When the Stage Lights Feel Like Spotlights on Your Anxiety: My Truth

Let me be real with you: I'm a recording artist, a broadcaster, a founder — and I live with social anxiety and agoraphobia. People assume that if you're out here making music, running a radio station, and building movements, you must love crowds and chaos. The truth? Sometimes the thought of walking into a crowded venue or navigating a loud industry mixer makes my chest tighten before I even leave the house.

The entertainment industry runs on networking events, showcases, conferences, and late-night sessions in packed studios. For someone who experiences sensory overload — the overlapping conversations, the flashing lights, the unpredictable energy of strangers — these spaces can feel like battlefields instead of opportunities. I've had moments where I've turned down collaborations not because I didn't want them, but because the environment required to make them happen felt impossible to navigate that day.

Agoraphobia isn't just 'fear of leaving the house' like people think. For me, it's about unpredictable situations where I can't control my exit or environment. A surprise industry party with no clear timeline? That's tough. A panel discussion where I don't know who else is speaking or how the room is set up? My mind starts planning escape routes before I even agree to attend. It's exhausting to constantly calculate risk while trying to show up as a professional.

What I've learned over three decades in this Philly hip-hop world is that protecting my peace isn't weak — it's survival. I've had to set boundaries that some people don't understand. I schedule calls instead of in-person meetings when I need to. I arrive early to events so I can orient myself to the space before the crowd arrives. I've learned to say, 'I need to step outside for a minute,' without apology or explanation. These aren't crutches; they're tools.

The industry doesn't make space for this conversation easily. There's still this expectation that artists should be 'on' all the time, accessible, charismatic, ready to perform ourselves even when we're not on stage. But I'm not a product — I'm a whole person who makes art. And part of honoring that is being honest when the cost of showing up a certain way is too high for my mental health that day.

I also want to name this: being a Black woman over 40 in entertainment adds another layer. We're expected to be strong, unbothered, capable of holding everything without cracking. Admitting that I experience anxiety or that certain spaces trigger me? That used to feel like handing people ammunition to dismiss me. But I'm done with that. My vulnerability is not a liability. It's part of what makes my art real.

If you're reading this and you're navigating similar struggles — whether you're in the industry or not — I want you to know: you're not broken, and you're not alone. Finding what helps you move through the world safely isn't giving up on your dreams. It's making sure you're still here to live them. For me, that's looked like therapy, faith, building my own spaces like In Da Streets Radio where I control the environment, and learning to trust my gut when something doesn't feel safe.

This work isn't linear. Some days I can walk into a crowded room and thrive. Other days, I need to honor that today isn't that day. Both versions of me are valid. Both versions are still Nina, still the artist, still the founder. Mental health doesn't disqualify you from greatness — it just means your path might look different, and that's okay.

If you are in crisis, call or text 988 in the US, or visit findahelpline.com for support wherever you are.