Sometimes, the most reassuring thing an artist can tell you is that they’re still figuring it out, too. During our conversation at Austin City Limits, Cassandra Coleman spoke openly about stage nerves, vulnerable songwriting, and learning that being an artist doesn’t require having everything together. Since appearing on American Idol, Coleman has started taking herself more seriously as a musician. Before the show, she explained, she had never released music or experienced that kind of community with other artists. Meeting people who shared her instincts helped make the creative world feel less intimidating. That sense of belonging hasn’t completely silenced her self-doubt. She still described feeling as though everyone else knows what they’re doing while she’s pretending. But getting to know other musicians helped her recognize that uncertainty doesn’t disqualify her from being one. That honesty also finds its way into her songs. When I asked which felt almost too personal to release, Coleman chose “End Of Your Love.” Sharing it took courage because it explores the fear that being fully known, including the parts you struggle with, might make someone decide you’re unworthy of love. She described the pressure to maintain a façade, worried that revealing what’s underneath might feel like too much for another person to carry. Releasing the song meant letting listeners into that fear. Her boyfriend, she added, loves it. When asked what her younger self would think about seeing her at ACL, Coleman imagined two reactions: pride, and a reminder to loosen up. “I’m so nervous when I’m up there,” she admitted. For Coleman, repetition is helping. Singing, she pointed out, doesn’t automatically mean knowing how to move onstage or put on a show. Those are skills she’s still learning. Her younger self, she hoped, would recognize the courage it takes to face that fear anyway. One memory she would preserve forever is writing “Joan of Arc” with her boyfriend. Rather than working mechanically through verses and a chorus, she recalled words spilling out of them. The experience felt like the creative magic artists talk about and remembering it gives her a reason to keep searching for that feeling. Offstage, creativity has recently taken a less dramatic form: an iPad. Coleman joked about becoming an “iPad kid,” but drawing has reminded her that music doesn’t have to carry all the pressure of expressing herself. Doodling gives her another way to create without making everything feel so serious. By the end of our conversation, her answer about what she hopes audiences take away felt connected to everything she had shared. “I hope they carry with it that they feel seen.” She wants people to recognize someone showing up as she is: perhaps nervous or awkward, but still passionate enough to do something daunting. In a world where social media constantly exposes us to distressing news and negativity, she also hopes her performances offer a moment of something positive. Coleman’s offstage confession wasn’t that she had finally conquered fear. It was that she’s making music, finding community, and stepping onto the stage while still feeling it. That might be the most encouraging part.
This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at St. John's chapter and does not reflect the views of Her Campus.