What I want to leave before I die

Before anything else — before the titles, the projects, the work — there is a simple truth underneath all of this:

I want to leave knowing I brought something meaningful into people’s lives through theatre.

Not just performances. Not just entertainment. But moments that stayed with people. Moments that changed how they see themselves, their families, their world.

That is the dream.

Why is she doing all this?

There’s a question I don’t always hear directly, but I feel it in the way people react when I talk about what I want to build.

Why is she doing all this?

Why the acting, the producing, the constant creating, the obsession with stories and theatre and impact?

The answer isn’t complicated. But it is deeply personal.

It started with a question: who am I, really?

A year ago, I started asking myself who I am — not only as an artist, but as a human being.

What do I want to contribute?

What matters enough that I would dedicate my life to it?

In that search, something became very clear to me:

I don’t just want to perform stories.

I want stories to reach people who would never otherwise have access to them.

The frustration that became a vision

This didn’t come from theory. It came from lived frustration.

Frustration watching young people in my own family disengage from theatre because they’ve never really been shown what it can be.

Frustration hearing stories about how many people never step into a theatre, never experience live storytelling, never get the chance to feel what it does when it truly lands in you.

And alongside that frustration, something else was growing:

a vision.

What theatre gave me

The first time theatre really mattered to me was at school.

Not because it was “high culture,” but because it gave me something I didn’t have anywhere else.

It gave me a space to disconnect from chaos at home.

It gave me permission to express myself fully, without feeling like I was “too much.”

It gave me a place to exist freely through something bigger than myself.

Later, during my dissertation, I performed in a musical. After the show, a woman came to me crying and told me it was beautiful.

That moment stayed with me.

Because I realised something fundamental:

storytelling can physically move people.

It can reach places inside them that words alone cannot.

What I believe theatre should be

To me, high-quality theatre is not just production value — although I care deeply about music, scale, and craft.

It is something much more human.

It is real engagement.

It is storytelling that makes people think about themselves, their families, their society, and the world they live in.

It is work that is emotionally alive.

It is accessibility — not by simplifying stories, but by expanding who gets to experience them.

It is casting people from different backgrounds and nationalities.

It is female-led narratives.

It is theatre that reflects the real world, not just a small corner of it.

Because I believe stories are one of the most powerful tools we have to learn how to be human.

And because I believe access to that should not depend on money.

Art should not be a privilege

This project, in its heart, is also about access.

The performances would be free.

Because I believe art is becoming more and more something reserved for those who can afford it — and that feels wrong to me.

Art teaches. Art expands perspective. Art builds empathy. Art helps people grow.

And if we only place it in spaces and systems that exclude the people who need it most, then we are limiting what it can actually do in the world.

I believe that if we do not bring art into the places where it is missing — the poorest communities, the smallest villages — then we also limit what people believe is possible for their own lives.

Because when you are never exposed to stories of transformation, ambition, or emotional truth, it becomes harder to imagine your own.

And I don’t want that to be the case.

I want people, especially young people, to feel like big dreams are for them too.

The first version of the dream

If I imagine the first real version of this project, it begins close to home.

Small villages in the UK.

Places that are often overlooked when it comes to cultural access.

It would be a musical — because music reaches people before logic does.

It would carry themes that matter right now:

bullying, kindness, female power, and awareness of abuse.

Not to preach.

But to open conversation.

To create reflection.

To create recognition.

To create change.

The cast would be mixed — experienced performers working alongside emerging talent.

Because I believe art becomes stronger when knowledge is shared, not gatekept.

And because I want the process itself to be as transformative as the performance.

What success actually means

Success for me would not only be applause.

It would be someone saying:

“This made me think differently.”

“This helped me make a decision.”

“This gave me courage.”

“This made me feel less alone.”

“This made me want to change something in my life.”

Because that is what theatre did for me.

Why I am the person to do this

I am not speaking about this from distance.

I have lived the things I want to explore on stage.

I have experienced pain, and I have processed it through art.

I have learned how to turn emotion into performance, and performance into connection.

I understand what it means to guide people creatively, to hold space for others, and to make sure that even in serious work, there is joy in the process.

And I also care deeply about how people feel in the room — not just the audience, but the people making the work.

Because kindness in the process matters just as much as impact on the audience.

And if I am honest, I know this:

If I don’t do this, I will feel like I didn’t do enough with what I was given.

This is not just a project

It is something I feel responsible for.

Because somewhere, in a small village, there is someone who has never seen a story like this before.

Someone who doesn’t yet know what theatre can do.

And I want to make sure they do.