words by Freya McKenzie
Dropping out of one of London’s top musical theatre schools felt like the end of everything. Instead, it became the beginning of a chapter I never could have planned. Urdang Academy had been my dream since my very first baby ballet class. I vividly remember the first time I watched Wicked in the West End. As Elphaba rose into the air during “Defying Gravity,” I felt goosebumps spread across my skin. My entire body seemed to react with a certainty before my mind even had the words for it: this is what I want to do.
For years, I trained relentlessly: dance lessons, acting workshops, vocal coaching, pouring everything I had into pursuing that dream. Getting into drama school felt like watching Fame come to life: the endless rehearsals, the sacrifices, the belief that one day all the hard work would finally pay off.
So when I finally reached the moment I had imagined for years, waiting for the email that felt like it would divide my life into a “before” and “after”, I could barely breathe.
The email appeared in my inbox so casually, almost as if its contents didn’t have the power to change the entire trajectory of my life.
I clicked.
“Congratulations…”
I burst into tears. I sobbed at the thought that I was finally getting the life I had always envisioned: moving to London, training at my dream school, and eventually performing on West End stages. My mind instantly painted a beautiful picture of the future ahead of me. After years of chasing this moment, I was finally going to live it.
But endometriosis had other plans.
Within my first week, I was diagnosed with stage IV endometriosis and told I needed surgery.
I was horrified. At a place like Urdang, where the pace is relentless, missing even one lesson can leave you feeling like you’re already falling behind. The thought of stepping away for surgery and recovery felt like everything I had worked for was suddenly at risk.
Then, as if one diagnosis wasn’t enough, I was diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I had spent years working towards this moment, only for it to feel like it could be taken away by something completely outside of my control.
I made the difficult decision to leave. Trying to keep up with training while dealing with surgery, illness, and the emotional weight of it all became impossible, and my mental health began to suffer.
I was devastated.
For a long time, I felt consumed by anger towards my body. It felt like every sacrifice had been pointless, and the goal I had spent years chasing had been taken away from me.
The physical pain of endometriosis is widely discussed, but less talked about are the invisible things it can take away. For some, it is the possibility of having children. For others, it is a life without chronic pain, uncertainty, or fear. For me, it was the future I had spent years building.
Losing my dream forced me to question something I had never considered before: how much of my future had actually been chosen by me?
Like many women, I had absorbed expectations about who I was supposed to become before I was even old enough to question them.
But at that moment, I began questioning everything.
Why was this happening to me? Did I even want children? Did I want to become a mother, or had I simply absorbed the expectation that I should? Was this really my chosen career, or had I convinced myself it was the only path where I could succeed?
I transferred to City, University of London, to study Music, Sound and Technology, a course that meant that, for the first time, I wasn’t just performing music; I was learning how to create it.
But once again, I found myself arriving late to a world that had already begun without me. I had missed Freshers’ Week, the first introductions, the moment everyone else seemed to find their place and people. I felt like an outsider all over again.
Still, I refused to let that feeling define me.
The next three years became some of the most unexpected and rewarding of my life. I gained skills I never thought I would have, discovered abilities I didn’t know existed, and graduated with a first-class degree and newfound confidence.
Looking back, I can finally see that endometriosis didn’t just take one version of my future away; it challenged me to question whether it was the only future I was allowed to have.
For so long, I believed my life had a single path: train hard, perform, make it onto a West End stage. When that path disappeared, I felt like I had lost a part of myself. But in losing one version of my future, I discovered others.
I learned that the chapters of our lives are not fixed. They can be rewritten, edited, and transformed into something we never expected.
My diagnosis also changed the way I understand and care for my body. It gave me knowledge about my health, my nutrition, and the importance of listening to myself, lessons that will impact not only my own future but potentially my family’s too.
Endometriosis offered me something I never expected: the understanding that my worth was not tied to one achievement, one career, or one version of success.
I am more resilient than I ever realised. I now know I can face uncertainty, adapt, and rebuild. Chronic illness changed the direction of my life, but it also gave me a perspective I would never have gained otherwise.
The little girl who watched Elphaba fly during “Defying Gravity” thought there was only one way to achieve her dreams. Now I know better.
A dream ending does not mean the end of dreaming.
