Her grandmother, a painter who also made clothes, never separated her art from Luna’s world. “She never separated me from her expression,” Luna told me. Creativity wasn’t something Luna had to reach for. It was already part of her, and she never really lost it.
Luna didn’t always have the words. But shes had her creative expression, and that was enough. Drag became the space where she felt most like herself. Not just playing a character, but truly existing. “Whether I was performing or not, I was a woman,” she told me. She didn’t call it transness at the time. She was just doing what felt good. What made her feel alive.
People watched her blossom. “I noticed how people perceived me was so different. It was so much better.” And she felt the shift too. “There’s a certain energy I put out because this is who I really am. Because I feel comfortable.” Drag wasn’t about hiding. It was the first time she could truly be seen.
From there, she found herself at Paragon, one of New York City’s most iconic queer nightlife spots at the time. It was the summer of 2022, just a month after the venue opened, and she was 21 years young. The city was still coming back to life after the pandemic, and Paragon quickly became a place where that energy could land. It was queer-owned, community-focused, and full of intention. The space offered more than a party; it offered possibility. Luna had never worked in nightlife before, but she was out in the scene, making friends, showing face. “I literally asked for a job,” she said plainly. They needed someone at the door, and she stepped into the role. Her connection to the club was immediate. “I always say it felt more spiritual than transactional.”
After Paragon closed, Luna transitioned to working at Bossa Nova. “I became a bartender and I was there for a while.” But internally, she was somewhere else. “I was at a really weird crossroad in my life where I was like, I don't really know what I'm doing,” she said. “Everything I was working for… it just was not working out.”
