What Was Life Like as an Actor?

It was f@@king Hard:

People often ask me what it was like being an actor. The assumption is always the same glamorous, exciting, creative. TV appearances, theatre runs, red carpets and applause. But for me? The truth is it was f@@king hard.

And not because I wasn’t working I was. I filmed Basil Brush, My Parents Are Aliens, Shoebox Zoo, countless short training films, and independent projects. Some of those films never even got a distribution deal. I gave everything to roles that barely saw the light of day.

Behind the scenes, I was living a very different story.

My then-husband and I juggled multiple part-time jobs, each carefully kept under 15 hours and 59 minutes a week to avoid losing our housing benefit. But even with those safeguards, we still ended up at risk of losing our home.

We were living on a boat on the Thames when a representative from the mortgage company called to me from the dock. He couldn’t come aboard due to piracy laws and the locked gates but from the shore, he told me we’d defaulted on the mortgage.

I was stunned. I thought everything was under control. I trusted my husband. I was young, naive, and hopeful. That conversation changed everything.

Dutch Barge For Sale

I went straight to the lock keeper to ask about the mooring fees another blow. The rent hadn’t been paid. The housing benefit we relied on wasn’t covering our home it was funding an alcohol addiction.

And no, I’m not here to place blame. I don’t think he realised how much he was drinking. I hope he’s since found a better path.

I walked back to our boat, picked up two pots of paint, made a “For Sale” sign, and hung it outside. He was still asleep. A few hours later, he woke up, saw the sign, and called me a liar. Sadly, not a new experience but this time, I stood my ground. I was angry. I didn’t back down. And in doing so, I made my life even harder, but it was the first real step toward leaving.

We eventually sold the boat for a small profit. With help from friends, we bought a dilapidated Sheffield keel for £5,000. No roof, just a shell, an engine, and a name: Forward. I was hopeful. I believed we could start fresh. That summer, we slept in a tent or in the car while we cleaned and rebuilt the boat.

Working Actor

Things were finally moving in the right direction. My agent was calling me; he had started doing voice overs and we were both getting regular castings. Then the casting turned into bookings for me and the acting work started flowing, and the cycle slowly started to repeat, only this time, it was worse.

After filming the second episode of My Parents Are Aliens, I finally ran. I should have been celebrating. Just before that, I’d filmed Basil Brush. And on the very day I received the call offering me the chance to reprise my role on My Parents Are Aliens, our cat died. That day was filled with grief, jealousy, and anger. My then-husband was struggling to get acting work, and rather than being proud, he saw my success as a threat.

Years later, when Shoebox Zoo aired, I remember watching it and thinking, “This should feel good.” But it didn’t. He had gone out, got bladdered, and, well; you can probably fill in the blanks.

With the help of a third cousin, I got in touch with Women’s Aid. It took two more years and one more attempt, but eventually, I found myself in my third and final refuge.

I Came Home

And then, finally, I found my way back home.

I remember standing in a supermarket, picking up foods and asking myself, Do I even like this? Or was I just told I did? As I started to find myself, I had to grieve for what I lost, my marriage, my dog, and my acting career. But I wouldn’t change any of it. What I found was far more important.

Going into a refuge isn’t easy. But it was the first time people believed me. Sure, I had asked others for help; friends, peers, people I trusted. They assumed I was being dramatic, or worse, drunk. After all, my ex was respected. He’d trained with these people at drama school. Some of these people told me to “get over myself” and go home.

But a few people did believe me. To those at the Edinburgh Lyceum, you know who you are—thank you. You helped me see I wasn’t going mad. And to the garage in Leith who changed all the locks on my car for free? I still pay that kindness forward to this day.

You see, back then, domestic abuse wasn’t really talked about. Not properly. It was swept under the carpet. And I was left to quietly disappear.

What was it like being an actor?

For me, it was escapism and domestic abuse rolled into one. That’s why I don’t talk about it much. I can’t separate the joy from the trauma. I miss performing every day. And yes, I wonder if I’ll ever go back.

When my marriage ended, so did my career. I made myself a ghost and ran. I didn’t know where I fit anymore. I was terrified he’d show up on set. I didn’t know who to trust. My entire social circle vanished. I came back to London and had to rebuild my life from scratch.

When I met Dennis, the man who is now my husband, we had to face 3am phone calls filled with alcohol-fuelled declarations of love from someone I’d left three years earlier. But Dennis stood by me. He never flinched, he was simply steady, quiet, with unwavering kindness and understanding and I blossomed in that love. We’ve been together now for over 16 years, and I truly am the luckiest woman alive.

But it’s taken me twenty years to be able to talk about my time as an actor.

That silence?

It came from shame.

If you’ve read The Legacy of Shame, you’ll know how shame kept me hidden, long after the bruises had healed. It robbed me of joy, opportunity, and confidence.

But not forever.

Today, I’m married to the kindest man I’ve ever met. We have a beautiful daughter, and a home filled with love. My life is nothing like it was in my twenties. I reference it now, but it no longer defines me.

And one day, I want to build a social enterprise for others like me. Because leaving acting, leaving my marriage, and becoming the woman, I am today wasn’t easy.

It was f@@king hard.