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Jenny Fox is a deejay, curator, and writer from Chicago. These are her ruminations at 30.

  • Being cared for

    can be difficult work!

    About two weeks ago, I underwent a minimally invasive abdominal surgery for fibroids. And alhamdulilah, I sought a second opinion ’cause at first I was gonna get cut open, C-section style. (all my girls, please prioritize your uterine health fr!) My friends witnessed this medical journey I was on for a little over a year. And yes, it was interesting. And yes, it was painful at times. And yes, it was confusing. And yes, I feel so much better.

    However, more than any of that, it was very sobering – it made me physically realize how much older I literally am since first turning 20. It seems obvious to say, but nothing will make you more conscious of age than Real Adult Health Issues™. I was made conscious of very Adult™ tasks – like being responsible for my own health journey, keeping track of doctor’s visits or portals, making appointments, paying medical bills! Real Adult Health Responsibilities™ that I had the privilege of never having to worry too much about before this journey. I know many of my peers might not be able to say the same.

    It’s funny – when I was in my early 20s, I experienced a small health scare that turned out to be a fluke. I had inexperienced doctors using confusing and scary language to describe my “diagnosis.” I developed an overwhelming medical anxiety. After some time, I underwent some evaluation tests, all of which came back negative. I stopped spending so much time in doctors’ offices, but the medical anxiety continued. It made me avoidant. So much so, that I avoided very telling signs in my body of the entirely different health issue above.

    In hindsight, medical anxiety is illogical and, at worst, self-sabotage. There are some things in life you simply have to view through a black-and-white lens: taking care of your health, seeking health care when possible, and maintaining a solutions-oriented perspective when possible. Otherwise, avoidance will drift you further away from the solution. Yes, that is true for anything in life. However, it is observed plainly through the lens of a medical journey. Now, hopefully at the tail-end of this specific issue, I’m left with a more direct and hands-on approach to health… and life! Funny how that works, right? I feel better prepared for possible future health issues. It is not as if I’ve gained more trust in the US medical system… no. But rather, more trust in myself to handle something head-on, and hopefully, with grace.

    Can you believe I’m 31 in this photo? I look like a baby!

    There were a lot of allowances I took when first faced with the prospect of open surgery. I allowed myself to consider my permanent options (’cause I mean, if you’re gonna cut me open!). I allowed myself to feel upset and disappointed in my body. I allowed myself to be cared for. And truly, that was the hardest one.

    Like, do you even still find me sexy after seeing me with my ass out in a hospital gown?!

    Well yes!

    Allowing yourself to rest, without self-demands, and allowing your new partner to help you use the bathroom, help you sit up straight, lie down, get up, and feed you tramadol – all weird little vulnerable things you’re trusting them not to get ick over. Not that I would ever date anyone that would feel that way – but still! Entrusting your care to someone, like having them dress you post-surgery or clean incisions, is a weird little guilt monster. A vulnerability you’re entrusting to someone. Similarly, there can arise a fear of indebtedness – you do so much for me, will I be able to return the favor? Do you feel cared for by me? Reciprocity is its own little gray area. That guilt monster can creep in again – I need to get up! I need to help! I can’t merely lie here all day…

    Oh, but you have to. Or else, you’ll never get better. So you must!

    And I did. And I’m lucky to have a partner who reassured me every step of the way. I’m over the moon about it. But true reassurance is internal. It’s a reflection of stability, self-trust, and resilience. It cosigns the decision you made in a partnership.

    ykwim?

    Being cared for is to be seen and to be held. But, allowing yourself to be cared for is also a excercise in self-trust and esteem. Maybe being vulnerable is an exercise in self-worth – will you allow yourself to be seen while still maintaining self-worth? Do you find the value in being able to share yourself?

    I can’t wait to get back outside!

  • Upcoming Events 2⋆4⋆26

    Sips and Spins!
    2.7.26 @ Easy Does It
    featuring: Jacob Polhill
    FREE, but lines get long fast!

    I love playing at Easy Does It. Always a great crowd and an energized dancefloor. I’ve played a few times here before, once alone and other times with friends 🙂

    Bang Da Floor
    2.13.26 @ Innjoy Wicker Park
    feauring: La Hechicera, Sam Galaxy
    FREE!

    “First 25 people to arrive will receive goody bags 💕 one special person will receive the golden tickets for the rest of the year for our events with a plus one. 1️⃣”

    Planning on playing a lot of ghettotek here!

    XTASY: Tainted Love by Slut’s Party
    2.15.26 @ Jackhammer
    DM HERE for ticket link (sex-positive queer rave with dark room)

    Playing a three-hour hardgroove set (!!!) These are the sets I love diving into – the sets that make DJing so fun and hypnotic. Truly a time to get lost in the music and see bodies gyrating together. It is during these sets too that I feel most experimental – playing three CDJs at once, messing with effects. The transitions are longer, smoother, and more enticing.

  • Leaving Instagram, and why it’s special when *I* do it

    Like a true foodie, my first Instagram photo was a picture of my cousin doing a kissy face over a mcchicken at McDonald’s with a Jakarta filter over it and film grain at 100. Everybody say ART! Who knew that 10 years later, I would be developing such a searing and uniquely individual complex about it.

    I’m not here to say anything new about Why Instagram Is Bad™. I’m just here to say that none of it matters, unfortunately. That is, unless you’re using it to post photos of your cousin doing kissy face at McDonald’s. Otherwise, it’s mostly a reward system for inorganic content. Hear me: I’m not trying to sound bitter or dismissive, but the overcuration of Instagram has reached heinous levels – everything feels like it’s being marketed to me. Even UGC feels like a sly marketing ploy. Never in my post-Tumblr life did I feel I’d be force-fed so many infographic think-pieces against my will. (ok, the irony of me starting a blog again)

    It feels, more than anything, like it doesn’t matter because the stakes are artificial. The pressure we put on ourselves to be seen – not only seen, but sincere, earnest, visible (but only in the right way!), curated but not try-hard – is anxiety-inducing (for most!) and rewardless, unless you seek metrics. No matter how much we attempt to manufacture the image, it is still manufactured. Like! It’s not a chair anymore – it’s this picture of the picture of a definition of a chair at the Moma. There’s a metaphor here that I’m not advanced enough to write yet.

    One and Three Chairs. Joseph Kosuth. 1965. MOMA. I really should have been an art history major like I wanted!!

    It’s a system designed to keep you producing, not expressing. I’m very thoroughly done conflating IG stories with proof of life.

    But also, I’m not an outlier.

    I struggle so much with balancing the online curation of self. Even now as I type this, I wonder if I’m doing it right. I know – aren’t I so unique in this struggle? Should i be more sincere? how about aloof, disconnected, effortless? what if I shared more – would that come across as more genuine or just desperate? And as a DJ with a humble following, I think how else will I share information about my events? how else will i keep track of an audience? how else will i share my fliers? What 10-second snippet of a song should I share with my post that will garner 5 likes and 3 unfollows? Jenny, Live! at McDonald’s wasn’t worried about this. She was writing Tumblr poetry.

    Well… Instagram archives the mythology of an event or experience. It can signal the personal aestheticism of a person. It can…help me build an audience? Is it my photo journal? I make excuses for its use, for its importance. Time and time again, however, I’m left feeling more transactional than personal. I wonder, am i doing this wrong? am I taking this too seriously? What if I did indeed use Instagram as a photo journal – as a blog? Well, I know for a fact the platform wasn’t built for full creative expression because the algorithm it relies on doesn’t reward it. The opportunity for expression it offers is not only limiting, but also inorganic. I’ve never felt less connected than when talking to a camera. The app continually rewards curation, purposeful aloof detachment, and shareability.

    As for archival, the mythology of it all is flattened. compressed. and often sanitized. Maybe you’re thinking, well, Jenny you ARE using it wrong. and you know what probably. I realize that Instagram should be a tool. Here is where I will treat it as such and take creative expression elsewhere. I…just remember when Instagram used to feel so fun, pre-algorithm, pre-ads. Also, I miss the feature where you could see what everyone was liking… messy boots.

    I don’t know how this will turn out, but… I’m going to try.



    Now…some food content though, I can get behind.

    I need to see what kinda restaurant scene cities like idk Rosarito, California got goin’ on!! I’m watching food review content in places you can’t even pronounce!!

    My idea is this. Start the blog. Ok done. Write in the blog!!! difficult but ok, I’m doing it. Embrace creative freedom! working on it.

    As for Instagram, I’m thinking of it less as an outlet for expression and much more as a tool. A display case! Once I re-frame it, it will stop demanding intimacy from me. I intend to use it less for storytelling and more for legitimate sharing or documentation. Specifically: I intend to only re-share event fliers on Instagram, with a very occasional and sporadic photo dump. Though I loath curating photo dumps. I’m actually so bad at remembering to take photos.

    As for the humanity, the storytelling, the expression – I’m hoping to redirect that all to here. I really did miss having a blog. Even one that no one reads. I’m not special for this, and I’d never claim to be, despite the title. I’m just trying embrace the other option – the analog. I plan to post more often here, share experience and content here, link to all my events here, photo journal here, essay and short story here, quotes I’d like to remember here, and reflections here. You know? I’ve never grabbed hold of the other option, because I’ve been made to feel there no longer was one. But – if Instagram vanished, the work would still exist. the parties would continue (as they once did!). the relationships would still thrive. the music still playing. the audience still attending.

    Cool exists between pop and esoteric. Cheers to finding the middle.

  • Little Fluffy Clouds and Just Being a Girl in the World

    I want to share a very small, quite innocuous memory with you. It really won’t seem like much. The rare moments it pops into my head, however, I feel as though it perfectly disguises itself as a tool that so cleverly and clearly divides my personal timeline – from a child on the precipice of life into a woman actively experiencing and choosing life. I’ve always been a late bloomer.

    In 2017, I was traveling through Southeast Asia with my then-partner. We had been on the road at that point for about a week. We started in Vietnam, making our way through Thailand, Cambodia, and Malaysia. I share this merely for detail and not to invoke some cliché transcendental motorcycle diaries-style metaphor. Though, it is nice now to look back and see there were acute moments of “finding oneself” – hindsight is always 20/20. And really, isn’t that the point? Once you go trying to find it, it tends to vanish. It has to find you. I share this with you now.

    We ran into these two older British men outside of a salon on a bustling street in Ho Chi Minh City. If my memory serves, we were sitting along the street, at a low table as if along a bench. One 18 hour flight later in an opposite time zone only to find yourself alongside more white people. We struck up a very general conversation about restaurants and motorbikes.

    I loved these overalls. mama, a farmer’s tan … in front of you.

    I was 23 at the time. Looking back, I was so incredibly young and very naïve. I felt my life had only just started at 20. That itch to play “catch up” always nagged me. I had never really liked myself. Sometimes, I still struggle. At that time, however, that itch arose from insecurity over lack of experience – about everything. I found myself in compromising situations without any confrontation skills. Recipe for disaster. Still, that’s a post for another day. I’m losing the plot here. But, a good example of this was that relationship, which I had let continue way too long. Painfully long. Wherein I actually realized I was no longer in love by our second day on the road, with over a month and a half of traveling ahead of us. We still didn’t break up until nearly nine months later, and which I have no issue speaking about now because, to be frank, I was hardly treated very nicely. I guess herein lies that contradiction – trying to run full speed ahead, wanting more and more without ever really knowing how to ask for it. Same scenery over and over again. Only allowing yourself to accept what you feel you deserve.

    I have more patience with myself now. I wish I had a better name for this trip other than a sort of crossroads of life.

    Not these crossroads. I WISH.

    This little moment though, I see my past stretched out behind me as a dull, lonely ache and simultaneously, my future laid out before me, showing me so much if only I had so much an ounce more courage to grab hold of it.

    The conversation with the two British dudes lasted about twenty minutes. Before departing ways, one of them complimented my American accent. He asked me if I’d ever heard the song Fluffy Little Clouds by The Orb. I had not. My knowledge of most rave music (which I didn’t know was the case for this song, I only know now in hindsight) was limited to a lot of mid-2010s EDM and classic Chicago house. He said my voice reminded him of the woman recorded at the song’s beginning, describing the “fluffy little clouds” over Arizona. As she speaks, the backdrop of the acid-y ambient house beat mellows in. I was intrigued. Something about this moment was stirring within me feelings of the world. I’m a girl of the WORLD. I was learning about music I didn’t know. I wanted to bolt from my girlfriend’s side and go to a rooftop club and talk to strangers. I wanted to change my name! I wanted to talk about art and music at a gallery and drink a glass of wine. I wanted to stop feeling bad about myself and gain some self-respect. Imagine? I wanted to be OUT THERE in the WORLD. You can be anybody when you’re just a girl in the world, you know what I mean? In retrospect, these feelings were fiercely emboldened by the shortcomings of my romantic relationship. I had self-isolated for too long!

    The world seemed bigger to me in that moment. It is hard to describe the feeling. Sorta when the light switch turns ON – to jolt you back into the present. My longest journey yet was ahead of me. I was on a quest for knowledge, for culture! Maybe this is where cliché starts to obfuscate things. I was actively shaping my life experience – I had the power in my hands! To choose what I wanted, go where I wanted, and talk with whomever I wanted. To break up with my girlfriend … nine months later! Be an active participant in life, rather than have life happen to me passively. And yet, the world had always been my oyster – I had just been too afraid and insecure to notice. I was still learning how to love myself – how to grant myself the allowance to pursue. That is the beauty of getting older – something I couldn’t WAIT for as a child. And for which I was soooo valid tbh. 31 year old me validating 23 year old me validating 15 year old me.

    The voice on the recording was taken from interview clips of Rickie Lee Jones in which she describes idyllic all-American scenes from her childhood. Her voice sounds a little thick. There is a hint of nasality. When I first listened, I assumed she was some hippie-like figure describing the sky off a hit of acid. There is longing in her voice…

    They went on forever – They – When I w- We lived in Arizona, and the skies always had little fluffy clouds in ’em, and, uh… they were long… and clear and… there were lots of stars at night. And, uh, when it would rain, it would all turn – it- They were beautiful, the most beautiful skies as a matter of fact. Um, the sunsets were purple and red and yellow and on fire, and the clouds would catch the colours everywhere. That’s uh, neat ’cause I used to look at them all the time, when I was little. You don’t see that. You might still see them in the desert…

    Funnily enough, she later sued for unauthorized use of her voice and was forever disdainful of the Orb. The song itself has been voted several times as one of the 500 greatest songs of all time.

    Open toed chanclas on a train are a choice!

    This blog isn’t meant to be a syrupy memoir or some exercise in self-deprecation. That actually sounds like self-harm. I’m really just trying to keep track of my thoughts as they come. And maybe too, the songs I remember along the way. You know, as a girl… in the world.