Photo by Kene O.
We Are The DJ: Yeldā Ali’s Homegrown Movement
What began as self-funded maternity leave became a sanctuary for women of color to learn the craft of DJ’ing — and the deeper work of safety, embodiment and self-trust.
When artist and activist Yeldā Ali became a new mom, she was faced with a choice that far too many women in the U.S. confront every year: return to work before her body and spirit were ready, or figure it out alone. With no universal paid maternity leave — a reality that pushes nearly one in four women back to work within two weeks of giving birth — Ali did what she’s always done: she leaned into community.
But this time, the community came to her.
A seasoned DJ with 14 years behind the turntables, Ali had built a life around sound, storytelling, and space-making. But after giving birth, her world shifted. “It wasn’t calling to my spirit to be outside like that anymore,” she said. But motherhood didn’t pull her away from DJ’ing — it called her deeper into herself.So she built something new.
From her Brooklyn apartment, Ali launched We Are The DJ, a foundational course for women that’s part technical deep dive, part healing circle. In a few months, she taught over 30 students, mostly women of color, many first-generation and all showing up for more than just the music.
“We live in a world where women are taught to shrink themselves. But when you’re DJ’ing, you have to be perceived,” she said. “You’re in the booth. People are looking at you. You’re controlling the energy in the room.” And that control — of tempo, emotion, space — is not just powerful; it’s political. “Women have cried in class. Things come up when you become embodied. DJ’ing forces you into your body,” she adds. “You feel the beat, use your hands, move in rhythm. You can’t be passive.”
For Ali, creating this safe space has also been healing. “Wellness is also having money,” she said plainly. Teaching from home allowed her to support herself while staying close to her daughter.
Ali never set out to be a full-time DJ. But the deeper she leaned into it, the more she realized music was her method of resistance, connection, and wellness. “I used to feel like, ‘I’m not doing enough,’” she said of those early postpartum months. “But now I see I’m giving these women the tools to go out and represent themselves through art. And that is activism.”
In a culture that often defines wellness in narrow, commercialized ways, Ali’s story is a reminder that healing can happen anywhere — in a home studio, between strangers-turned-sisters, or on a dance floor where the lights are low and the bass is heavy. For some, wellness isn’t a yoga mat or a meditation app. It’s a crossfade between grief and joy. It’s learning how to drop a beat — and take up space.
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