Lucy Wood

Sometimes, when I walk along the old Brighton pier, I think about the version of me that used to trudge into the same dreary office every day. I can still picture the grey walls, the droning hum of computers, and the blank, tired faces of my colleagues. It wasn’t the life I had imagined for myself, even if it was safe. But it was what I had been told was the "right" thing to do.

As a child, I was always performing—whether for family, friends, or even my stuffed animals. I used to imagine myself on stage, the applause ringing in my ears, the lights blinding but beautiful. But dreams, I was told, don’t pay the bills. My parents, both hard workers from a modest background, were pragmatic, and though they never outright dismissed my dreams, they never encouraged them either. To them, stability was everything, and an actress's life seemed like chasing rainbows.

So I did what they expected. I became an office administrator, securing a stable job with a steady paycheck. But every time I left the cinema after watching some breathtaking performance, a quiet ache would settle in my chest. I knew I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.

At 25, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I quit. Just like that. My parents were shocked. My friends thought I was mad. And maybe I was. But I applied to acting school in London, and when they accepted me, even I was surprised. They said they rarely took on students my age, but they saw something in me.

Now, at 30, I’m not a household name. Far from it. I scrape by with small roles, but it’s enough. Enough to keep me afloat. Enough to keep me fulfilled. And enough to finally feel like I’m living the life I was meant to live. Even my parents, though they still worry, have come to accept it. They see the happiness in my eyes now. It’s something you can’t fake—not even as an actress.