this is My Story

Los Angeles isn't just where I'm from—it's woven into everything I am. The heat that shimmers off the pavement in July, the way the light turns golden and impossible at sunset, the palm trees swaying like they're dancing to music only they can hear. This city raised me. It taught me how to move, how to want things, how to become the woman I was always meant to be.

I grew up in the sprawl of it all—not the Hollywood Hills fantasy version people imagine, but the real LA. The neighborhoods where you could smell jasmine and exhaust fumes in the same breath. Where strip malls sat next to taco trucks that served the best carne asada you'd ever taste. Where everyone was chasing something—a dream, a high, a moment of beauty in all the chaos. I learned early that this city doesn't apologize for wanting more, for being too much, for demanding to be seen.

And maybe that's why I fit here so perfectly.

When I think back to who I was as a teenager, I see this girl who didn't quite know what to do with herself yet. I was all angles and awkwardness at first, trying to figure out where I belonged in the hallways of my high school, in the backseat of my friends' cars, in my own skin. LA has a way of making you hyper-aware of your body, you know? Everyone's looking. Everyone's comparing. The billboards tower over you with perfect faces and perfect curves, and you're just trying to figure out if you'll ever measure up.

But then something shifted.

My body started changing in ways I wasn't prepared for. Suddenly I had these curves that seemed to appear overnight, and specifically, my breasts—they just kept growing. And growing. I remember being fourteen, fifteen, walking through the halls at school and feeling every single eye on me. The boys staring. The girls whispering. Teachers doing double-takes and then quickly looking away, embarrassed. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to fold into myself and become invisible.

I wore oversized hoodies even when it was ninety degrees outside. I hunched my shoulders forward, trying to hide what felt like this neon sign pointing at my chest. I felt like my body was betraying me, turning me into something I didn't ask to be. Something that attracted attention I didn't know how to handle.

But LA doesn't let you hide for long.

This city has a way of reflecting you back to yourself until you have no choice but to look. And slowly—god, so slowly—I started to see things differently. I started to notice that the attention wasn't just about objectification or shame. There was power in it. There was something electric about walking into a room and feeling the energy shift. About understanding that my body could command space, could make people stop and stare and want.

I'm not going to lie and say I figured it all out overnight. I didn't wake up one morning suddenly confident and empowered. It was messier than that. It was a process of trying things on—different looks, different attitudes, different versions of myself—until I found the ones that felt true. It was learning that the thing I'd been trying to hide might actually be my greatest gift.

My friends helped. God, my friends. We were this crew of girls who were all figuring out our power together, learning how to move through the world in these bodies that suddenly felt dangerous and delicious at the same time. We'd get ready together, music blasting, trying on each other's clothes, experimenting with makeup and attitude. We'd go out into the LA night—to parties in the hills, to clubs we were too young to be in but somehow always got into, to beach bonfires where the ocean was black and infinite and we felt like we owned the whole damn world.

Those nights taught me something crucial: that sexuality isn't something that happens to you. It's something you claim. It's something you shape and define on your own terms.

I started modeling because someone saw me at a coffee shop and handed me a card. It felt like fate, like the universe saying, "Stop hiding. Start using what you've got." And I did. I stepped in front of cameras and learned how to arch my back just right, how to make my eyes say things my mouth didn't have to, how to own every inch of my body without apology.

But modeling was just the beginning. It was the gateway to something bigger, something more authentically mine. Because while I loved the photos, the fashion, the way I could transform into different versions of sexy depending on the shoot, I knew there was more I wanted to say. More I wanted to create.

That's when the music started calling to me. That's when I began to hear this sound in my head—sultry, electronic, dripping with attitude and desire. A sound that matched the way I moved, the way I felt when I was most myself. A sound that was unapologetically sexual and artistic and raw.

And that's how Plastiqe Mojo was born.

This project, this vision—it's everything I've learned about owning my body, my sexuality, my creat