West End star Ben Forster: ‘I broke my back on stage – and that wasn’t even the hardest part’

When people ask me why I chose a life in musical theatre, I always say it never felt like a choice. It was something that grabbed me by the hand when I was young and refused to let go. I grew up dazzled by the magic of it all, the lights, the music, the way a story could lift an entire room. I wanted to be part of that world, to stand on those stages and give people the same feeling that theatre had always given me.

Over the years, I was lucky enough to do exactly that. As well as winning Andrew Lloyd Webbers ITV talent show Superstar, back in 2012, I built a 25 year career filled with shows that challenged me, shaped me and surprised me. Each iconic role, from Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar to playing the Phantom helped me grow, not only as a performer but as a person. And then, in 2018, during a performance of Elf the Musical, everything changed in a single moment.

Accidents in theatre are strange things. One second you are mid-performance, completely in the world of the character, and the next, reality hits. My accident happened fast, with no warning, the kind of moment you cannot prepare for no matter how many hours you rehearse. I remember the shock first, then the pain, then the confusion. I remember the look on the faces of the people around me, colleagues, crew, stage management. All of them suddenly no longer performing but reacting, protecting, doing whatever they could.

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I had broken my leg and back. What came after was something I never imagined. When the initial shock faded, the doctors’ words landed harder than the accident itself. Sitting in rooms hearing phrases like “This could have long-term consequences,” “There may be permanent damage,” and the one that echoed in my mind for months, “You may not perform again.” Those words hollowed me out. The idea that my career, the thing I had poured my whole life into, might be over was almost unbearable. It felt like the ground had been pulled from under me.

Physically, the injury took its toll. But emotionally, the impact of hearing professionals talk about my future as if it might already be behind me was devastating. I worried constantly. I wondered whether the industry would move on without me. I wondered whether I would ever feel safe or confident on a stage again. I wondered if the thing that defined me had been taken away in a single, unpredictable moment.

The theatre world moves quickly, and when you suddenly cannot keep up with it, you feel as if you have slipped out of the current. I went from performing eight shows a week to sitting still, replaying the moment again and again, asking myself questions that had no answers. My confidence took a hit I never expected. I had always seen myself as resilient, as someone who could push through anything. But this time, pushing was not enough. I had to learn patience. I had to learn to let myself heal.

And that was the hardest part.

Healing is not only physical. It is the quiet days when you are stuck with your own thoughts. It is the fear that the thing you love most might not feel the same when you return to it, if you return at all. It is realising how much of your identity is tied to your work, and then trying to understand who you are without it.

The beautiful thing, something I will always be grateful for, was the support I received. Friends, family, cast mates and people in the industry reached out in ways I never expected. Some shared their own stories of setbacks and injuries. Others simply checked in, reminding me that I was not alone. Theatre has always been about community, and in that moment, I felt it more strongly than ever.

Slowly, I began to rebuild. I focused on my physical recovery, of course, but also on rediscovering my voice, my confidence and my joy. I reminded myself why I fell in love with this world in the first place. I found new ways to train, new ways to challenge myself and new ways to approach the craft I had always taken such pride in. I learned that vulnerability is not weakness. It is part of being human and part of being an artist.

The first time I stepped back onto a stage after the accident, I felt a mixture of fear and exhilaration. I heard the doctors’ warnings in the back of my mind, but I also felt something else, the pull of the lights, the energy of the room, the familiar hum inside me. When the music started, something clicked back into place. I realised I was not the same performer I had been before 2018. I was stronger. Not because I was unbreakable, but because I had been broken and had built myself back again.

Since then, my career has taken on a different texture. I appreciate things more deeply. I trust myself more. I take more care, not just with my body but with my mind. And I have learned to celebrate the small victories, the rehearsals that go well, the notes that land, the moments on stage when I catch someone in the audience smiling and know I am doing exactly what I was meant to do.

The accident changed me, but it did not finish me. If anything, it reminded me why I fight for this life. Theatre is not about perfection. It is about presence, connection and resilience. It is about standing under the lights, heart beating fast, and giving everything you have.

I am proud of the journey I have taken. I am proud of the work I have done. And I am proud that, after everything, I can still say with honesty and gratitude that I love this theatrical life more than ever.

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