Wildlydj: The Life of DJ Lieberman

July has always carried a certain weight for me. It’s not just the heart of summer or a stretch of long, golden days, for me, July is sacred. It holds memory, grief, love, and becoming. Every year, it asks me to pause, take stock, and reflect. But this year… it’s different.

It begins today, July 1st my late grandfather’s birthday. He passed just a few months ago, and this will be the first time we mark that day without him here. His absence is still fresh. He was steady, strong, and deeply rooted in who he was, and in many ways, those roots became part of me. Remembering him now feels tender and raw, but also full of gratitude. His memory is a blessing I carry daily.

Just two days after my own birthday comes July 12th, my grandmother’s birthday. His wife. Still alive. Still full of grace and strength. I often think about how this week must feel for her and how she carries both celebration and loss, woven tightly together. There’s a quiet resilience there that runs through our whole family.

And then comes July 10th — my birthday.
This year, I turn 30.

The truth is… I never expected to live to see 30.

That sentence carries weight. There were chapters of my life that felt too dark to see past. Moments where the pressure, the pain, the loneliness, all of it, made the idea of growing older feel impossible. But here I am. Not just alive, but grounded. A little bruised, maybe, but deeply present. And that’s worth everything.

It’s my birthday. A milestone year. A symbolic crossing into a new chapter of adulthood, of responsibility, of intention. But the 10th doesn’t belong to me alone. It’s also the anniversary of my other grandparents’ wedding and the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing.

So, in one day, I hold birth, union, and loss.
Life, love, and grief braided into one sacred thread.

The days between the 1st and the 10th have become something of a spiritual container for me. A space for reflection, grounding, and recalibration. Each year, I ask myself:
What am I still carrying that no longer serves me?
What would my grandparents be proud of?
Who am I becoming and who do I still need to return to?

Ever since moving to Alaska, I’ve developed a quiet tradition: I spend my birthdays alone; off-grid, in the middle of nowhere, reconnecting with the land, with Spirit, and with myself. I don’t crave parties or attention. I crave stillness. Solitude. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty, but sacred.

This year, I’m taking that to another level.

I’ll be driving north; out of Alaska and into the Northwest Territories until I reach the edge of the continent. The Arctic Ocean. There, I’ll perform a mikvah, a ritual immersion in those freezing, ancient waters. Not just as a spiritual practice, but as a rebirth. A soul-reset. A way to shed the weight of the last chapter and step fully, intentionally, into what’s next.

Because for me, July isn’t just a time to remember. It’s a time to return: to myself, to my roots, to the deepest parts of who I am.

This is how I honor the ones who came before me.
How I make peace with what I’ve lived through.
And how I choose; deliberately and with both feet in, to keep going.

So here I am, turning 30 at the top of the world.
Not just surviving.
But becoming.
And for the first time, truly choosing to live wildly, honestly, and fully awake.

Because I know what it’s like to carry heaviness in silence.
To smile through pain.
To not know how to ask for help.

That’s why I’ve become deeply committed to men’s mental health.
Not just in words, but in action. In showing up, in telling the truth, in creating space where vulnerability isn’t seen as weakness, but as strength. Because I believe that healing becomes real when we share it. When we offer it back.

This year, I don’t just celebrate 30 as a personal milestone, I mark it as a turning point.
From surviving… to serving.
From holding it in… to holding space.
From the boy who didn’t think he’d make it,
to the man who now helps others find their way through.

Happy birthday, Grandpa.
You helped shape the best parts of me.
And as I step into this next chapter, I carry you with me.

Carrying the Weight: Being Jewish in a World That Still Hates Us

There’s a quiet grief I carry; the kind that doesn’t always have words but settles in the chest every time another headline flashes across my screen. Another synagogue vandalized. Another celebrity spewing antisemitic tropes. Another comment, another slur, another reminder.

I’m Jewish. And lately, that feels heavier than usual.

This isn’t new. Antisemitism isn’t a trending issue. It’s an ancient, shapeshifting virus. It existed before the Crusades, before the ghettos, before the pogroms, before Auschwitz. It’s still here, lingering in classrooms, hiding in internet jokes, sometimes marching boldly down city streets.

What’s exhausting isn’t just the hatred, it’s the gaslighting that follows.
When we speak up, we’re told we’re overreacting. When we mourn, we’re told we’re playing victim. When we advocate for ourselves, we’re accused of wielding power.

And yet, we survive. We always have and we always will.

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We Are Not Just Trauma

Being Jewish is not just surviving hate. It’s singing through it. It’s lighting candles every week in defiance of darkness. It’s dancing at weddings where we smash glass to remind ourselves that joy and brokenness can coexist.

We are more than what they say about us.
We are more than caricatures or conspiracy theories.
We are teachers, poets, wanderers, rebels, mystics, lovers, comedians, skeptics, dreamers.

Some of us keep kosher, others eat bagels and bacon. Some pray in Hebrew, others in silence. Some wear kippahs, others tattoos. We don’t all look the same. We don’t all vote the same. But we are connected: by blood, by story, by rhythm, by something older than any empire.

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Why I’m Writing This

Because maybe you didn’t know that antisemitism is rising.
Maybe you’ve only seen snippets; a swastika here, a slur there.
Or maybe you’ve looked away, unsure how to help.

I’m writing this because it hurts. And I need to say that out loud.

But I’m also writing this because I’m proud.
Because I won’t shrink myself to make others comfortable.
Because silence has never saved us.

If you’re reading this and you’re Jewish: I see you. Whether you’re angry, exhausted, scared, or quietly lighting candles on your own, you belong. You’re part of a people who’ve outlived Pharaohs, popes, Nazis, and Twitter trolls.

If you’re not Jewish; I invite you to lean in. Learn. Listen. Stand with us. Not just when it’s trending, but when it’s quiet. Not just when it’s comfortable, but when it counts.

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We’re Still Here

We sing Am Yisrael Chai, the people of Israel live, not as a political slogan, but a spiritual truth.
We’ve carried this identity through deserts and exile, through ghettos and shtetls, through burned books and broken glass.

And still, somehow, we rise. Not to dominate. Just to exist. To breathe. To love. To tell our stories in our own voices.

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Antisemitism is racism, even if it doesn’t always look like how society defines racism today. It’s not just about religion — it’s about being seen as other. As dangerous. As less than.
Jews have been racialized, scapegoated, and dehumanized for centuries — no matter our skin color, language, or level of observance.
You don’t have to look “different” to be hated.
You don’t have to be religious to be targeted.
You just have to be Jewish.

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Let that be heard. Let that be enough.

Breaking the Mold, Finding Myself

Whenever I’m back home or talk to someone I haven’t talked to in many years, they ask: “Why Alaska?”
And then, usually: “But why did you stay?”

So, here’s why:

After graduating from Miami University, I knew I didn’t want the expected path. I come from a high-profile family and my family name carries weight across Ohio, known in circles far wider than our hometown…. and with that came expectations…. I love them deeply, but growing up under that spotlight taught me to crave something earned, not granted. A lot of people I know followed the same trajectory, taking the nepotism path that was laid out for them. And while there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, I knew it wasn’t for me.

I wanted something real. Something earned. Something that didn’t have my last name stamped on it before I even showed up. So, I joined AmeriCorps, signed up to work with at-risk youth, and moved to Alaska without ever visiting. No preview. No plan B. Just a gut feeling that this place would stretch me in ways nothing else could. Just a calling I couldn’t ignore. Alaska didn’t coddle me. It challenged me. Humbled me. And eventually, it healed me.

I was only supposed to be here a year.
But that year shaped me.

Alaska stripped away everything I thought I knew about myself and handed me something far more valuable: truth. The kind of truth that shows up in silence. In service. In survival. I’ve faced near-death experiences here, storms that didn’t care who I was or where I came from but in that rawness, I found moments of deep isolation and clarity. I found freedom.

And somewhere in that process, I started to feel something deeper awaken in me: a responsibility. As a Jew, I’ve always carried a quiet understanding that we are called to engage in tikkun Olam: to help repair what is broken in this world. Here in Alaska, working with elders, rural communities, and systems often overlooked, I began to live that obligation in a more embodied way. Service stopped being just something I did; it became part of who I am.

I’m a corn-fed Ohioan at heart; I’m a Redhawk, not a Buckeye but still proudly raised in the Midwest. Ohio gave me my grit; Alaska gave me my voice. Here, I found purpose. I found community. I found parts of myself I never knew were missing.

I stayed because the land spoke to something ancient in me; a voice older than memory, like my soul had been here before. In Jewish mysticism, we talk about makom, the sacred place, not just as geography, but as divine alignment. Here, in this vast and humbling land, I felt that alignment. I began to believe that certain places call to certain souls, not by accident, but by purpose. The work I do here feels like more than service; it feels like uncovering holy sparks (nitzotzot) hidden in overlooked corners of the world. I found peace in places I didn’t expect, and strength I didn’t know I had. I stayed because the person I became here… is someone I’m proud to be, someone more in tune with my purpose, and closer to the sacred rhythm of creation itself.

So yeah; I chose Alaska.
But staying? That was the real decision.
And I’d make it again a thousand times over.

To Mom and Dad:
Thank you for giving me the foundation to dream beyond what was handed to me. Your love, your sacrifices, and your unwavering belief in me, even when I chose a path far from the one laid out, means more than words can say. You may not have chosen Alaska for me, but you raised me with the courage to choose it for myself. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

Why I’m Starting This Blog

Over the years, friends, coworkers, and even strangers have told me I should write more. Not just in passing, but with genuine conviction: “You’ve got stories to tell,” they say. “Your perspective is different, raw, honest, and needed.”

I guess I finally listened.

Living in Alaska; in all its wildness, quiet, and unforgiving beauty, has given me space to reflect, heal, and grow. But it’s not just about Alaska. It’s about everything: the roads I’ve taken, the people I’ve met, the pain I’ve survived, and the moments that have shaped me. Whether I’m hiking through the tundra, sharing coffee with an elder in a remote village, or processing life’s heavier lessons, there’s always something deeper underneath it all, something worth putting into words.

Yeah, I have the podcast, and I love the conversations, the laughs, and the raw, unfiltered dialogue. But writing? Writing hits different. It lingers. It slows you down. It gives you space to feel. To breathe. To sit with the weight of a moment longer than audio ever can.

People say I’m a great writer, but more importantly, I think I’ve become a better observer, of the world, of others, and of myself. And this blog is where I’ll share those observations. The adventures. The humor. The messiness. The big questions and the small victories.

So here we are.

This is Wildlydj: a space for the stories that don’t always get told, the thoughts that linger too long in the quiet, and the wild journey of becoming exactly who I am meant to be.

Thanks for joining me.