But there is no such protection.

You can have money and still be heartbroken.

You can have access to the best resources and still struggle.

You can be surrounded by people and still feel alone.

You can have parents who love you deeply and still have battles that your family cannot fight for you.

Presley had spoken publicly about his mental health and addiction struggles and had even used his platform to encourage conversations about mental health. His death is a painful reminder that talking about these things matters, but that talking about them does not mean the struggle is simple or easily solved. (The Guardian⁠)

And I don’t want to pretend that I understand what Cindy Crawford or Rande Gerber are experiencing right now.

I don’t.

There are some kinds of pain you cannot understand until life puts you inside of it.

But I understand being a mother.

And I understand looking at your child and thinking:

Please be okay.

Please be safe.

Please find your way.

Please come home.

Please keep going.

Tonight, I am grateful.

I am grateful for Justice turning 28.

I am grateful for Jordan.

I am grateful for Dominique.

I am grateful for my children being here.

I am grateful for their lives, not because they are perfect, but because they are theirs.

I am grateful for the conversations we’ve had.

The disagreements.

The laughter.

The birthdays.

The phone calls.

The things I wish I had done differently.

The things I got right.

All of it.

Because motherhood has taught me that sometimes the ordinary moments are the extraordinary ones.

Your child walking through the door.

Hearing their voice.

Seeing their name pop up on your phone.

Watching them work toward something.

Watching them struggle and then get back up.

Watching them become adults right in front of you.

These are the things we can so easily overlook because we are busy living.

But maybe we shouldn’t.

Maybe we should stop every now and then and really look.

Really listen.

Really hug them.

Really say the thing we’ve been meaning to say.

To the mothers reading this…

Call your child.

Even if you haven’t talked in a while.

Even if you’re annoyed with each other.

Even if the relationship is complicated.

Even if there are things that need to be worked out.

Send the text.

Say, I love you.

Say, I’m proud of you.

Say, I’m here.

And if your child is struggling with mental health or substance use, please don’t let shame convince you that you have to hide it.

There is no shame in asking for help.

There is no shame in treatment.

There is no shame in admitting that your family needs support.

And there is no shame in loving someone through something you don’t fully understand.

We don’t know what tomorrow holds.

But we do have today.

And today, my children are here.

Today, I can love them.

Today, I can tell them.

Today, I can be grateful.

And tonight, that feels like enough.

My heart is with Cindy Crawford, Rande Gerber, Kaia, and everyone who loved Presley.

May their family be given the privacy, compassion, and space to grieve this unimaginable loss.

And may Presley be remembered not simply for the circumstances surrounding his death, but as a human being who was loved, who struggled, who tried, and who mattered.

Because every child matters.

Every family matters.

And every mother who has ever whispered a prayer over her child understands exactly what I mean.

Hold them a little closer today.

You never know how precious this moment really is.

Author’s Note

I wrote this from one mother to another.

I don’t know the Gerber family personally, and I don’t know what ultimately happened to Presley. His cause of death has not been publicly established at the time of this writing. (NBC Los Angeles⁠)

What I do know is what it feels like to love your children so deeply that their existence becomes one of the greatest sources of gratitude in your life.

This news made me stop.

It made me cry.

And it made me look at my own life differently for a moment.

Maybe that’s what grief can sometimes do, even grief for someone we never personally knew. It reminds us to pay attention to the people we love while they’re still here.

Please consider subscribing to my Club Kid Diary for more news and thoughts.

With love,

LOLO

https://linktr.ee/LoloKnows

Twenty-five years ago, I was in New York City for what felt like a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I had waited my whole life to see Michael Jackson.

Not just Michael Jackson, but Michael and the Jackson 5.

And somehow, I ended up with a VIP ticket to his 30th Anniversary Concert at Madison Square Garden.

What I didn’t know was that I was also about to experience one of those moments in life that I would never forget for an entirely different reason.

Because I was in New York City the night before September 11, 2001.

And somehow, I was told to leave.

I just didn’t know why.

The Concert of Concerts

I was staying at my sister’s house in Queens. My mother was there, and my three boys were visiting with me.

I had my outfit together, too.

Braids. Leather halter vest. Camo-green skinny jeans. Black boots.

I felt GOOD.

I took the subway into Manhattan by myself, ready to live out a dream.

Along the way, I met a couple of gentlemen who were also going to the concert. Somehow, we ended up back at their hotel near Madison Square Garden before the show, pregaming and getting ready to head over together.

And then we walked into what was basically the concert of concerts.

My VIP seat was on the floor, right in the middle of Madison Square Garden. There was a private bartender.

And I was sitting near celebrities.

David Hasselhoff.

Busta Rhymes.

Then the performances started.

Whitney Houston.

Luther Vandross.

Usher.

NSYNC.

Britney Spears.

Elizabeth Taylor.

Macaulay Culkin.

I saw everybody.

And Michael Jackson.

Michael.

Jackson.

I had waited my whole life for that moment.

And I was THERE.

I took pictures from the show because I already knew I was experiencing something special.

I just didn’t know how significant that night was going to become.

Then Came the After-Party

After the concert, we headed to the China Club for the after-party.

And let me tell you something about New York City.

It’s about energy.

If you carry the right energy and you’re aligned with the vibe, sometimes doors just open.

We walked up to the China Club and I was let right in.

No drama. No questions.

Just in.

I stayed until around 3 in the morning.

I was having a damn good time.

But then I got that feeling.

You know the one.

That little voice.

That pull.

That thing inside you that says:

It’s time to go.

I didn’t want to leave.

But something in me wouldn’t let it go.

So I listened.

I knew I wasn’t taking the subway at that hour.

I needed a cab.

And as soon as I stepped outside, there was a black sedan sitting right there.

I got in.

The ride back to Queens cost me $45.

I laugh now thinking about what that ride would cost today, and what that Michael Jackson VIP ticket would cost today.

But that $45 cab ride may have been one of the best $45 I ever spent.

“Get Up. Get the Kids. Go.”

I got back to my sister’s house.

I slept for maybe a couple of hours.

Then it happened again.

That feeling.

Only this time it was stronger.

Get up.

Get the kids ready.

You need to leave this morning.

I didn’t know what was happening.

I didn’t have a reason.

There was no logical explanation.

But I knew I needed to go.

My boys were three, six, and nine years old.

So I got them up.

Got them dressed.

Packed everybody into the car.

And we left around 8 AM.

The Morning Everything Changed

We headed out of Queens.

We crossed the Whitestone Bridge into the Bronx and got onto the Cross Bronx Expressway, heading west on I-95 toward the George Washington Bridge.

And then we hit a wall.

The George Washington Bridge was closed.

Traffic was stopped.

Someone said there had been a bomb threat.

Then someone else said the Twin Towers had been hit.

I turned on the news.

I turned on Howard Stern.

And suddenly I was hearing what was happening in real time.

I could see the smoke.

I was sitting there thinking:

What the fuck is happening?

Just hours earlier, I had been in Manhattan.

I had been at Madison Square Garden.

I had been at a party until 3 in the morning.

I had been asked to stay in New York.

And something inside me had said:

Leave.

Now my three babies were sitting in the backseat.

They were too young to understand what was happening.

But I understood enough to know that I needed to get them home.

I Didn’t Look Back

New York was shutting down.

Traffic wasn’t moving.

People were trying to figure out how to get out.

Cell phone service went down for a while.

My little sister was trying to reach me because nobody knew exactly where I was or what I was doing. My family may have thought I was still in the city or even on a plane.

Nobody knew.

I just knew I had my children in that backseat.

So I kept moving.

We eventually took an exit near the bridge and rerouted through New Jersey.

A drive that normally took about seven and a half hours took us eleven.

Eleven hours of uncertainty.

Eleven hours of watching the world change.

Eleven hours of just trying to get my babies home.

And I couldn’t help but think about how different everything could have been.

I could have stayed at the after-party longer.

I could have ignored the feeling telling me to leave.

I could have slept longer that morning.

I could have said, “We’ll leave later.”

I could have done a hundred different things.

But I didn’t.

I listened.

God Doesn’t Always Give You the Whole Story

This is what I’ve learned about intuition, faith, and God.

Sometimes you don’t get the explanation.

You get the instruction.

Wait.

Go.

Leave.

Don’t take that road.

Get up.

Don’t stay.

And you have to trust it before you understand it.

I didn’t know what I was leaving that morning.

I just knew I needed to leave.

Looking back now, I realize there were so many little moments that could have gone differently.

But they didn’t.

The cab was there.

I left the club.

I woke up.

I got my kids ready.

I left Queens.

I got to the bridge after it had closed.

And somehow, we made it home.

I don’t call that luck.

I call that protection.

Because sometimes God will move you before you understand what He’s moving you away from.

And when I look back on that night, and that morning, I can only say one thing:

God don’t play about me.

And apparently, He don’t play about my babies either.

Author’s Note

This is the second story in my God Don’t Play About Me series, real stories from my life that have made me look back and say, Ohhhhhh. Now I understand why that happened.

These aren’t stories about having all the answers.

They’re about intuition. Timing. Protection. Discernment. Faith.

And learning to recognize the difference between your own thoughts and that deep-down feeling telling you, MOVE.

If you’ve ever had a moment where you listened to something you couldn’t explain, and later understood exactly why, you already know what I’m talking about.

Subscribe to Club Kid Diary, share this story with somebody who needs the reminder, and follow everything Lolo Knows:

https://linktr.ee/loloknows

Listen to the nudge.

Trust the timing.

And when God says GO—GO.

I have a lot of stories that make me believe God has been quietly looking out for me my entire life.

Not always in some big, dramatic, burning-bush kind of way.

Sometimes protection has looked like a stranger stepping beside me.

Sometimes it has looked like somebody showing up at exactly the right moment.

And sometimes it has simply been a feeling telling me, “Wait.”

I’ve learned to pay attention.

One of my favorite examples happened years ago at a hip-hop club called The Mirage in the Flats of Cleveland.

Now, if you’ve ever been in a packed nightclub bathroom, you already know the situation. The line is long, everybody is watching everybody, and there is an unspoken understanding about who is next.

I was standing in that busy-ass line, waiting my turn.

I was next.

At least, that’s what I thought.

A woman walked right past me and took the stall that was supposed to be mine.

I told her, “I’m next.”

Instead of saying, “Oh, my bad,” she decided she wanted to get in my face.

Now, I’m not somebody who goes looking for trouble. But I’m also not easily intimidated. I wasn’t about to start fighting over a bathroom stall, but I wasn’t going to shrink either.

And then something happened that I will never forget.

Three Hispanic women who were standing in that same bathroom line stepped up beside me.

I had never seen these women before in my life.

They didn’t know me.

They didn’t know her.

But they looked at this woman like:

“Is there a problem?”

That’s it.

Three complete strangers had suddenly become my bathroom security detail.

And guess what?

The woman backed the hell off.

I still laugh when I think about it because what were the odds?

But the story gets even better.

When I came out of the bathroom, the owner of the club, someone I knew, was standing right outside the door.

He looked at me and asked, “Are you okay?”

I told him what happened.

That woman ended up getting kicked out of the club.

Now listen.

God don’t play about me.

I mean that.

Because these kinds of moments have happened to me more times than I can count.

I’ve had situations where I could have responded differently, gone somewhere I wasn’t supposed to go, trusted someone I shouldn’t have trusted, or moved when I should have waited.

And somehow, something intervened.

I’ve started to understand that protection doesn’t always mean preventing something from happening.

Sometimes protection means giving you the discernment to know how to respond when something does happen.

That’s a different kind of protection.

And I experienced that again just last night.

I was out late and getting ready to leave. I was about to get into my car and head home when I got this strong feeling:

Wait.

Don’t get in the car yet.

Be patient.

So I did.

I waited.

And I’m glad I listened.

I don’t necessarily need to know exactly what I was being protected from.

That’s the part I’m learning.

Sometimes we want God to give us the entire explanation before we’ll obey the smallest instruction.

Why should I wait?

What’s going to happen?

What am I waiting for?

But maybe the instruction isn’t supposed to come with a PowerPoint presentation.

Maybe it’s just:

Wait.

I’ve gotten older and I’ve learned to respect those moments.

The pause.

The gut feeling.

The hesitation.

The unexpected person who shows up.

The door that suddenly closes.

The situation that doesn’t work out.

The stranger who steps in.

The feeling that tells you not to engage.

Not every warning needs an explanation.

Not every act of protection will make sense in the moment.

And sometimes the smartest thing you can do is stop trying to figure it all out and simply listen.

Because I’ve learned something about myself:

I don’t always need to fight my way out of a situation.

Sometimes I just need to stand there and let God send the backup.

Apparently, that backup may come in the form of three random women in a nightclub bathroom.

And honestly?

I’ll take it.

Because when I look back over my life, I can see moments where I thought I was simply lucky.

Now I see them differently.

Maybe I wasn’t lucky.

Maybe I was being guided.

Maybe I was being redirected.

Maybe I was being protected.

Maybe I was being reminded:

Girl, I’ve got you.

And that’s why I have a lot of stories to tell.

This is only the first one.

Welcome to God Don’t Play About Me.

Author’s Note

I’ve been thinking about how many moments in my life could fall under this category, those strange, perfectly timed moments when I felt protected, redirected, or told to pause.

So I’m turning them into a series.

God Don’t Play About Me is going to be a collection of true stories about intuition, protection, discernment, timing, and the moments that make me look back and say, Ohhhhhh. Now I understand why that happened.

If you’ve ever had one of those moments where something told you to wait, walk away, don’t go, don’t answer, don’t engage, or where the right person appeared at exactly the right time, I want to hear about it.

Subscribe to Club Kid Diary, share this story with somebody who needs the reminder that protection doesn’t always look the way we expect it to, and stay tuned for the next one.

Until then, trust your gut. Pay attention to the signs. And when you hear that little voice say “wait”…

WAIT. 😂

Find everything Lolo Knows here: linktr.ee/loloknows

I thought I was searching for answers about cancer.

Instead, I found myself.

It all began when my doctor recommended genetic testing after my sister tested positive for the BRCA1 gene. Because of her results, she had to undergo preventative surgeries to dramatically reduce her risk of developing cancer. Watching someone you love make those decisions changes you. It reminds you that our bodies carry stories long before we’re born.

Thankfully, my BRCA1 test came back negative.

But because both of my parents passed away from brain cancer, my doctors wanted to dig deeper. We knew very little about my family’s medical history beyond my parents. Their parents’ stories had largely disappeared with time, leaving unanswered questions about both our health and our heritage.

So they ordered additional genetic testing.

I expected medical information.

What I received instead was a mirror.

Not the kind that reflects your face.

The kind that reflects your soul.

As I read through the results, I wasn’t looking at percentages. I was looking at thousands of years of humanity. Every region represented people who traveled, adapted, survived, loved, created, and left pieces of themselves behind so that someday, I could exist.

For the first time, I realized that my ancestry explains far more than where I came from.

It explains who I have always been.

My DNA stretches across Europe, North Africa, the Middle East, Sub-Saharan Africa, and Indigenous America. At first glance, those places seem worlds apart.

But they aren’t.

They’re connected by migration, trade, music, storytelling, art, resilience, and an endless search for belonging.

When I sat with that realization, something clicked.

I’ve spent my entire life doing exactly the same thing.

As a massage therapist, people from every walk of life climb onto my table. Different backgrounds. Different beliefs. Different struggles. Yet beneath the surface, every body responds to compassion, kindness, and healing in remarkably similar ways.

Pain doesn’t discriminate.

Neither does healing.

As a DJ, I’ve always been drawn to house music, not simply because I love the music itself, but because of what happens on the dance floor.

House music was born from people who often existed on the margins. Black communities. Latino communities. LGBTQ+ communities. It became a place where differences weren’t erased, they were celebrated.

The dance floor became a meeting place.

So is my DNA.

When I look at my ancestry, I see continents meeting one another over thousands of years. Europeans crossing into North Africa. North African influence shaping Spain. Middle Eastern trade routes connecting civilizations. African ancestry carried through generations. Indigenous roots grounding the story of the Americas.

It isn’t one culture.

It’s many cultures learning to exist together.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never fit neatly inside one box.

I’ve always felt most alive standing at the intersection of different worlds.

Music and wellness.

Science and spirituality.

Art and business.

The underground and the mainstream.

None of these identities compete with one another.

They collaborate.

Even my artwork now feels different through this lens.

I’ve always been drawn to bold colors, layered textures, organic movement, circles, repetition, and abstract forms that seem to emerge rather than be planned. Looking back, I wonder if I’ve always been trying to paint what my DNA already knew, that identity isn’t linear.

It’s layered.

Every brushstroke covers another story while allowing traces of what came before to remain visible.

Isn’t that exactly what ancestry is?

A painting that never truly dries.

The more I studied my results, the more I became fascinated by Sardinia, a place scientists often describe as a genetic time capsule, preserving some of Europe’s oldest ancestry.

Then there were my North African roots, reminding me that the Mediterranean wasn’t a border.

It was a bridge.

Cultures didn’t simply coexist there.

They influenced one another.

Shared ideas.

Shared food.

Shared music.

Shared bloodlines.

As someone who has spent years creating community through music, and wellness, I couldn’t help but smile.

I’ve been building bridges my entire life.

My African ancestry reminded me of resilience, rhythm, and creativity that transformed the world despite unimaginable hardship.

My Indigenous ancestry reminded me to stay connected to the earth, intuition, and the understanding that healing isn’t separate from nature.

My Ashkenazi Jewish ancestry spoke of endurance, faith, and preserving culture across centuries of displacement.

None of these stories stand alone.

Neither do I.

When I write, I’m rarely writing only about myself.

I’m writing about us.

About the collective experiences that connect strangers.

About the invisible threads that remind us we’re more alike than we are different.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been drawn to storytelling.

I’m not trying to convince anyone of anything.

I’m simply uncovering connections.

The same connections my DNA has been carrying for thousands of years.

What began as a medical test became one of the most profound experiences of my life.

Yes, I was relieved to learn I don’t carry the BRCA1 mutation.

But I also received something I never expected.

Perspective.

I inherited farmers who cultivated the first fields.

Nomads who crossed deserts.

Artists.

Builders.

Musicians.

Traders.

Storytellers.

Survivors.

Every one of them lives within me.

Maybe that’s why creating has never felt like a choice.

It feels like remembering.

My ancestry isn’t just where my family came from.

It’s why I instinctively create spaces where people gather.

Why I believe music heals.

Why I trust that touch can restore what words cannot.

Why I paint layers instead of perfection.

Why I continue to tell stories that invite people to see themselves in one another.

Looking into my DNA wasn’t like opening a history book.

It was like standing in front of a mirror.

And for the first time, I realized I wasn’t looking at fragments.

I was looking at a masterpiece that had been thousands of years in the making.

Maybe we all are.

AN AUTHOR’S NOTE

The older I get, the more curious I become about the things that made me me.

The music I gravitate toward. The art I make. The way I connect with strangers. My obsession with movement, rhythm, healing, storytelling, and bringing people together.

Maybe some of it is simply who I am.

And maybe some of it is who came before me.

I don’t know exactly where every thread of my ancestry leads yet. And honestly, that’s what makes this journey so fascinating. There are still questions. There are still missing pieces. There are still stories I haven’t uncovered.

So I’m going to keep digging.

That’s what The Lolo Archives is really about.

It’s not just a place for me to talk about music, art, wellness, culture, aging, creativity, or the strange and beautiful experience of being a woman who is still making shit.

It’s a place to investigate all of it.

To look beneath the surface.

To ask better questions.

To challenge what we’ve been told.

To remember what we’ve forgotten.

And to make sense of this wild thing called being alive.

If you enjoy coming down these rabbit holes with me, subscribe to The Lolo Archives. Share this piece with someone who might be asking questions about where they came from, too.

And if you want to support my work, my music, writing, art, wellness projects, and everything else I’m creating, you can find all of it in one place through my link here.

https://linktr.ee/LoloKnows

Keep digging. Keep creating. Keep questioning.

We are all carrying stories we haven’t finished telling.

I don’t want to be relevant. I want to be curious.

I’ve been thinking a lot about relevance lately.

What it means. Who gets to decide it. How quickly it comes and goes. And how much of our creative lives can become consumed by the idea that we have to remain visible, current, interesting, wanted.

Especially now.

We live in a time where algorithms have somehow become part of the creative process.

Post more.

Release more.

Be consistent.

Follow the trend.

Use the right sound.

Make the reel.

Stay visible.

Don’t disappear.

Don’t let people forget you.

Whatever you do, don’t become irrelevant.

But I’ve started asking myself a different question:

What if I stopped trying so hard to be relevant?

What would I make then?

What would I say?

What would I explore?

Who would I become creatively if I wasn’t constantly thinking about how something might be received?

And honestly, I think I already know the answer.

I would make exactly what I’m making now.

I would write.

I would paint.

I would make music.

I would think out loud.

I would follow whatever is pulling at me.

Because at this point in my life, I’m less interested in chasing relevance and much more interested in following curiosity.

I Have Had Things to Say for a Long Time

There is another reason writing has become so important to me.

I have had a lot to say.

For years.

Even during the times when I went silent.

Even during the times when I was silenced.

There were thoughts sitting inside me that never got spoken.

Experiences I didn’t know how to articulate yet.

Things I wanted to question.

Things I wanted to challenge.

Things I wanted to celebrate.

Things I wanted to understand.

And maybe I wasn’t ready.

Maybe the circumstances weren’t right.

Maybe I didn’t have the platform.

Maybe I simply didn’t know that writing would eventually become one of the ways I found my way back to myself.

But it has.

Writing brought me back.

Not to some younger version of myself.

Not to who I was supposed to be.

Back to the person I am becoming.

I write every single day.

The same way I paint.

The same way I make music.

It fuels my spirit.

It gives all these thoughts running around in my head somewhere to go.

And the beautiful thing about writing is that I don’t have to wait for somebody to give me permission.

I don’t need a booking.

I don’t need a label.

I don’t need a gallery.

I don’t need somebody else’s approval.

I can sit down and put the words on the page.

That, to me, is freedom.

Curiosity Is a Better Compass Than Relevance

Relevance asks:

Will people like this?

Curiosity asks:

What happens if I try this?

Relevance asks:

Is this what people are talking about?

Curiosity asks:

Why does this interest me?

Relevance asks:

Will this perform?

Curiosity asks:

Where can I take this?

Those questions create completely different kinds of artists.

One keeps you looking outward.

The other brings you back home.

And I think I’ve spent enough time looking outward.

I want to come home.

I want to make something because it won’t leave me alone.

I want to write about the thought that keeps circling my head.

I want to make a record because I heard something in my mind.

I want to paint because there is an image I need to get out of my body and onto a canvas.

I want to ask uncomfortable questions.

I want to explore ideas that may not fit neatly into a trend.

I want to follow the thread.

Even if I don’t know where it leads.

Especially if I don’t know where it leads.

I Don’t Need to Be Everywhere

There was a time when I thought I needed to be everywhere.

Every room.

Every event.

Every conversation.

Every platform.

Every opportunity.

There is a particular kind of fear that comes with being an artist in a culture obsessed with the next person.

You start wondering:

Are they forgetting me?

Am I still relevant?

Should I be doing more?

Why aren’t they calling?

Why did they book them and not me?

What am I doing wrong?

And sometimes the answer is:

Nothing.

Sometimes you are simply watching somebody else’s journey while forgetting that you are living your own.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my creative life measuring myself against somebody else’s timeline.

At 53, I have absolutely no interest in competing with somebody else’s 27-year-old journey.

I don’t want to be younger.

I don’t want to pretend I’m younger.

I don’t want to manufacture some version of myself that looks current enough to satisfy an algorithm.

I want to be me, now.

And that is enough.

Maybe Relevance Is a Side Effect

Here’s the funny thing.

The people who remain interesting to me over time aren’t necessarily the people who tried the hardest to remain relevant.

They’re the people who stayed curious.

They kept learning.

They kept experimenting.

They kept changing.

They kept making.

They weren’t afraid to become something different than the version of themselves people originally fell in love with.

That’s important.

Because artists aren’t supposed to be frozen in time.

We change.

Our lives change.

Our relationships change.

Our bodies change.

Our perspectives change.

We lose people.

We fall in love.

We get disappointed.

We start over.

We discover new things.

We become people our younger selves couldn’t have imagined.

Why shouldn’t the work change too?

I’m Leaving Something Behind

This might be the part that matters most to me now.

I don’t just write for today.

I don’t paint for today.

I don’t make music only for today.

I’m leaving something behind.

Not in some grandiose, look at me, I am important kind of way.

I mean it in the most human way possible.

I am leaving pieces of myself behind.

My thoughts.

My questions.

My observations.

My stories.

My mistakes.

My joy

My curiosity.

My way of seeing the world.

My children will be able to come back to these words someday.

The people who know me will be able to find pieces of me here.

And maybe generations after them will stumble across something I wrote and recognize a feeling they couldn’t quite put into words themselves.

Maybe they’ll read something and think:

Oh. I understand this.

Maybe something I made will remind somebody of who they are.

Maybe a painting will make somebody feel something.

Maybe a song will find somebody at exactly the right moment.

Maybe a sentence will make someone question something they’ve accepted for years.

That matters to me.

Because I don’t think our creative lives are only about what happens while we’re here.

I think there is something beautiful about leaving evidence that we were here.

That we thought.

That we felt.

That we questioned.

That we made.

That we tried.

That we were paying attention.

I Don’t Want to Be the Coolest Person in the Room

I want to be the person who is still asking questions.

I want to be fascinated.

I want to be surprised.

I want to keep learning.

I want to make things that scare me a little.

I want to write something that makes somebody uncomfortable.

I want to make something nobody expected.

I want to change my mind.

I want to experiment.

I want to fail.

I want to make the weird record.

Paint the strange painting.

Write the uncomfortable essay.

Play the song that makes sense to me.

I want to keep making shit.

And if people come along for the ride, that’s beautiful.

But I don’t want their attention to be the fuel anymore.

The work is the fuel.

Writing is the fuel.

Painting is the fuel.

Music is the fuel.

Curiosity is the fuel.

And maybe that is what happens when you stop trying to be relevant.

You breathe.

You get quieter.

You start noticing things again.

You stop checking the numbers every five minutes.

You stop comparing your chapter to somebody else’s highlight reel.

You stop asking whether everyone else thinks what you’re doing matters.

And you start asking yourself:

Does this matter to me?

That’s the question I want to keep answering.

Because relevance is temporary.

Trends expire.

Algorithms change.

Numbers fluctuate.

People move on.

The internet forgets.

But the things we create can remain.

A song.

A painting.

A paragraph.

A photograph.

A conversation.

A thought.

A feeling.

A record of a life.

So no, I don’t think I’m interested in being relevant anymore.

I think I’m interested in being present.

Interested.

Curious.

Honest.

Creative.

Alive.

And leaving a little evidence behind.

Because maybe the goal was never to be remembered by everyone.

Maybe the goal is simply to leave behind enough of yourself that the people who come after you can find a little piece of themselves in what you made.

And that feels like a much better legacy to me.

I want to be curious.

I want to keep making shit.

And I want to keep leaving pieces of myself behind.

Author’s Note

I think I’m finally understanding why writing has become such an important part of my creative life.

For years, I had things inside me that needed somewhere to go. Even when I wasn’t speaking, I was thinking. Even when I was silent, there were stories, opinions, questions, observations, and feelings accumulating inside me.

Writing has given them a home.

I write every day, just like I paint and make music. None of these things feel separate to me anymore. They’re all different languages for the same thing: trying to understand myself and the world around me.

If you’ve been reading my words, thank you.

If something I’ve written has made you think, challenged you, comforted you, pissed you off, or simply made you feel a little less alone, then I’m doing exactly what I hope to do.

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Thank you for being here.

I’m still making shit.

And I’m just getting started.

A reflection on support, family, friendship, boundaries, and learning to stop chasing a seat at tables that never made room for you.

A friend of mine, Quentin Allen, CEO of Intimate Venue Recordings here in Cleveland, recently shared a thought that stopped me in my tracks.

He said:

“If you don’t support your friends and/or family from day 1 with the dreams they are working on….. and then their dreams they needed support on eventually happen…….. Don’t complain when you are not invited or included in the celebrations.”

And whew.

That one hit differently.

Because sometimes you don’t realize how much something has been bothering you until someone else puts words around it.

For me, it brought up something I have been thinking about a lot lately: the people who show up when you’re building versus the people who suddenly appear once you’ve built something worth celebrating.

There is a difference.

A big one.

I Don’t Need You to Believe in Everything I Do. But I Notice When You Don’t Show Up.

Let’s be honest.

We all have different interests. Different dreams. Different paths.

I don’t expect everyone in my life to understand my music, my art, my writing, my DJ career, my creative projects, or every crazy idea that comes out of my head.

You don’t have to understand the dream to respect the person dreaming it.

And you certainly don’t have to become my biggest fan.

But support doesn’t always mean buying something.

Sometimes support is a text.

“Hey, I saw what you’re doing. That’s amazing.”

Sometimes it’s sharing a post.

Showing up to an event.

Listening to the song.

Reading the article.

Recommending your friend’s business to someone who needs their services.

Celebrating a small win before it becomes a big one.

Sometimes it’s simply saying:

“I’m proud of you.”

Those things matter.

Especially when someone is still in the messy middle.

Because everybody loves the finished product.

Not everybody wants to stand around while you’re building it.

And Family Can Hurt the Most

This is where it gets complicated for me.

Because friendship is one thing.

Family is different.

When people live fifteen minutes away from you and you consistently don’t get invited to family gatherings, celebrations, dinners, or get-togethers, and there hasn’t been some big falling-out or obvious conflict, that can sting.

Especially when you’re often the person who has to reach out first just to maintain the relationship.

At some point you start asking yourself:

“If I stopped reaching out, would they even notice?”

And that is not an easy question to sit with.

There are moments when you realize that you’ve been doing the emotional labor of maintaining a relationship that the other person seems perfectly comfortable allowing to fade.

And that’s painful.

Not because you need an invitation to everything.

Not because you believe you are entitled to anyone’s time.

But because being consistently excluded communicates something.

And eventually, you have to decide whether you’re going to keep knocking on a door that nobody seems interested in opening.

Then There Are the “What Can You Do for Me?” People

This one is another level.

Because suddenly, when you’re doing something exciting, people notice.

When the music starts moving.

When opportunities start coming.

When your name starts showing up in places it didn’t before.

When people begin recognizing your work.

When your little idea starts becoming an actual thing.

Suddenly,

“Hey! Can you help me with this?”

“Can you promote this?”

“Can you connect me with so-and-so?”

“Can you come support me?”

And you’re sitting there thinking:

Where were you when I was building?

Where were you when I was figuring it out?

Where were you when I needed encouragement?

Where were you when nobody knew my name?

Where were you when the room wasn’t glamorous?

Where were you when I was showing up for everybody else?

I don’t believe in keeping score in relationships.

But I do believe in paying attention to patterns.

There is a difference.

I’m Learning to Pay Attention to Reciprocity

I’ve reached a point in my life where I don’t want relationships based on obligation.

I don’t want friendships where I’m always the one initiating.

I don’t want family relationships where I constantly wonder whether I am actually wanted.

I don’t want people around me who only become interested in my life when something exciting is happening.

And I certainly don’t want to shrink what I’m doing just to make someone else comfortable.

I’m learning to choose my circle more carefully.

Not because I think I’m better than anyone.

But because where you place your energy matters.

Your energy is finite.

Your time is finite.

Your creativity is finite.

Your emotional capacity is finite.

And if you spend all of it trying to convince people to care about you, there may not be enough left to build the life you’re actually supposed to be living.

Sometimes Unfriending Isn’t Hate. It’s Acceptance.

I’ve recently made some decisions about who has access to me.

And I’ve had to remind myself that removing someone from my social media doesn’t necessarily mean I hate them.

Sometimes it simply means:

I’m no longer pretending this relationship is something it isn’t.

That’s a powerful distinction.

We don’t have to villainize people to create distance.

We don’t have to have a dramatic confrontation.

We don’t have to announce our boundaries to the world.

Sometimes you simply stop chasing.

You stop explaining.

You stop initiating.

You stop trying to earn a place where you should have already felt welcome.

And you redirect that energy toward the people who actually show up.

Pay Attention to Who Claps Before the Applause

This is the part I really want you to remember.

If you’re building something right now and nobody seems to notice…

Keep building.

If you’re writing the book and nobody is reading yet…

Keep writing.

If you’re making the music and the numbers aren’t where you want them…

Keep making the music.

If you’re starting the business and nobody understands your vision…

Keep going.

If you’re creating art and people don’t understand what they’re looking at…

Keep creating.

If you’re reinventing yourself and some people don’t recognize the person you’re becoming…

Let them adjust.

Your job isn’t to convince everyone to believe in your vision.

Your job is to live it.

And along the way, notice who is standing beside you.

Notice who checks in.

Notice who shares your work.

Notice who celebrates the tiny victories.

Notice who asks, “How can I help?”

Notice who comes to the event when there isn’t a VIP section.

Notice who listens to the song before it’s released.

Notice who reads the first draft.

Notice who says, “I knew you could do this.”

Those people are precious.

Hold onto them.

And If You’re the One Feeling Left Out…

Maybe you’re reading this because you’ve been feeling the same thing.

Maybe you’re watching people you love celebrate without you.

Maybe you’ve been excluded from family gatherings.

Maybe your friends stopped calling.

Maybe you feel like people only remember you when they need something.

Maybe you’ve been wondering whether you’re the problem.

Please hear me:

You don’t have to chase belonging.

The right people won’t make you constantly question whether you belong in their lives.

And sometimes the most loving thing you can do for yourself is accept that a relationship has changed.

That doesn’t mean you failed.

It doesn’t mean you’re unlovable.

It doesn’t mean you aren’t worthy of family, friendship, community, or celebration.

It simply means you may have outgrown the role you were playing in that relationship.

And that’s okay.

Build Your Own Table

Maybe that’s the real lesson.

Stop waiting to be invited to the table.

Build your own.

Invite the people who believed in you when you were still figuring it out.

Invite the friend who shared your work when nobody else did.

Invite the person who showed up when the room was empty.

Invite the people who celebrate your growth without secretly resenting it.

Invite the people who don’t need to compete with your light.

Invite the people who are genuinely happy when you win.

And most importantly…

Become that person for someone else.

Be the person who shows up early.

Be the person who shares the post.

Be the person who buys the record.

Be the person who comes to the opening.

Be the person who sends the encouraging text.

Be the person who says, “I see what you’re building.”

Because we never know what a little support might mean to someone who is still standing in the middle of their dream.

And maybe that’s the real message in Quentin’s words.

Don’t wait until somebody wins to decide you believe in them.

Support them while they’re becoming.

Because when they finally reach the mountaintop, don’t be surprised if the people standing beside them are the ones who were willing to walk the hill with them.

And if you’re currently walking that hill alone?

Keep walking.

Your people are out there.

Sometimes you just have to stop chasing the ones who aren’t.

Keep building. Keep creating. Keep becoming.

And when your moment comes, celebrate it with the people who helped you believe it was possible.

If This Resonated With You…

If you’ve ever felt overlooked by family, forgotten by friends, or unsupported while building something you believed in, I hope you know you’re not alone.

And I hope this reminds you to keep going.

I’m building, writing, creating, making music, telling stories, and figuring out what this next chapter looks like in real time.

If you want to come along for the journey, I’d love to have you here.

❤️ Like this post. Share it with someone who needs to read it. And subscribe to my Substack so we can keep having these conversations.

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Because we’re not just talking about the things I’m creating.

We’re talking about what it means to keep becoming.

When the work is over, the applause is gone and we’re no longer here to tell our own story, what will our character say about us?

When I was growing up, I remember hearing something that has stayed with me for most of my life:

The only thing you truly leave this world with is your character. Make it a good one.

I don’t remember who said it to me.

I don’t remember where I heard it.

But I remember the feeling of it.

Because even as a young person, I understood there was something different between what you have and who you are.

You can lose everything you own.

You can lose your career.

You can lose your status.

You can lose your beauty.

You can lose your relevance.

But the way you treated people? The things you stood for? The damage you caused? The love you gave?

Those things have a way of surviving you.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.

Over the last few weeks, we’ve watched several very recognizable people leave this world: Hayden Panettiere, Dolly Parton, Tim Curry and, most recently, legendary artist Yayoi Kusama.

Four very different people.

Four very different lives.

Four very different legacies.

And somehow, their deaths have made me think less about celebrity and much more about character.

Because when someone dies, the conversation changes.

There is no next project.

No next album.

No next movie.

No next painting.

No next interview.

The work is finished.

And what remains is the story.

Dolly Parton: Character as Generosity

Dolly Parton lived 80 years and built an extraordinary life.

She came from poverty in rural Tennessee and became one of the most successful musicians, songwriters, entertainers and businesswomen in the world.

But when I think about Dolly’s legacy, I don’t think first about her awards.

I think about what she gave away.

Her Imagination Library has distributed more than 300 million free books to children. Her philanthropy has touched literacy, education, disaster relief, medical research and communities that needed help.

That’s character expressed through action.

She didn’t simply tell people she cared.

She created things that demonstrated it.

And that’s an important distinction.

Because character isn’t what we say we believe.

Character is what we repeatedly do.

Dolly’s life reminds me that success can be measured by what you accumulate, but legacy can be measured by what you leave behind for someone else.

Tim Curry: Character as Courage

Then there’s Tim Curry.

What a completely different kind of life.

Theatre.

Film.

Television.

Music.

Voice acting.

A career that lasted more than five decades.

And, of course, The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Tim Curry walked into a world that didn’t necessarily know what to do with someone like him, and he didn’t seem particularly interested in asking permission to be himself.

He was theatrical.

Bold.

Strange.

Sexy.

Funny.

Fearless.

And he made an entire generation feel a little more comfortable with being different.

Even after a devastating stroke in 2012, he continued working and creating.

There’s character in that too.

Sometimes character is generosity.

Sometimes character is courage.

Sometimes it’s simply the willingness to say:

This is who I am.

And I’m not going to spend my life shrinking myself so other people can be comfortable.

Hayden Panettiere: When the Person Gets Lost Behind the Character

And then there is Hayden Panettiere.

Her story breaks my heart for a completely different reason.

She was working in Hollywood before she was even old enough to understand what Hollywood was.

She started acting as a child and grew up in front of cameras.

Imagine that.

Your childhood happening while strangers are watching.

Your body being photographed and criticized.

Your mistakes becoming headlines.

Your relationships becoming public property.

Your struggles becoming entertainment.

In her recent memoir, This Is Me: A Reckoning, Hayden described growing up in the spotlight, dealing with anxiety, body dysmorphia, postpartum depression, addiction, domestic abuse and the devastating decision to give her daughter custody to her father while she sought treatment.

She also described the extraordinary pressure of being a young woman in Hollywood.

At one point, she recalled an industry representative offering her a “happy pill” when she was about 16 before a press interview.

That, she wrote, became part of the path that eventually led her toward addiction.

And then something else happened that I find particularly disturbing.

Her personal struggles began to bleed into her professional life.

On Nashville, Hayden played Juliette Barnes, a character whose story included postpartum depression, addiction and a collapsing personal life.

Hayden said the writers began incorporating things that were happening in her actual life into the character.

She was living her pain once at home as Hayden, and then again in front of millions of people as Juliette.

She described not knowing where Juliette ended and Hayden began.

Think about that.

Imagine being in the middle of addiction, anxiety and emotional turmoil and then having to go to work and perform a version of your own suffering for an audience.

And then there was the abusive relationship she endured later in life.

Her memoir detailed physical abuse by Brian Hickerson, who pleaded no contest in 2021 to two felony counts of injuring a spouse or girlfriend and received jail time, probation and a protective order.

Hayden wasn’t simply “an actress who had a drug problem.”

She was a human being who spent much of her life under enormous public scrutiny while navigating trauma, addiction, motherhood, mental-health struggles and abuse.

And ultimately, she died at 36.

That’s why I don’t want to reduce her life to addiction.

Because addiction was something Hayden struggled with. It was not her character.

There’s an important difference.

And maybe that’s another lesson in character:

We should be careful about confusing someone’s worst struggle with their entire identity.

Yayoi Kusama: When Genius and Character Collide

And then there’s Yayoi Kusama.

This is where the conversation becomes much more complicated for me personally, because I recently wrote about Kusama and the uncomfortable reality of separating an artist from their art.

Kusama was extraordinary.

She was one of the most influential contemporary artists of her generation.

Her dots.

Her infinity rooms.

Her mirrors.

Her pumpkins.

Her obsessive repetition.

Her ability to turn her internal world into something the rest of us could walk into.

But Kusama also lived with profound psychological struggles.

She has spoken throughout her life about hallucinations beginning in childhood. Her mental-health experiences became deeply intertwined with her artistic practice, and she voluntarily lived in a psychiatric hospital in Japan for decades while continuing to create art.

And then there is the part of her legacy that makes this conversation about character so uncomfortable.

Kusama’s past writings contained racist and deeply offensive descriptions of Black people.

Those writings became the subject of renewed public scrutiny in 2023, and Kusama issued a public apology, saying she deeply regretted using hurtful and offensive language. SFMOMA subsequently acknowledged both the harmful writings and her apology.

After her death was announced this week, that history was immediately brought back into the conversation.

And I think that is important.

Because it demonstrates something about legacy that we don’t always want to acknowledge:

Death does not erase character.

Neither does genius.

Neither does fame.

Neither does artistic brilliance.

Neither does age.

But neither should mental illness automatically become an explanation for everything someone thinks or does.

There has been discussion about Kusama’s hallucinations, intrusive thoughts and psychological suffering, and whether those experiences may have influenced some of the thoughts and imagery she expressed throughout her life.

But we cannot responsibly say that her mental illness caused her racist beliefs.

We don’t know that.

And I don’t think we should use mental illness as a convenient explanation for harmful beliefs.

Mental illness can explain suffering.

It can provide context.

It can help us understand a person’s internal world.

But context isn’t the same thing as absolution.

That’s an important distinction.

Because we can hold two truths at the same time:

Yayoi Kusama was a brilliant, groundbreaking artist.

And some of the things she wrote about Black people were racist and harmful.

Her mental-health struggles deserve compassion.

And the people harmed by her words deserve acknowledgment.

She apologized.

That matters too.

And perhaps this is where character becomes particularly complicated.

Can someone do something harmful, recognize it, apologize and change?

I believe they can.

Because if we don’t allow people the possibility of growth, then we’re not really talking about character.

We’re talking about perfection.

And none of us are perfect.

Which brings me back to the rest of us.

Because it’s easy to look at famous people and examine their lives.

We have the luxury of distance.

We can dissect them.

Praise them.

Condemn them.

Defend them.

Put them on pedestals.

Knock them down.

But maybe we’re asking the wrong question.

Maybe the question isn’t:

“Were they good people?”

Maybe the question is:

“What can their lives teach me about the person I’m becoming?”

Because someday, we’re all going to leave.

Not just celebrities.

Not just artists.

Not just people whose names appear in newspapers.

All of us.

And when that happens, I don’t think the most important question will be how successful we were.

It won’t be how many followers we had.

It won’t be how much money we made.

It won’t be how many people knew our names.

It won’t even necessarily be how talented we were.

I think the questions will be much simpler.

Were you kind?

Were you honest?

Did you show up?

Did you love people?

Did you listen?

Did you apologize?

Did you forgive?

Did you celebrate other people’s successes?

Did you make people feel seen?

Did you make people feel safe?

Did you use your gifts to help others?

Did you take responsibility when you caused harm?

Did you grow?

Did you become better?

Or did you keep making the same excuses?

Character Isn’t Perfection

This is something I’ve had to learn about myself.

I’ve made mistakes.

I’ve hurt people.

I’ve been selfish.

I’ve been defensive.

I’ve said things I wish I could take back.

I’ve disappointed people.

I’ve been disappointed.

I’ve gotten things wrong.

And I’m still learning.

So when I talk about character, I’m not standing on some moral mountain looking down at everyone else.

I’m looking in the mirror too.

Maybe that’s what this moment is really asking all of us to do.

Look in the mirror.

Not at our Instagram.

Not at our résumé.

Not at our accomplishments.

Not at the version of ourselves we’ve created for public consumption.

Look at the person underneath all of it.

And ask:

Who am I when nobody is watching?

How do I treat people who can’t do anything for me?

How do I respond when someone hurts me?

How do I respond when someone succeeds?

Can I admit when I’m wrong?

Can I apologize without adding a “but”?

Can I change?

Can I forgive?

Can I be generous when nobody will know?

Can I be kind when I have nothing to gain?

Can I leave someone better than I found them?

Because that is character.

We Don’t Get Forever

Death has a way of making us remember something we spend most of our lives trying to forget:

We don’t have forever.

We keep saying:

I’ll call them later.

I’ll apologize later.

I’ll tell them I love them later.

I’ll make things right later.

I’ll start that thing I’ve always wanted to do later.

I’ll become the person I want to be later.

But there is no guarantee of later.

So perhaps this is our invitation.

Not to become perfect.

Not to become famous.

Not to make everyone like us.

But to become more intentional about who we are while we’re still here.

Because one day the work will be finished.

The music will stop.

The lights will go down.

The studio will be empty.

The paintings will hang on walls without us.

The photographs will remain.

The stories will continue.

And our names will become memories.

So what will those memories feel like?

I don’t need everyone to remember me.

But I hope the people who actually knew me can say:

She cared.

She showed up.

She created.

She loved deeply.

She wasn’t perfect, but she tried.

She made the world a little more beautiful because she was here.

That’s the legacy I want.

Not perfection.

Not fame.

Not applause.

Character.

Because maybe that old thing I heard as a child was right.

Maybe the greatest thing we leave behind isn’t what we accumulated.

Maybe it isn’t even what we accomplished.

Maybe it’s the imprint we left on other human beings.

The way we made them feel.

The good we put into the world.

The harm we took responsibility for.

The people we helped.

The people we loved.

And ultimately,

the character we carried with us until the very end.

Make it a good one.

Author’s Note

Writing has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I was the little girl who could turn a school assignment into pages and pages of stories, never realizing that one day writing would become one of the ways I process the world around me.

That’s what this Substack has become for me, a place to think out loud, ask uncomfortable questions, explore art and culture, talk about music, wellness, creativity, and ultimately, what it means to be human.

I don’t write because I have everything figured out. Quite the opposite.

I write because I’m still learning. Still questioning. Still growing. Still examining my own choices, relationships, creativity and the kind of person I want to be.

And I invite you to do the same alongside me.

If something I’ve written makes you stop, think, question, disagree, feel something, or look at the world a little differently, then I’ve done what I hoped to do.

If you enjoy my work, please consider subscribing and becoming a supporter of what I create. Your support allows me to keep writing, making art, producing music, DJing, creating conversations and sharing the many different pieces of my creative life.

There is a lot more coming.

Subscribe. Share my work with someone who might connect with it. And if you believe in what I’m building, become a paid supporter.

You can also find all of my worlds—art, music, DJing, writing, podcasting and wellness—through my Linktree:

https://linktr.ee/LoloKnows⁠

Thank you for being here.
Thank you for reading.
And thank you for supporting an independent artist who is still creating, still questioning, and still becoming.

With love,
LOLO

Yayoi Kusama, the art world, politics, and the uncomfortable question of whether we can separate the art from the artist.

I woke up today seeing people mourning Yayoi Kusama.

The images were everywhere.

The polka dots. The pumpkins. The Infinity Rooms. The colors. The reflections.

A woman who became one of the most recognizable artists in the world.

And then my friend Bella Sin shared something that made me stop scrolling.

Bella wrote:

“I do not mourn as a woman today unfortunately she was extremely Anti Black.”

She went on to explain what she knew about Kusama’s history, including racist and hypersexualized descriptions of Black people in Kusama’s writing and her concerns about the way some of that material was presented, or omitted, in different editions of her autobiography.

Bella also pointed to earlier work containing racist language.

And then she said something that really stayed with me:

“I see a lot of my friends posting about her. This is often not common knowledge, even though it’s a Google search away.”

I have to admit something.

I didn’t know.

And that made me uncomfortable.

Not because I suddenly stopped recognizing the significance of Kusama’s work.

Her art is still extraordinary.

But because I had to confront something I think many of us, as artists and art lovers, don’t always want to confront:

The person who creates something beautiful doesn’t necessarily have to be a beautiful person.

Artists aren’t automatically on the same side.

As artists, I think we sometimes make an assumption about one another.

We see someone creating.

We see someone pushing boundaries.

We see someone challenging convention.

We see someone making something vulnerable, strange, beautiful, political or deeply personal.

And we think:

They’re one of us.

There is a kind of belonging that happens inside creative communities.

Especially when you come from spaces built around individuality, inclusion, queer culture, underground music, visual art, performance and challenging the status quo.

We can start believing that because we’re artists, we’re somehow sharing the same values.

But we’re not.

We’re sharing a creative practice.

That’s not necessarily the same thing as sharing a moral compass.

And that’s a difficult realization.

Because what happens when someone who has benefited enormously from the creative community holds beliefs that see, completely contradictory to the values that community claims to represent?

What happens when the artist we celebrate turns out to have said or done things that make us deeply uncomfortable?

Can you make beautiful art and still be a shitty human being?

Yes.

I think we have to admit that.

History has given us plenty of examples.

People can be brilliant and cruel.

Visionary and prejudiced.

Generous in one part of their lives and destructive in another.

They can create art that makes us feel more connected to humanity while simultaneously failing to treat other human beings with dignity.

Talent doesn’t make someone moral.

Creativity doesn’t make someone kind.

And genius certainly isn’t a character reference.

That’s uncomfortable because we like our heroes to make sense.

We want the person who creates something beautiful to somehow be beautiful.

But people are complicated.

Sometimes painfully so.

And this is where Kusama becomes more than just a conversation about Kusama.

The controversy surrounding Kusama’s writings isn’t simply something that appeared on social media after her death.

Her writings were publicly scrutinized in 2023, and she issued an apology for language that she acknowledged was hurtful and offensive.

The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, which was exhibiting her work at the time, acknowledged the controversy and condemned anti-Black sentiment while continuing with the exhibition.

And that’s where the bigger question begins.

What do we do with an artist whose work matters enormously but whose words or behavior cause real harm?

Do we stop showing the work?

Do we stop buying it?

Do we stop listening?

Do we remove the person from the cultural conversation?

Do we acknowledge the harm and continue studying the work?

Can we do both?

I don’t have a simple answer.

I’m not sure there is one.

But then I started thinking about politics.

And this is where it gets even more complicated.

We are living in a time when artists are increasingly open about their political beliefs.

Since Donald Trump’s rise, we’ve watched artists become more vocal about where they stand politically, including artists who support Trump and conservative politics.

And I find myself asking:

Do we believe artists are allowed to have political beliefs that we strongly disagree with?

I think they are.

If we’re serious about artistic freedom, we have to mean it.

Artists don’t have to vote the way I vote.

They don’t have to think the way I think.

They don’t have to share my worldview.

But then comes the harder question:

When does a political belief stop being something we simply disagree about and become something that causes real harm to other people?

Where is that line?

And who gets to decide where it is?

That’s where the conversation becomes uncomfortable.

Are we consistent?

This is the question I keep coming back to.

Because I’m not convinced we are.

When an artist we love does something terrible, we become incredibly nuanced.

“They’re complicated.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“They apologized.”

“People can change.”

“The art is bigger than the artist.”

“You have to understand the context.”

But when an artist we already dislike does something terrible?

Suddenly nuance disappears.

We become prosecutors.

And maybe that’s human nature.

We’re much more willing to extend complexity to people we already admire.

Which means perhaps the real test isn’t whether we can hold complicated feelings about Yayoi Kusama.

The real test is whether we can apply the same standard to an artist whose politics we absolutely despise.

If we believe Kusama can still be recognized as an important artist despite her racist writings, are we willing to extend some degree of complexity to an artist whose political beliefs we find repulsive?

Or do we believe certain beliefs cross a line?

And if they do, where is that line?

That’s the conversation I think is worth having.

Maybe “cancel culture” isn’t actually the question.

I think we’ve become obsessed with asking whether someone should be cancelled.

But perhaps that’s the least interesting question.

Instead, maybe we should ask:

What should accountability look like?

Can a museum acknowledge an artist’s harmful history while still exhibiting their work?

Can an audience appreciate a piece of art without endorsing everything its creator believes?

Can I say, “This painting is extraordinary,” without saying, “I admire this person?”

Can I listen to a musician whose politics I disagree with without becoming an advocate for those politics?

And perhaps most importantly:

Can we stop pretending that appreciation and endorsement are always the same thing?

I don’t think we need morally perfect artists.

Honestly, I don’t think such a thing exists.

If we required every artist to pass a moral purity test before we allowed ourselves to engage with their work, we’d have a very small art history.

But I also don’t believe that artistic genius should function as a get-out-of-accountability-free card.

Beauty shouldn’t erase harm.

Fame shouldn’t erase harm.

Cultural importance shouldn’t erase harm.

And an apology shouldn’t automatically end the conversation.

Sometimes the responsible thing isn’t to erase the work.

Maybe it’s to put the work into context.

Tell the whole story.

Let people decide how they feel.

Let the contradictions remain visible.

I think artists deserve freedom.

But I think audiences deserve information, too.

If I’m going to celebrate someone, I want to know who I’m celebrating.

If I’m going to put someone’s work on my wall, play their music, buy their book, attend their exhibition or recommend them to someone else, I want the opportunity to understand the person behind the work.

Not because I expect perfection.

But because context matters.

And this is where Bella’s post really challenged me.

She didn’t make me hate Kusama.

She made me look again.

She reminded me that there is always more to the story.

And maybe that’s what good art, and good conversation, is supposed to do.

Make us look again.

Maybe we don’t have to choose.

Maybe I don’t have to say:

“Yayoi Kusama was a terrible person, therefore her art means nothing.”

And I also don’t have to say:

“Her art is brilliant, therefore what she said doesn’t matter.”

I can hold both.

Her work changed art history.

Her writings contained deeply troubling racism.

She apologized.

We don’t know everything about what she believed privately at the end of her life.

Her work can still be studied.

Her history should not be erased.

All of those things can be true.

And maybe that’s the uncomfortable place we need to learn how to live in.

Because artists are not saints.

We’re people.

Messy people.

Contradictory people.

People capable of extraordinary beauty and extraordinary harm.

And maybe the responsibility isn’t to make artists into saints.

Maybe it’s to stop expecting them to be.

As artists, we should be able to disagree.

We should be able to challenge one another.

We should be able to have political beliefs that aren’t identical.

But we should also be willing to examine the consequences of those beliefs.

And as audiences, maybe our responsibility is to look deeper than the pretty picture.

To ask questions.

To learn the history.

To challenge our heroes.

And to be honest enough to admit when someone we admire has disappointed us.

Because I don’t want an art world where everyone thinks exactly like me.

But I also don’t want an art world where someone’s talent becomes more important than the people they’ve harmed.

There has to be something between blind admiration and complete erasure.

Maybe that something is critical appreciation.

Look at the art.

Know the history.

Ask questions.

Make up your own mind.

And don’t be afraid of the contradiction.

Now I want to hear from you.

Can you separate the art from the artist?

If an artist’s politics or personal behavior contradicts your values, does that change how you experience their work?

Is there a line that an artist can cross where their work becomes impossible for you to support?

And are we consistent about where we draw that line?

I’d genuinely love to hear what you think.

Because I’m still figuring out what I think, too.

And while we’re talking about artists…

I’m an artist, too.

My own work moves between music, visual art, culture and the messy spaces where all of those things intersect.

If you’ve enjoyed this conversation, I’d love for you to take a look at my art and creative work and follow along with what I’m making next.

Come into my world.

⁠ www.loloknows.com

And keep questioning.

Keep creating.

Keep looking deeper.

💕 LOLO KNOWS

It’s the time of year when you begin to see the evidence of what you planted.

The seeds you buried months ago.
The things you watered when nobody was watching.
The dreams you kept believing in.
The relationships you nurtured.
The risks you took.
The parts of yourself you decided to reclaim.

And this August, I find myself pausing.

Not because the year is over. It absolutely is not.

But because I need to acknowledge how far I’ve come.

Sometimes we move so quickly toward the next thing that we forget to look around and notice that we are already living inside some of the things we once asked for.

The music is moving

This year, I completed a record.

That alone feels significant.

I spent time in the studio, putting pieces of myself into music and watching something that once existed only as an idea become real. And now that record has two remixes from stellar producers whose work I genuinely love and respect.

There is something incredibly special about hearing another artist take something you created and interpret it through their own language.

That is one of the things I love about house music.

You make something. You release it into the world. Someone else hears it, feels something, transforms it, and gives it another life.

This year I’ve also continued to build my presence as a DJ, playing consistently throughout Cleveland and Akron and traveling to Las Vegas for an opportunity to DJ there.

I’ve had parties and bookings month after month.

I held a five-month residency in Pittsburgh.

And I’ve continued to grow beyond just being the person behind the decks.

This summer, I ran my own stage at Summer Rave Festival in Akron.

That was a big moment for me.

I wasn’t just playing the festival.

I was curating a space.

I was bringing DJs together.

I was creating an experience and putting my name, vision, and energy behind an entire stage.

And it was a success.

So much so that I’ve already been asked to come back next year.

That feels like a different kind of milestone.

Because I’ve always believed that there is power in creating doors, not just waiting for someone else to open one for you.

And then there was Cleveland Pride.

Being able to participate in Pride in the city and community that I call home felt incredibly meaningful.

Being part of the LGBTQ+ community has been one of the highlights of my life.

As someone who has always experienced myself as a fluid person, there is something incredibly beautiful about finding a community where I don’t have to explain every part of myself.

I can simply be.

And I love my people because I get them.

There is a particular kind of freedom that comes from being surrounded by people who understand that identity, love, expression, gender, sexuality, creativity, and life don’t always fit neatly into boxes.

I have found so much joy there.

And I’ve found friendship.

Beautiful friendships.

People I met on the dance floor.

People I met outside of nightlife.

People who started as acquaintances and slowly became people I genuinely care about.

Those relationships are blossoming, and I love that for me.

Because there was a time when I intentionally took a pause.

I needed to focus on myself.

My healing.
My creativity.
My direction.
My relationship with myself.

I remember wondering who the universe would bring into my life once I stopped chasing, forcing, fixing, and trying to make everything happen.

And now I’m watching the answer unfold.

Some of these people feel like gifts.

Some feel like mirrors.

Some feel like collaborators.

Some feel like friends I didn’t know I was missing.

And I’m grateful.

I’m building more than events

Something else has become clear to me this year.

I’m not just building a DJ career.

I’m building community.

I’m building experiences.

I’m creating spaces where people can dance, connect, discover music, feel safe, be themselves, and meet one another.

That matters to me.

Maybe that’s why the work has started to feel different.

I’m beginning to see myself not only as an artist, but as a curator, connector, producer, and community builder.

And I think that is part of the next chapter.

I found my voice again

Another beautiful part of this year has been reconnecting with my voice.

Not just my DJ voice.

My actual voice.

I laid down some spoken word.

I got back into my podcast, In the Know with Lolo Knows, and recently recorded an episode that reminded me why I loved doing it in the first place.

I felt passionate again.

That feeling matters.

I’ve spent a lot of my life creating, music, art, businesses, events, experiences, conversations, and sometimes the creator in me gets tired.

Sometimes she needs to stop producing and just exist.

But lately, something has shifted.

I feel like I’m hearing myself again.

And I’m listening.

Back to the canvas

And then there is the painting.

I got back into my studio.

Back to the easel.

Back to putting paint on a canvas without needing to know exactly where it is going.

That feels important.

Because for me, art has always been another language.

Music is one language.

Painting is another.

Movement is another.

Wellness is another.

Conversation is another.

And maybe that’s what I’ve been realizing this year:

None of these things are separate.

The DJ, the artist, the wellness practitioner, the podcaster, the woman behind the microphone, the woman standing behind the decks, the woman sitting quietly in front of a canvas, they are all me.

I’ve spent years moving between these worlds.

Maybe I was never supposed to choose just one.

Maybe the whole point was learning how to let all of them exist together.

And there is still more to come

What makes this reflection even more exciting is that the year isn’t over.

There are still things unfolding.

Opportunities I didn’t see coming.

Conversations happening behind the scenes.

Creative projects taking shape.

More music.

More art.

More DJing.

More community.

More opportunities to build something meaningful.

And I’m approaching the rest of this year differently.

I’m not rushing to prove anything.

I’m not interested in measuring my life solely by numbers, bookings, followers, releases, or external validation.

Those things matter. I’m proud of them.

But I’m more interested in how my life feels.

Does it feel expansive?

Does it feel creative?

Does it feel connected?

Does it feel like me?

Right now, the answer is yes.

And that feels like a harvest.

Maybe this is what success looks like

I used to think success meant arriving somewhere.

Now I’m beginning to understand that success can also be recognizing where you are while you’re still becoming.

I am still becoming.

Still learning.

Still creating.

Still experimenting.

Still meeting people.

Still falling in love with ideas.

Still making mistakes.

Still changing my mind.

Still figuring out what the next version of LOLO looks like.

But I can look around now and see evidence.

The record is finished.

Two incredible remixes are in the works.

I’ve traveled and played outside of my usual markets.

I’ve continued to build a steady DJ presence throughout Cleveland and Akron.

I’ve held a five-month residency in Pittsburgh.

I’ve played and participated in Cleveland Pride.

I created and successfully ran my own stage at Summer Rave, and I’ve already been invited back for next year’s festival.

I’ve strengthened my community.

I’ve made new friendships.

I’ve reconnected with my voice.

I’ve returned to my podcast.

I’ve returned to my art studio.

I’m creating again.

I’m listening again.

I’m feeling again.

And perhaps most importantly, I’m allowing myself to enjoy what I’ve built.

That last part is important.

Because sometimes we become so focused on the next mountain that we forget to stand on the one we’ve already climbed.

So this August, I’m standing still for a minute.

I’m looking around.

I’m taking inventory.

I’m giving myself credit.

I’m saying thank you to the people who have danced with me, booked me, listened to me, collaborated with me, supported me, challenged me, loved me, laughed with me, created with me, and welcomed me into their lives.

And I’m saying thank you to myself, too.

For not giving up.

For continuing to create.

For continuing to show up.

For allowing life to surprise me.

For making room for new people.

For making room for new possibilities.

For coming back to the canvas.

For coming back to the microphone.

For coming back to the studio.

For coming back to my voice.

For coming back to me.

The harvest is here.

And I’m grateful for what has grown.

But I’m even more curious about what I’m planting next.

Because the year isn’t over.

Neither am I.

❤️💋 LOLO KNOWS

Author’s Note

If you’ve been following my journey, thank you for being here.

This year has reminded me that I don’t have to choose between the different parts of who I am. I can be the DJ, the producer, the artist, the wellness practitioner, the podcaster, the curator, the community builder, and still keep discovering new versions of myself.

If you’d like to follow along, listen to my music, explore my art, work with me through RENU Wellness, or book me for a DJ set or experience, you can find everything LOLO KNOWS here:

🎧 Music + DJ: https://www.loloknows.com/lolo-media

🎨 Art + Creative Work: https://www.loloknows.com/lkgallery

✨ RENU Wellness: https://www.loloknows.com/beauty-services

And of course, subscribe to Lolo Knows here on Substack if you want to keep coming along for the ride.

There is still so much more to harvest.

And I’m just getting started.

The highest-paid DJs list isn’t just about money. It’s about history, representation, and what happens when the underground becomes an industry.

Every year, another list circulates ranking the highest-paid DJs in the world.

This year’s list made the rounds across social media, and like many people, I immediately started scanning the names.

Who moved up?

Who was missing?

Who surprised me?

Then I saw a post by DJ Fathom on Threads that sparked an important conversation:

“Zero Black women on the list of the 50 highest-paid DJs in the world. Not one.”

That observation is absolutely worth discussing.

But as I sat with it, I found myself asking another question.

Where are the women of color?

Where are the Latina DJs?

Where are the Afro-Latina DJs?

Where are the Indigenous women?

Where are the women whose communities helped build this culture from the very beginning?

Because if we’re going to talk about representation, I believe we have to tell the whole story.

House Music Was Never Built by One Community

House music wasn’t created in corporate boardrooms.

It wasn’t born at music festivals.

It wasn’t designed for algorithms or streaming playlists.

It was born in Chicago’s underground clubs during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Black pioneers like Frankie Knuckles, Ron Hardy, Jesse Saunders, Larry Heard, Marshall Jefferson and countless others laid the musical foundation. But those dance floors were also filled with Latino communities, especially Puerto Rican and Mexican clubgoers, DJs, dancers, and promoters, who helped shape what house music became.

At the same time, Detroit was giving birth to techno through the vision of Juan Atkins, Derrick May, Kevin Saunderson, and many others.

These weren’t isolated movements.

They were connected by Black and Brown communities, LGBTQ+ communities, artists, and outsiders creating spaces where everyone could feel free.

House music has always been multicultural.

That’s part of its magic.

Then Something Changed

Somewhere along the way, house music became an industry.

An incredibly profitable one.

The highest-paid DJs today largely represent festival culture, Las Vegas residencies, sponsorship deals, global touring, streaming numbers, and massive commercial success.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with that.

Artists should absolutely be rewarded for their work.

But it’s also fair to ask a harder question.

When a culture created by marginalized communities becomes a global business, who benefits the most?

History tells us this isn’t unique to dance music.

We’ve watched similar stories unfold in jazz, blues, rock and roll, and even hip-hop.

Cultural innovation often begins in marginalized communities before becoming mainstream, where the financial rewards aren’t always distributed in the same way as the creative contributions.

House music deserves to be part of that conversation.

Then Came the Pandemic

COVID changed electronic music forever.

Nightclubs closed.

Festivals disappeared.

Livestreams exploded.

Boiler Room sets flooded social media.

Algorithms introduced millions of people to house and techno who had never stepped into a club before.

For many, electronic music wasn’t discovered on a dance floor.

It was discovered through a screen.

I actually love that more people found this music.

House music deserves to be heard.

But I also found myself wondering something.

How many people discovered a culture… and how many discovered a trend?

There’s a difference.

My Experience Isn’t the Entire Story, But It’s My Story

I’ve been in the house music scene for years.

Long before it was trending on TikTok.

Long before every city suddenly had multiple house music nights every weekend.

Long before brands realized DJs had become influencers.

Outside of cities like Chicago, Detroit, New York, Newark, and Miami, places where Black and Brown house communities have remained strong, I often found myself in rooms that were overwhelmingly white.

That was my lived experience.

Meanwhile, many Black and Brown communities continued to embrace hip-hop, R&B, reggaeton, salsa, bachata, and other genres that remained central to everyday life and popular culture.

That doesn’t mean Black and Brown people abandoned house music.

Far from it.

Many never left.

The culture has remained alive because generations of Black, Latino, and LGBTQ+ DJs, promoters, dancers, and communities refused to let it disappear.

But outside those historic hubs, the audiences often looked very different from the culture’s origins.

That’s something I’ve thought about for years.

Representation Is Bigger Than One Statistic

The conversation shouldn’t stop at, “There are no Black women on this list.”

It should expand.

Why are there so few women at all?

Why are so few women of color represented?

Why do Black women remain absent?

Why do Latina women remain nearly invisible?

Why are Indigenous women rarely part of these conversations?

Who gets booked?

Who gets marketed?

Who gets festival headlines?

Who gets investment?

Who gets the opportunities that lead to becoming one of the highest-paid DJs in the world?

Those are questions worth asking, not because success should be handed to anyone, but because understanding barriers helps us build a more inclusive future.

Success Doesn’t Erase the Foundation

This isn’t about taking anything away from Calvin Harris.

Or John Summit.

Or Dom Dolla.

Or David Guetta.

Or any artist who’s worked hard to build a career.

Success isn’t a finite resource.

Celebrating one artist doesn’t require diminishing another.

But we should be honest enough to acknowledge that many of the sounds filling stadiums today were born in neighborhoods, clubs, and communities that rarely receive the same recognition, or financial return.

Knowing the roots doesn’t diminish the branches.

It strengthens the tree.

Maybe That’s the Real Conversation

The list of the highest-paid DJs isn’t really about salaries.

It’s a snapshot of who the industry currently rewards.

What interests me more is what happens next.

As house music continues to grow, I hope we don’t just celebrate the biggest names.

I hope we celebrate the history.

The Black pioneers.

The Latino pioneers.

The queer pioneers.

The women who fought for space in a male-dominated industry.

The local DJs, like myself, who’ve spent decades nurturing scenes that never made headlines.

Because without them, none of this exists.

House music has always been more than entertainment.

It’s community.

It’s resistance.

It’s liberation.

It’s family.

And if we’re going to celebrate where house music is going, we owe it to ourselves to remember where it came from, and everyone who helped carry it there.

What are your thoughts? Does the highest-paid DJs list reflect the industry’s biggest stars, or does it also reveal who gets overlooked when culture becomes commerce? I’d love to hear your perspective in the comments.

If this article resonated with you, I’d love for you to subscribe to my Substack and share it with someone who cares about music, culture, and the history behind the dance floor.

You can also explore my music, DJ mixes, artwork, upcoming events, and connect with me across all platforms here:

🔗 https://linktr.ee/loloknows

Thank you for supporting independent artists and writers. Every read, share, stream, and conversation helps keep this culture alive.

Every generation believes the one after it has lost something. Sometimes that’s nostalgia talking. Sometimes it’s true.

Recently, house music legend Chez Damier made a statement on a podcast that stopped me in my tracks. He said we took something that once belonged to a minority, a culture built by a specific community with a specific purpose, and turned it into something that anybody can do.

Then he asked one simple question:

“Where are your references?”

That question has stayed with me because it’s one I’ve been asking for years.

Who’s your teacher? Where did you learn from? What shaped your taste?

Every art form has lineage. Every artist builds on the work of those who came before them.

As someone who has spent more than two decades immersed in the dance music scene, I certainly know my references, and I value them deeply. Long before I became a DJ and producer, I was a dancer. I understood music first through movement. I learned how songs create emotion, tension, release, and connection by experiencing them on the dance floor. That perspective has stayed with me throughout my career and continues to influence every set I play.

My education didn’t come from chasing trends or algorithms. It came from the clubs, the dance floor, conversations with veteran DJs, digging for records, studying the pioneers, and immersing myself in a culture that was built by Black, Latino, and LGBTQ+ communities. I learned by listening, observing, asking questions, and respecting those who came before me.

Those references are my foundation.

They’ve shaped not only the way I DJ, but also the way I curate music, produce records, and contribute to the culture. They remind me that DJing is about far more than transitions or technology, it’s about storytelling, community, and understanding the history behind the music.

The issue isn’t that more people have access to DJing today. I actually think that’s something to celebrate. Technology has opened doors that never existed before.

The real question is: What are we building on once we walk through those doors?

One comment I saw blamed promoters for the current state of things, saying many have stopped being tastemakers. Instead of booking artists because of their musical knowledge, originality, or ability to move a room, they’re often booking based on algorithms, follower counts, and social media engagement.

There’s certainly some truth in that.

But another person said it’s up to us to demand better.

I agree, but here’s where I think the conversation gets interesting.

Do we even know what “better” sounds like anymore?

If your musical education begins and ends with short-form content and viral moments, how do you develop taste? If you’ve never studied the pioneers or spent hours on a dance floor experiencing a DJ take people on a journey, how do you recognize true craftsmanship?

This isn’t about gatekeeping.

It’s about preserving the lineage of an art form that has changed lives for decades.

Innovation is essential. Every generation should bring something new to the culture. But the strongest innovators usually understand the foundation they’re building on. They know the history, respect the architects, and then find their own voice.

So I’ll leave you with the same question Chez Damier asked:

Where are your references?

Because your references don’t limit your creativity, they give it depth. They connect you to a lineage that deserves to be remembered, honored, and carried forward.

And that’s what I’ve always believed DJing is really about.

Author’s Note

If this article resonated with you, I’d love to keep the conversation going.

I’ve dedicated more than two decades to dance music, as a dancer, DJ, producer, visual artist, and advocate for the culture. Through this Substack, I share my thoughts on house music, creativity, wellness, art, and the stories that often go untold.

If you’d like to support independent artists and writers, please consider becoming a subscriber. Your subscription helps me continue creating thoughtful conversations like this while supporting the work I do both on and off the dance floor.

You can also explore my music, artwork, upcoming DJ sets, and everything I’m creating by visiting.

https://www.loloknows.com

Thank you for reading, sharing, and being part of this community.

Author’s Note

This essay is a cultural reflection inspired by recent public conversations surrounding Jay-Z, capitalism, and Jean-Michel Basquiat’s legacy. It is not intended to suggest what Basquiat himself would have believed or how he would have judged any individual. Since he is no longer here to speak for himself, that would be impossible.

Instead, this piece explores the questions his work continues to provoke: What happens when revolutionary artists become luxury commodities? What happens when outsiders become insiders? And what responsibilities come with success?

The recent controversy surrounding Jay-Z’s comments during a concert reignited conversations about wealth, class, and whether extraordinary success can create distance from the communities that shaped someone. Whether one agrees or disagrees with the criticism isn’t really the point. What interested me was the public reaction, and how it echoed themes Basquiat explored decades ago.

There is a contradiction at the heart of Jean-Michel Basquiat’s legacy that feels more relevant today than ever before.

Basquiat was a young Black artist from Brooklyn who spent his brief but extraordinary career examining power, race, capitalism, history, celebrity, and the ways society assigns value. His paintings challenged systems. They questioned authority. They celebrated Black brilliance while exposing the costs of existing within structures that often exploit it.

Today, those same paintings sell for tens of millions of dollars.

They hang in museums, private collections, luxury spaces, and the homes of billionaires.

That irony alone feels like a Basquiat painting.

Among the most recognizable admirers and collectors of Basquiat’s work is Jay-Z. Over the years, Jay-Z has referenced Basquiat throughout his music and visual identity. He has spoken about the artist’s influence, collected his work, and famously appeared alongside Beyoncé in Tiffany & Co.‘s “About Love” campaign in front of Basquiat’s 1982 painting Equals Pi.

For many, it was a celebration of Black excellence.

For others, it represented something more complicated.

It made me ask a question that has been sitting with me for days:

What would Basquiat’s work say about the world Jay-Z represents today?

Not what Basquiat himself would say, we cannot know that.

But what does his art continue to ask us?

One painting that continues to resonate is Charles the First (1982), inspired by jazz innovator Charlie Parker. Across the canvas appears one of Basquiat’s most haunting phrases:

“MOST YOUNG KINGS GET THEIR HEADS CUT OFF.”

Jay-Z owns a print of Charles the First and later referenced its message in his own work.

I’ve always loved that connection.

But lately I’ve been thinking about the crown differently.

The crown is one of Basquiat’s most recognizable symbols. It isn’t merely decoration. It represents genius, resilience, recognition, and earned greatness. Yet Basquiat often paired the crown with vulnerability. Kings rise, but crowns also carry weight.

Success changes people.

Or perhaps success simply reveals who they’ve always been.

The recent backlash surrounding Jay-Z’s comments about Target, consumer behavior, and capitalism sparked a larger conversation online. Many people interpreted his remarks as dismissive of the economic realities faced by working-class families. Others defended him, arguing his comments were misunderstood or taken out of context.

What fascinated me wasn’t deciding who was right.

It was watching how deeply people reacted.

Because underneath the headlines was a much older question:

At what point does someone who escaped the system become part of the system?

That feels like a Basquiat question.

Basquiat painted kings.

He painted athletes.

Musicians.

Heroes.

Corporations.

History.

He wasn’t simply celebrating power.

He was interrogating it.

He understood that capitalism has a remarkable ability to absorb rebellion, polish it, and eventually sell it back to us as luxury.

The graffiti artist becomes a museum icon.

The outsider becomes an investment portfolio.

The revolutionary becomes a collectible.

Everyone wants to own resistance.

Far fewer want to wrestle with what resistance demands.

Lately, I’ve realized this isn’t just something happening at the highest levels of culture.

I’m beginning to see it closer to home.

There are people I’ve known for years who are finally reaching the next level in their careers.

And I’m genuinely happy for them.

But I’ve also noticed something else.

Some of the very people who once shared conversations, ideas, encouragement, and community now move through the world as though those relationships never existed.

The people who once spoke with you now walk past you.

The people who once needed community suddenly behave as though community is beneath them.

It’s a strange transformation to witness.

Sometimes success doesn’t just change someone’s address.

It changes their memory.

Maybe that’s why Basquiat continues to matter.

His work reminds us that recognition and authenticity don’t always grow together.

You can gain access while losing connection.

You can acquire wealth while becoming disconnected from the people whose lives once mirrored your own.

You can own a Basquiat without fully embracing the questions his paintings continue to ask.

The image of Jay-Z and Beyoncé standing before Equals Pi remains one of the defining cultural photographs of our time.

I don’t see it as hypocrisy.

I see it as contradiction.

A Black artist who challenged systems of value.

Two Black artists who achieved extraordinary success within those systems.

Neither image cancels out the other.

Instead, they create tension.

And tension is where great art lives.

Perhaps that’s why Basquiat still feels so contemporary.

His paintings refuse easy answers.

They don’t ask us to choose between success and integrity.

They ask us to examine the relationship between them.

The question isn’t whether Jay-Z should own Basquiat.

The question is whether all of us, including artists, entrepreneurs, musicians, and cultural leaders, can reach new heights without forgetting the people, places, and communities that shaped us.

Because maybe the crown isn’t the real test.

Maybe remembering is.

References

• Jean-Michel Basquiat, Charles the First (1982), inspired by Charlie Parker.

• Basquiat’s use of the crown motif and recurring themes of race, capitalism, power, and identity.

• Tiffany & Co. “About Love” campaign featuring Jay-Z and Beyoncé with Basquiat’s Equals Pi (2021).

• Public reporting and commentary surrounding Jay-Z’s recent concert remarks about Target, consumer spending, and capitalism, which generated significant public discussion across news outlets and social media.

Culture is often at its most revealing when it asks questions instead of offering answers. This essay is my contribution to that conversation.

Enjoy exploring my music, art and wellness at this link.

https://linktr.ee/LoloKnows

Today marks the anniversary of Frida Kahlo’s passing, but I have always felt that remembering Frida is not about mourning her absence. It is about celebrating the life, the art, and the spirit of a woman who continues to touch millions of people decades after she left this world.

I often wonder if Frida could ever truly understand the impact she has had on generations of artists, creatives, and anyone who has ever felt different, misunderstood, or like they carried a story that the world wasn’t ready to hear. I don’t think she would believe the number of lives she has changed.

She gave artists permission to be honest.

She showed us that our pain, our bodies, our identities, our emotions, and our experiences are not things we have to hide. They are part of our story. She transformed suffering into symbolism, heartbreak into beauty, and vulnerability into strength.

One of the most powerful experiences I have ever had as an artist was during Frida Kahlo’s 100th anniversary. I happened to be in San Francisco, and I had no idea that I would have the opportunity to see so much of her work gathered together in one place, not only her paintings, but photographs and pieces that allowed me to experience the depth of who she was as a person.

Walking into that museum, the very first painting I saw was “The Two Fridas.”

I still remember that moment.

It felt like I was meant to be there.

Standing in front of that painting, I felt something I can only describe as spiritual. I thought, “I am carrying her soul with me right now. I am witnessing something she would have loved to see if she were still alive.” To imagine Frida walking through those same halls, seeing the world celebrate the work she created from such personal places, felt incredibly powerful.

It felt destined that I was there at that exact moment.

“The Two Fridas” has always resonated deeply with me because it represents so much of what it means to be human, the different versions of ourselves that exist at the same time. The person we show the world, the person we keep hidden, the parts of ourselves shaped by love, loss, culture, pain, and resilience. It reminds me that we can hold many truths within ourselves and still be whole.

Another piece that has always moved me is “The Broken Column.” In that painting, Frida exposed her physical suffering in a way that was both heartbreaking and powerful. She did not hide her pain; she transformed it into art. She showed the world what it looked like to carry invisible battles and still stand.

I am also deeply connected to “Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird.” There is something so striking about the way she portrayed strength and vulnerability together. The thorns represent pain, but the hummingbird represents hope, resilience, and the ability to continue moving forward despite what we endure.

And then there is “The Love Embrace of the Universe, the Earth (Mexico), Diego, Me, and Señor Xólotl.” This painting captures the complexity of love, connection, and belonging. Frida’s work was never simple. She understood that love could be beautiful and painful, nurturing and complicated, all at once.

As an artist, Frida reminds me that creation is not always about making something beautiful in the traditional sense. Sometimes art is about telling the truth. Sometimes it is about taking the pieces of ourselves that feel broken and finding a way to arrange them into something meaningful.

That is what makes her legacy so extraordinary.

Frida painted her own life, yet somehow she painted all of ours.

She became a voice for those who felt unseen. She became a symbol for artists who needed permission to create from their own experiences. She became proof that authenticity has the power to outlive us.

I chose July 13th, the anniversary of Frida Kahlo’s passing, as my wedding date because I felt connected to what she represented, passion, resilience, love, creativity, and the courage to embrace every part of ourselves. Looking back now, that choice feels even more meaningful. Life, like art, is not perfect. It is layered. It is full of color, contrast, joy, pain, and transformation.

I hope Frida somehow knows what she gave the world.

I hope she knows her paintings still speak.
Her colors still move people.
Her story still gives artists courage.
Her truth still creates connection.

I don’t think she ever imagined the difference she would make in so many lives.

But that is the mark of a true artist.

You create something from your soul… and somehow, it becomes a piece of someone else’s.

To support my art, please go to this link:

https://linktr.ee/LoloKnows

For a long time, I thought success was something you could measure.

It was the milestones. The opportunities. The recognition. The moments when someone finally saw the work you had been putting in for years. As an artist, DJ, producer, and creator, those moments are powerful. They remind you that the late nights, sacrifices, and belief in yourself were worth it.

But as I’ve grown, I’ve realized that success is not just about what the world sees. It’s about what you know in your heart.

Success is waking up every day and knowing that I stayed true to myself.

It is having the courage to continue creating even when the path was uncertain. It is trusting my own voice, my own vision, and my own journey. It is honoring every chapter of my life, the beautiful moments, the painful moments, the lessons, and the experiences that shaped me into the person I am today.

My journey has never been about following a traditional path. As a woman, an Afro-Latina artist, and someone who has spent decades contributing to the culture of House music and creative expression, I know what it means to walk into spaces where I wasn’t always expected to be. I know what it means to keep showing up, keep creating, and keep pushing forward.

Success, to me, is not just being recognized. It is knowing that I helped create space for others.

It is sharing my music and my art with people who need to feel something, who need to dance, who need to heal, or who need a reminder that they are not alone. It is connecting generations through sound, storytelling, and creativity.

Success is impact.

It is the people I’ve inspired along the way. It is the artists I’ve encouraged. It is the doors I’ve helped open. It is leaving behind something meaningful that exists beyond one performance, one painting, one song, or one moment.

I have learned that success is also freedom.

The freedom to be authentic. The freedom to evolve. The freedom to embrace every part of myself, the artist, the storyteller, the creator, the woman, and the dreamer.

At this stage of my life, success is not about proving myself. It is about expressing myself.

It is about looking back at everything I have overcome and recognizing the strength it took to keep going. It is about celebrating the fact that I am still here, still creating, still dreaming, and still bringing my gifts into the world.

The greatest success is becoming who you were always meant to be.

And I am still becoming.

Author’s Note

Thank you for taking the time to read my reflection on what success means to me. My journey has always been rooted in creativity, connection, and staying true to my purpose through music, art, and community.

If you would like to explore more of my work, you can find my art and creative projects here:

https://linktr.ee/LoloKnows

Thank you for supporting independent artists and creators. Every listen, share, conversation, and connection helps keep the culture alive.

There was a time I said yes to almost everything.

Yes to invitations.
Yes to appearances.
Yes to things I didn’t really have the energy for.

And on the outside, it probably looked like I was “out and about” and connected. But on the inside, I was stretched thin, running on low energy, and slowly disconnecting from myself.

I didn’t realize it then, but every unnecessary yes was costing me something.

My time. My rest. My money. My peace.

And eventually, my health started to reflect it.

The season where I had to get honest with myself

I’ve been in a place where I wasn’t at my healthiest. Mentally, physically, energetically, I was running on fumes more often than not. And what I’ve come to understand is that you can’t build a sustainable life from depletion.

So something had to change.

Not everything. Not everyone.
Me.

I had to learn the hardest skill I’ve ever practiced:

Saying no without guilt.

At first, it felt uncomfortable. Almost like I was letting people down just by protecting myself. But the truth is, I was already letting myself down every time I ignored my limits.

And that realization shifted everything.

Choosing myself changed the direction of my life

I’m now entering what feels like the healthiest stage of my life.

Not because life got easier, but because I got clearer.

Clear about my time.
Clear about my energy.
Clear about my money.
Clear about what actually supports me versus what drains me.

And I didn’t get here by doing more.

I got here by finally saying yes to myself.

That meant saying no to things that didn’t align, even when I wanted to be there. Even when I cared about the people. Even when I felt that familiar pressure of “you should show up.”

Because I’ve learned something important:

Just because I can go doesn’t mean I should go.

The hidden cost people don’t always see

Let’s be real about something that doesn’t always get talked about.

When someone invites me somewhere, it’s not just “show up.”

For me, it’s often a full commitment of energy and resources:

There’s the drive, sometimes close to an hour each way.
That’s two hours on the road alone.

Then there’s getting ready. And I don’t leave my house half-ready. I need to feel good, grounded, confident. That takes time.

Then there’s gas. Parking. Drinks. Entry fees. The small costs that add up quickly when you’re always moving.

And by the time I add it all up, time, energy, money, it becomes clear that every yes is an investment.

So I’ve started treating my life that way.

Everything I do is intentional now.

I still want to go, but I choose differently now

I want to be at most things. I really do.

I want to support people. I want to show up. I want to be in the room, to connect, to experience life fully.

But I also live in reality.

And the reality is: time, energy, and money do not grow on trees.

So I ask myself different questions now:

Do I have the energy for this?
Does this support the life I’m building?
Or am I saying yes out of habit, guilt, or obligation?

If it’s not aligned, I’ve learned to step back.

Not with resentment. Not with explanation overload. Just clarity.

A simple no that protects a deeper yes.

The guilt is real, but it doesn’t get to lead anymore

I won’t pretend it’s always easy.

Sometimes I still feel that pull, the fear of missing out, the worry of being misunderstood, the instinct to over-explain why I can’t make it.

But I’ve learned that guilt is not always truth.

Sometimes guilt is just old conditioning trying to pull me back into patterns that cost me too much.

And I can feel it now when it shows up.

I don’t ignore it. I don’t fight it.

I just don’t let it drive.

My life is more sustainable now because I protect it

The version of me that said yes to everything was trying to belong.

The version of me now is trying to build something sustainable.

A life that doesn’t collapse under pressure.

A body that isn’t constantly recovering from burnout.

A mind that has room to think, create, and breathe.

That requires boundaries.

Not walls. Not isolation.

Just intentional limits that keep me whole.

Saying no is not rejection, it’s preservation

I used to think saying no meant I was missing out or disappointing people.

Now I understand something different:

Saying no is how I stay available for the things that truly matter.

My creativity. My health. My relationships. My work. My peace.

When I say no to what drains me, I am saying yes to longevity.

And that’s the goal now.

Not just to be everywhere.
But to be well wherever I am.

Closing thought

If you’re in a season where you’re learning to say no more often, you’re not falling behind.

You might actually be coming back to yourself.

And if it feels uncomfortable, that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.

It might just mean it’s new.

But on the other side of that discomfort is something powerful:

A life that finally fits your energy instead of fighting it.

Author’s Note

This piece is part of my ongoing reflection on boundaries, wellness, and intentional living as an artist, DJ, and creative. Learning to protect my time, energy, and peace has been one of the most important shifts in my life, and I share this in hopes that it resonates with anyone navigating similar seasons of growth.

If you’d like to read more of my writing, explore my work, or connect:

LOLO KNOWS Official Website⁠

www.loloknows.com

There are mornings when I wake up and simply sit with gratitude.

Not because life is perfect. Not because every day is easy. But because I realize that I am living a life that once felt completely out of reach.

For so many years, I was building a life around responsibility. Raising children. Running businesses. Taking care of everyone else. Like many women, especially mothers, my dreams often took a back seat to survival, stability, and making sure the people I loved had what they needed.

Today, I wake up and realize that I am finally giving myself the same permission I gave my children all those years, to pursue their passions without apology.

I never set out to become a DJ.

Music has always been a part of my life, but if you had asked me twenty years ago what I wanted to be, my answer would have been clear: an artist.

That dream has been with me for a very long time.

In 2003, I made a commitment to pursue visual art seriously. Since then, my journey as an artist has taken many forms. I’ve exhibited work, sold paintings, participated in shows, experienced creative highs and lows, and continued to evolve through every season of life.

What feels especially meaningful today is that I am still creating.

Not only am I creating, but I am selling my work more consistently than ever before. There is something incredibly validating about watching people connect with pieces that once existed only in your imagination. Every sale feels less like a transaction and more like a conversation between artist and collector.

My life as an artist is still unfolding.

The work is changing. I am changing. The vision continues to expand.

At the same time, another shift has happened that I never expected.

For many years, my identity was deeply connected to my wellness business. As an esthetician and massage therapist, I spent countless hours helping others heal, relax, and reconnect with themselves. That work taught me compassion, presence, and the importance of human connection.

Today, that business has become part-time, while my art business has become full-time.

And I have to tell you, it feels fantastic.

Not because I loved wellness work any less, but because I finally gave myself permission to devote more energy to the creative gifts that had been patiently waiting for their turn.

Becoming an empty nester changed everything.

When my children grew up and began building lives of their own, I found myself standing in unfamiliar territory. For the first time in decades, I had time.

Real time.

Time to create.
Time to experiment.
Time to fail.
Time to grow.
Time to become.

What surprised me most was realizing that the confidence I spent years pouring into my children had quietly been growing inside me as well.

I encouraged them to chase their dreams.

I told them they could become anything they wanted.

Eventually, I had to start believing those same words for myself.

That belief led me deeper into art.

It led me further into music.

It allowed me to step fully into my identity as LOLO KNOWS, artist, DJ, creator, wellness practitioner, and a woman who is still discovering what is possible.

The beautiful thing about creativity is that there is no finish line.

There is only evolution.

Every painting teaches me something.

Every DJ set teaches me something.

Every client, collector, listener, and supporter reminds me that our gifts are meant to be shared.

I don’t know exactly what the next chapter looks like.

What I do know is that I am grateful to be here creating it.

And that feels like success to me.

Author’s Note

If you’re standing at a crossroads in your life, especially if you’ve spent years taking care of everyone else, I want you to know that it is never too late to invest in yourself.

Your dreams do not expire because you reached a certain age.

Your creativity does not disappear because you became a parent.

Your passions do not become less important because life demanded your attention elsewhere.

Sometimes the second half of life is where the most beautiful chapters begin.

Thank you for being part of mine.

With gratitude,

LOLO KNOWS

Artist • DJ • Wellness Practitioner

www.loloknows.com

My most recent Club Kid Mix

https://on.soundcloud.com/l01AxloqERPpiRN2Tb

https://www.mixcloud.com/LoloKnows/club-kid-dirty-disco-featuring-lolo-knows/