THE SHOW THAT BROKE ME

I remember walking into the theatre for the first time.

I’d had about six months out of work before that. Long enough to start thinking it might be over. That maybe I’d had my run, and that was it.

Then the audition came.

I went in, and I got it.

Ensemble, with Beast and Gaston cover in Beauty and the Beast.

I was ecstatic.

Not just because it was a West End show, but because I’d auditioned for it when it first came to London and didn’t get it. So this felt like a second chance. I loved the piece. The story, the effects, the prosthetics — it was exactly the kind of show I wanted to be in.

Walking into that building, I knew what I’d got.

From the outside, it looked like I’d landed a great job. And that part is true. The show was phenomenal. Big, polished, respected. The kind of production people expect you to be proud of.

And I was.

But that’s only half of it.

Because at the same time, I was walking into that show in a very different place mentally.

Everything felt already in motion.
Connections were there, dynamics were set, people were comfortable in it.

I was the one trying to find where I fitted.

And I wasn’t starting from a stable place. I kept thinking time would sort it out, that I’d grow into it.

That never happened.

Very quickly, I could feel how I was being read.

Grumpy.
Moody.
Unhappy.
A loner.
Not friendly.
Not part of it.
Not someone worth investing time in.

None of that was said directly.

But you don’t need it said.

You feel it in how people look at you, how they don’t look at you, how conversations stop before you get there, how they don’t start at all.

And the truth is, from the outside, I probably did look like that.

I wasn’t sleeping. I was exhausted all the time, running on nothing. I had palpitations. I constantly felt like I wasn’t worthy to be there.

Mentally, I was frazzled. Making myself ill. My throat, my chest — always something. I had no energy. Everything felt like effort.

Socially, there was nothing.

No invites. No “come out with us.” No sense that I was part of anything. So I stopped trying. I would leave as quickly as I could, or stay out of the way entirely. It felt easier than trying to break into something that didn’t feel open to me in the first place.

And once that starts, it feeds itself.

They had already decided who I was, and I didn’t even know who I was at that point.

At home, it wasn’t much better.

I was living with my partner in a house share. Not a great one, but we were together. He was trying to support me, telling me it would get better, trying to keep things steady.

But I was always unhappy. Emotional. Trying to explain what I was feeling inside the show, and not really being able to.

It was eating everything.

At one point, I decided I needed something completely different. He was cabin crew for BA, so I thought I’d go down that route too. Get out of the environment, see more of each other, try to rebuild something normal.

Looking back, it was just me trying to deflect away from what was actually going on.

Inside the show, there was a constant voice in my head.

“Think how many other actors would love to be here.”

Over and over again.

And it didn’t motivate me.

It made me feel worse.

Like I didn’t deserve it. Like I was failing at something I should be thriving in. I knew I was giving everything I had just to stay afloat, and still feeling like I was sinking.

I did have a close friend in the company.

And I could have told him.

But I didn’t.

Because it felt too risky.

If I opened up, what would happen? Would it stay between us? Would it get passed on? Would I suddenly become “the one who’s struggling”?

I made a decision without really saying it out loud.

Better to be seen as grumpy… than seen as unstable.

So I said nothing.

And that silence just confirmed everything people already thought.

The turning point came when I was covering Gaston.

In that production, there was an alternate Beast and Gaston, so even though I was first cover, it was less likely I’d actually go on. But the expectation was still there. The work was still there.

Gaston is very choreographed. Very precise. Disney style. You hit your marks or it doesn’t work.

There’s a section called the “Mug Dance.”

And I couldn’t get it.

Not at all.

We had understudy calls, and I just couldn’t land it. My head went. My body went. Everything shut down.

I had a panic attack.

I left. I went straight to the dance captain and said I was calling my agent. I told my agent I couldn’t do it. That I’d taken on too much.

Looking back, I cringe at how I handled it.

But at the time, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was in a bad state.

The next day, I had a meeting with the company manager and the resident director.

They asked me if I wanted to keep the understudy.

That moment was one of the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been in.

You would think, at that point, someone might have asked what was actually going on.

No one did.

They asked the question, I said I couldn’t do it, and that was that.

I felt ashamed. Embarrassed. Like I’d let the show down, let myself down. I knew people would find out. I knew there would be chatter.

To this day, I don’t think they knew what was wrong with me.

Or if they did, they didn’t act on it.

It was about protecting the show.

Not the person.

And day to day, it just kept reinforcing itself.

Walking through the building to get to my dressing room at the top, passing floor after floor — you see it all.

You try to catch someone’s eye and smile, even when it feels forced.

They don’t engage.

Or someone else arrives and you get that look — like, why are you here?

You try to stand near a dressing room door, see if you can drift into a conversation.

You’re not part of it.

If someone does speak, it feels like they’re trying to work something out about you, not connect with you.

You learn very quickly where you’re not wanted.

And eventually, that does something to you.

I am not a weak person in essence.

I tried with all my might.

It wasn’t talent that was missing.

It was understanding and support.

But at the time, it didn’t feel like that.

At the time, it felt like I was the problem.

That I didn’t belong there.

That I’d somehow got it wrong.

And when you sit in that long enough, it becomes the only version you can see.

This was the show that broke me.

The one that took my self-belief, took the fight out of me, and left me exhausted, confused, and completely alone in a room full of people.

My contract wasn’t renewed.

No one pulled me aside to ask if I was alright.

No one tried to understand what had been happening.

A decision had been made.

And by that point, it didn’t matter anyway.

I was already gone.

That was 1999.

I didn’t stop working. I went into other areas of the industry and kept building a career. I just stepped away from that level of musical theatre at that time—because I had to.

This needs talking about. Not just for me, but for younger actors going through the same thing now.

I’m in a very different place today. I understand myself, I manage my mental health properly, and I know what I need to stay well.

This wasn’t the end. It was a break. And I’m not finished with musical theatre yet.

If this spoke to you, feel free to share it and leave a thought.