The spotlight felt blinding, but for Sheridan Smith, it illuminated a private unraveling. In 2016, during a performance of *Funny Girl* in London’s West End, the show abruptly stopped after just fifteen minutes. What was initially explained away as “technical difficulties” masked a far more personal crisis – a moment she now describes as a complete “meltdown.”
The incident quickly became public, fueled by reports of slurred speech and a loss of balance onstage. Headlines followed, hinting at missed curtain calls and struggles with alcohol. Smith ultimately withdrew from the production, citing stress and exhaustion, but the damage was done, and the whispers persisted.
Nearly a decade later, Smith is finally speaking candidly about the agonizing truth behind those events. It wasn’t simply exhaustion or performance anxiety; it was a devastating “double-grieving” that overwhelmed her. Her father, Colin Smith, had recently received a cancer diagnosis, a cruel echo of the past.
The pain was deeply rooted. When Smith was just eight years old, she lost her 18-year-old brother, Julian, to the very same disease. The resurgence of cancer, this time threatening her father, reopened a wound that had never fully healed, creating an unbearable emotional weight.
Colin Smith passed away at the end of 2016, with Sheridan at his side during his final days. The loss compounded the trauma of the *Funny Girl* ordeal, leaving her vulnerable and exposed. She now reflects on that period with a raw honesty, acknowledging the shame and embarrassment she felt.
Returning to the stage now, in the play *Woman In Mind*, feels significant. She portrays a woman grappling with a breakdown following a head injury, a role she deliberately sought out. “I don’t ever want to do an easy part,” she explains, “and I can relate to it—because I’ve been there myself.”
Smith describes the public scrutiny as something she initially wanted to keep hidden. “You’re embarrassed,” she admits. “I felt ashamed, and I still sometimes feel it, like, ‘Oh, I wish that part of my life hadn’t happened.’” But she recognizes that those experiences, like the tattoos she once regretted, are now an indelible part of her story.
The fallout from *Funny Girl* reached a particularly low point at the TV Baftas that same year. A seemingly innocuous joke by host Graham Norton – a playful reference to “technical difficulties” – landed with devastating force. Unbeknownst to anyone, Smith had been relying on anti-anxiety medication.
Humiliated and reeling, she impulsively stopped taking the medication that night, unaware of the dangerous consequences. The abrupt cessation triggered a series of seizures, and she was rushed to the hospital. A friend’s quick thinking and intervention proved to be life-saving.
“It’s a miracle she did (come),” Smith recalls, acknowledging the friend who stayed with her that night. She learned that abruptly stopping the medication could induce seizures, a terrifying realization of how close she came to a far worse outcome.
Looking back, Smith acknowledges that the incident wasn’t anyone’s fault, but a consequence of her own fragile state. She believes the public climate has become somewhat kinder since then, but the memory remains a stark reminder of her vulnerability.
Following the ordeal, Smith retreated to the countryside to heal and was there when her father passed away. Now, she says, she feels stronger than ever. She’s able to channel her experiences into her work, leaving the pain on the stage and finding a sense of peace in her personal life.
“I’m playing someone having a breakdown, and I’m managing it,” she says with a quiet strength. “I’m leaving it all on the stage and not actually having one in real life so I’m happy.”
