Running a Public Career From My Safe Zone: My Agoraphobia Playbook

I am not hiding. I am also not pretending my agoraphobia does not exist. For years, I thought those were my only two options — either force myself into every crowded room and suffer in silence, or disappear completely. I have learned there is a third way: showing up strategically, honoring my limits, and building a career that works with my brain instead of against it.

Agoraphobia is not just fear of leaving the house. For me, it is fear of situations where escape feels impossible or embarrassing — packed conference rooms, loud industry mixers, festival stages with tight backstage areas. My body reads those spaces as traps. My chest tightens. My vision narrows. I start planning exits before I even walk in. That is the reality I work with every single day.

I use what I call a ladder of safe zones. At the bottom is my home office — my absolute baseline. One step up is virtual meetings where I control my camera and can step away if needed. Next is small in-person meetings with one or two trusted people in quiet spaces. Then controlled public appearances like pre-recorded content or short panel slots with a clear end time. At the top are live performances or large events, which I only do when I have had weeks to prepare and a solid exit plan. I do not skip rungs. I do not shame myself for staying on a lower step when I need to.

Boundaries are not optional for me — they are survival tools. I have scripts I use when people push: 'I appreciate the invite, but I do my best work in smaller settings. Can we do a one-on-one call instead?' or 'I am not available for that format, but I would love to contribute a written piece or a pre-recorded segment.' Most people respect it. The ones who do not were never going to respect my work anyway.

Rest is not a reward I earn after pushing through. Rest is the foundation that makes everything else possible. I block recovery days on my calendar the same way I block work meetings. After any public-facing event, I give myself at least 24 hours of low-stimulation time. No calls. No decisions. Just stillness. I used to feel guilty about this. Now I know it is the only reason I can keep going.

I have also stopped performing wellness. Some days I cannot do the breathing exercises. Some weeks I cancel three things in a row. Some months I only leave my house for essentials. That does not mean I am failing. It means I am listening. My therapist reminds me that managing a chronic condition is not a straight line — it is a spiral. I circle back to old fears, but each time I have new tools.

The youth I work with ask me all the time how I do it — how I run Inspire Da Streets when I struggle with crowds and noise. I tell them the truth: I do it differently than someone without agoraphobia would. I build around my limits instead of pretending they do not exist. I ask for accommodations. I say no a lot. I design my days to protect my nervous system. That is not weakness. That is architecture.

If you are building something public while living with agoraphobia or any anxiety condition, please hear this: You do not have to white-knuckle your way through every opportunity. You do not owe anyone access to you in formats that harm you. You can build a career that honors both your gifts and your limits. It will look different. It will require creativity. It will be worth it.

If you are in crisis, call or text 988 (US) or visit findahelpline.com.