Seen, But Not Seeking
A summer in LA, BET Week, and the quiet power of showing up without needing to prove you belong.
Tucked away on a quiet street is a private, members-only club you can’t just stroll into; you have to be on the list. Yet I found myself standing outside with two friends, heels cute but pinching my left pinky toe, watching a demographic much different than myself stroll in and out of a hidden entrance. A quick phone call to the celebrity who invited us got us inside.
He was cool, with an energy that surprisingly matched his public persona—unusual for a Grammy-winning artist whose name carries weight in rooms where late-night jam sessions with pop stars surely occur. A musician’s musician. And tonight, we were his guests. He greeted us with hugs and his signature wide smile.
“You’re the girl with the hat. I can see your face now,” he said with a grin. (I was wearing my favorite Kangol bucket hat the first time we met; he had on his signature bob.)
Past an open-air lounge—dark and moody with the kind of sexy vibe that teases and entices—the room opened to a grand space: a speakeasy-style venue with a bar in the back, a stage in the front, and walls cloaked in vinyl. We took our seats in his section as the live band strummed guitars and blew trumpets over Spanish lyrics.
As drinks magically appeared and my friends conversed with our hosts, I leaned back into the cushioned chair, inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. Something about this moment felt right. It was a quiet confirmation that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. That knowing was later affirmed by a conversation with a movie producer who took a seat next to me.
I landed in LA not quite the woman I was, but not yet the woman I’m destined to be. Navigating the in-between of passion and purpose, my return for the summer wasn’t meant to be one of pure fun. I learned from living here before that many arrive with a dream but get lost in the city's distractions. LA has a funny way of turning illusions into fantasies.
Back then, I was here as an entertainment journalist and managing editor of an online women’s magazine. My inbox was filled with invites to press events and parties—often rooted in a quid pro quo exchange: I get access to the city’s happenings if I give their client access to my pen. It was an exhausting reality. I never quite knew who was befriending me out of genuine connection and who saw me as a means to an end.
But admittedly, that position got me into rooms I’d only imagined. Celebrity homes, private soirees, off-the-record moments with icons—those were spaces I was often privy to. It even granted me a seat at the table with media peers whose words I’d grown up reading as an aspiring writer, or whose cultural impact I’d later chronicle myself.
But this time is different. I’ve long since retired from journalism. My final article, ironically, brought me back to LA in 2021 to interview and shoot with Chloe Bailey. That was the last time I told someone else’s story. Now it’s finally time to tell my own—and I’m not asking for permission.
A few nights later, with the memories of the Living Room still fresh, I was back in the midst of beautiful chaos. BET Week had arrived, bringing with it parties and the promise of invite-only exclusivity. There was “Soul Sessions” with Def Jam, where I ran into college and former LA comrades. A throwback R&B night at Little Beach House Malibu with DJ B. Wells. Dancing beneath an ink-black sky on the rooftop of Verse in Downtown LA.
There was no shortage of things to do, and yet I found myself wanting to be in rooms that were different. Ones that don’t just come from connections but from personal selection due to your gifts. I don’t just desire to be visible, I want my presence to be valuable.
I don’t just desire to be visible, I want my presence to be valuable.
Which is why I realized that even when surrounded by celebrities at a party for an A-list actor, there was a feeling of closure with my old self. In the past, these experiences would excite me. They’d give me energy that I could feed off of and be inspired by— food for my thoughts and fodder for my pen.
But now, certain rooms felt fruitless. In the case of the party, what initially appeared to be exclusive was over-exposed. I could sense the energy of the women in scantily-clad attire, desperate to be seen. And I could feel the desire of men grasping for relevance. It reminded me that some rooms are worth seeing, where wisdom, wealth, and quiet power reside. Others are simply for those desperate to be seen. And in LA, your survival—your elevation—depends on knowing which is which.
I’m often asked why I love LA, and I admit that it’s hard to explain. For me, it’s a place of magic, where optimism and opportunity collide. But it’s also a place where you have to be clear on who you are and what you want from it, or you’ll fall prey to its glitz and glamour.
Thankfully, I’ve traded in the rose-colored glasses and opted for a prescription that helps me see what’s real and what’s a facade. So, whether I’m dancing under a disco ball with the famed owner of Andy’s or hopping from Nobu to Soho House to mingle with peers, my vision is clear— and I don’t have to beg for a seat in a room that was always mine to enter.
Enjoyed What You Read?