La Voix has revealed her secret Strictly Come Dancing injury took place weeks before she was forced to quit the BBC show – and the ‘heartbreaking’ reason she kept it to herself while on Loose Women on Wednesday.

The Drag Race star, 45, appeared on the ITV show to chat all things Strictly after she was forced to pull out of the competition last month.

La Voix, real name Christopher Dennis, had to drop out of the Blackpool special after suffering with a fractured metatarsal, just days after she received a bye through to the next week.

Explaining to Coleen Nolan, 60, Myleene Klass, 47, Gloria Hunniford, 85, and Jane Moore, 63, what happened, she said: ‘I did two weeks on the show not knowing I’d broken my foot. I didn’t want to tell anyone, I was in so much pain.

‘I knew that might be the end of the line, so I thought maybe it’s muscular, I’d get over it.

‘It didn’t, then we did the couple’s choice, that’s why I had to wear the flat shoes.

La Voix has revealed her secret Strictly Come Dancing injury that took place WEEKS before she was forced to quit the BBC show – and the ‘heartbreaking’ reason she kept it to herself while on Loose Women on Wednesday

The Drag Race star, 45, appeared on the ITV show to chat all things Strictly after she was forced to pull out of the competition last month

‘We had the comment from Shirley Ballas saying, “you’re flat footed”, and I thought well you do it with a broken foot!

‘But I couldn’t say anything.’

Jane asked when she sustained the injury, to which La Voix said: ‘Strangely it was foxtrot week, which is quite an easy week.

‘It’s repetitive stress – a stress fracture. And apparently Shirley said it’s very common in the dancing world to get those injuries.’

La Voix, who took part in Drag Race back in 2024, danced with Aljaž Škorjanec in the competition.

Speaking about being part of the programme, she said: ‘It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done in my life, but also really enjoyable. Some weeks you’re flying high, some weeks, if the dance is really hard…

‘When I got the cha cha and I got a two, that stays with you all week because you think you’ve got to prove yourself. I’m not a dancer!’

She added: ‘I loved it. It’s relentless and exhausting, but it is absolutely everything.’

Speaking about being part of the show, she said: ‘It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done in my life, but also really enjoyable’

‘My favourite it was just being embraced so beautifully by everyone on that show, Tess and Claudia.’

It comes after it was revealed last week that La Voix landed yet another huge gig as she was confirmed for the show’s live tour.

The performer will join Gladiators star Harry Aikines-Aryeetey on the dance floor – despite pulling out of the show due to injury.

Their professional partners Karen Hauer and Aljaž Škorjanec have also been confirmed to be part of the Strictly Come Dancing Live Tour.

The show will kick off in January, with the dancers and their celebrity partners hitting the road from Birmingham to Manchester, Sheffield to Liverpool, Glasgow to Nottingham, Manchester to Sheffield and London’s O2.

They will be joined by the Strictly Judges Shirley Ballas, Anton Du Beke, and Craig Revel Horwood, and It Takes Two host Janette Manrara.

La Voix said: ‘I loved being part of Strictly and was devastated when my time on the show was cut short because of injury.

‘But now I’m absolutely thrilled to have the chance to get back on an even bigger dancefloor with the sparkling 2026 Strictly Live Tour.

‘I can’t wait to sashay my way around the country with my wonderful partner, Aljaž by my side.’

It’s yet another big announcement for La Voix, after the drag performer was confirmed as part of the UK tour of the Annie musical, playing Miss Hannigan.

La Voix was advised on medical grounds she could no longer take part on Strictly after injuring her foot earlier in the week in rehearsals.

Calling it the most ‘extraordinary experience’, the TV personality said: ‘I came into the show as a minority, as a redhead and you’ve all embraced me wonderfully.

‘I cannot thank you enough… this is not how I wanted my journey to end,’ before joking: ‘At least it gives someone else in this competition a chance to win.’

Reflecting on their partnership, Aljaz, 35, said: ‘I’ve been lucky this year. I’ve made two friends for life. On Saturdays/ Sundays we all laugh with La Voix and from Monday to Friday I had the best time with Chris.

‘I haven’t done a single crunch in the past six months but I’ve got my six pack back, it’s amazing.

‘Like Motsi said, “We all need it”. The world needs more of you. Strictly needed it, you made my life a joy.. You are so beautiful in what you do.’

La Voix told Aljaz she is going to leave Strictly ‘a braver, happier and such a more confident person’.

At the end of the show, the pair took to the dancefloor to say goodbye to viewers, with the professional dancer having to scoop La Voix off her feet due to her injury.

Fans took to social media and wrote: ‘Aljaz’s speech to La Voix was absolutely beautiful what a man,’ as a second added: ‘Adored La Voix being part of the show and everyone else getting to see a fraction of the talent those of us who watched #DragRaceUK saw’;

‘La Voix and Aljaž, what a great pairing, will miss them lots,’ a third wrote, while a fourth said: ‘I was sad to see them having to leave the competition. A great team, and I got to know La Voix better too.’

‘I somehow don’t think that’s the last we’ve seen of La Voix on #Strictly… Presenter of the show / spinoff show, social media content she’ll be back in some capacity. They seem to really love her,’ a fifth added.

La Voix’s sudden withdrawal from the competition meant none of the remaining six couples would be voted off this weekend

La Voix’s sudden withdrawal from the competition meant none of the remaining six couples would be voted off over the weekend.

Taking to Instagram minutes after the announcement of her exit was made, La Voix shared a statement.

She wrote: ‘I’m absolutely devastated to be withdrawing from Strictly Come Dancing. This isn’t the glittering exit I ever imagined, and it breaks my heart to feel like I’ve let people down.

‘My spirit wanted to keep dancing but my foot had other ideas! Thank you for every cheer, every vote and every sparkle of support – it’s meant the world to me. This isn’t the ending I imagined but I’ll cherish this forever.’

La Voix’s exit came after former Love Island star Dani Dyer, 29, quit the competition before the first live show on September 27 after she fractured her ankle in rehearsals.

And Neighbours actor Stefan Dennis, 67, pulled out of Strictly Come Dancing on October 20 because he tore a calf muscle.

Strictly Come Dancing continues Saturday at 6:35pm on BBC One and iPlayer.  

La Voix had always been known as a powerhouse—a performer with a voice that could light up a room, a personality big enough to command the Strictly Come Dancing ballroom, and a presence capable of captivating audiences with her signature blend of glamour, sharp wit, and theatrical charm. When she joined Strictly Come Dancing, fans immediately fell in love with her camp brilliance, her comedic flair, and her willingness to push herself far outside her comfort zone. Her journey on the show was never just about dance; it was about self-transformation, vulnerability, and the courage to step into an arena where every stumble was magnified under the glittering lights. So when she abruptly left the competition, the nation was stunned. The official explanation pointed to an injury—but at the time, almost no one knew the reality behind the scenes. Only now has La Voix revealed the full story: that she had been secretly battling a serious injury for weeks before she was finally forced to withdraw, hiding the pain behind sequins, smiles, and the sheer determination to keep going.

Her revelation struck a chord not only because it explained her sudden departure, but because it exposed a deeper emotional truth: that even performers who seem invincible can be quietly breaking beneath the surface. She spoke candidly about the “heartbreaking” reason she kept the injury to herself—because she didn’t want to let anyone down. Not the viewers who had supported her. Not the Strictly family who had embraced her. And certainly not the younger performers who looked up to her as a symbol of resilience. She pushed through rehearsals, live shows, interviews, fittings, choreography sessions, late-night run-throughs, and endless physical strain—all while knowing something was terribly wrong.

The injury, she explained, happened during a particularly demanding rehearsal for a routine that required an explosive lift combined with quick footwork. There was a misstep—a tiny one, so subtle the cameras didn’t catch it—and she felt something pull sharply in her lower back. At first, she dismissed it. Performers dismiss pain all the time, especially those with years of experience. Pain becomes background noise in the world of stagecraft. You push through it, you adjust your movement, you breathe differently, you stretch more. But as days passed, the discomfort grew sharper, more insistent, echoing down her legs and tightening across her hips. Still, she said nothing. She smiled, laughed, rehearsed, delivered interviews, and performed with the same dazzling commitment everyone expected—because the thought of stepping back terrified her more than the pain itself.

What made her decision to stay silent even more heartbreaking was the emotional weight behind it. La Voix had long dreamed of appearing on Strictly. To her, the opportunity represented not only a career milestone but a deeply personal triumph. As an LGBTQ+ performer, as someone who had worked tirelessly for years in cabaret venues, drag shows, comedy tours, and theatrical stages, she had spent her life proving her worth in industries that didn’t always open doors easily. Strictly felt like the ultimate validation—a moment that said her art mattered, her voice mattered, her journey mattered. The thought of losing that platform because of an injury was unthinkable. So she pushed on, telling herself, “Just one more week. One more performance. One more routine.”

But every week became harder. She described mornings when she could barely get out of bed, afternoons where rehearsals left her trembling, and evenings when she cried in private from the sheer intensity of the pain she had been hiding. Only a handful of people behind the scenes knew the truth—her partner, a physiotherapist, and one senior producer. They watched her grit her teeth through rehearsals, watched her collapse into a chair after finishing a run-through, watched the way she clung to her partner’s arm when she thought no one was looking. They expressed concern, encouraged her to rest, suggested modified routines. But La Voix, driven by pride, determination, and the crushing fear of disappointing fans, insisted she could handle it.

The public saw glimpses of her discomfort—an occasional wince, a slightly shorter stride, a pause before a particularly complex movement—but no one imagined the severity of the situation. The judges noted she seemed “a little hesitant,” “a touch stiffer than usual,” “lower energy than previous weeks.” Fans speculated stress or exhaustion. No one suspected she was dancing through an injury that, according to her physiotherapist, could have caused permanent damage if she had continued much longer.

The breaking point came not during a live show, but during a private rehearsal late one evening. Her partner lifted her—something they had done dozens of times—but her body didn’t respond the way it should have. She felt a searing pain, sharper than anything before, and the world seemed to freeze. Her partner lowered her immediately, panic etched across his face, and she sat down on the studio floor, unable to move for several seconds. She stayed silent, tears streaming silently down her face, knowing in her heart that the moment she had feared had finally arrived. She wasn’t going to be able to continue.

It took nearly an hour before she built up the courage to call the producer into the room. When she told them she couldn’t continue, her voice broke—not because of the pain, but because of the devastation. The producer, somebody she trusted deeply, sat beside her and said, “Your health matters more than the show.” And yet, in her heart, that truth felt like a betrayal. Her identity as a performer had been shaped for decades around pushing through adversity. To stop now felt like failure. But the medical team insisted: continuing would risk long-term damage. She had no choice.

The announcement of her withdrawal crushed her. She described sitting alone in her dressing room the night before the public announcement, staring at the sequins and costumes she would never wear again, the routines she had imagined performing, the dreams she had pinned onto the ballroom floor. She felt grief—not just for the opportunity lost, but for the little girl inside her who had once dreamed of dancing under sparkling lights. That sense of loss stayed with her long after the cameras stopped rolling.

When she finally revealed her injury publicly—months after her departure—fans responded with overwhelming support. For many, her confession opened a window into the pressures performers often face. La Voix became a symbol not of failure, but of bravery—of someone who had poured every ounce of strength into her dream until her body simply could not continue. People admired her honesty, her vulnerability, and her willingness to share her experience not as an excuse but as a lesson about pushing too hard.

Yet perhaps the most emotional part of her revelation was the heartbreaking reason she kept the injury to herself: she didn’t want to be seen as weak. She didn’t want to be pitied. She didn’t want anyone to think she didn’t deserve her place on the show. She feared the public would say she wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t talented enough, wasn’t committed enough. In other words, she feared judgment more than physical pain.

This fear is one shared by many performers—especially those from marginalized communities who feel they must always work twice as hard to prove their worth. La Voix spoke candidly about this pressure, explaining how performers in drag, cabaret, comedy, and LGBTQ+ entertainment often feel they must never falter, never show weakness, never pause long enough to let people question their legitimacy. Her decision to push through the pain wasn’t just personal—it was cultural. It reflected an entire lifetime of trying to prove herself in industries that had not always accepted her.

The emotional toll of the injury extended beyond the physical pain. For weeks after her withdrawal, she fell into a period of deep sadness, replaying what-ifs in her mind. What if she had told someone earlier? What if she had allowed herself to rest? What if she had not insisted on performing lifts or high-impact choreography? She battled feelings of guilt and disappointment, even though she knew intellectually that she had done everything in her power to continue. She found herself avoiding watching Strictly, not out of bitterness, but because seeing the glittering world she had been forced to leave behind was too painful.

But slowly, she began to heal—not just physically, but emotionally. She started attending physiotherapy sessions regularly, learning how to rebuild strength and correct the imbalances that had contributed to her injury. Her doctors reassured her that with time, patience, and proper care, she would make a full recovery. This gave her hope. Meanwhile, her fans, colleagues, and friends surrounded her with support, reminding her that her journey didn’t end with Strictly—it merely changed direction.

She began performing again, gradually, carefully. Smaller appearances at first, then larger ones. The stage became a place of healing rather than pressure. She found new joy in connecting with audiences, telling stories about her Strictly journey, and using her platform to spread awareness about the emotional pressures performers often face. In interviews, she spoke about learning to listen to her body, learning to ask for help, and learning to accept that stepping back doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.

Months later, when she finally told the full story publicly, she did so with a calmness that only comes after deep introspection. She wanted people to understand not only what happened, but why she had stayed silent. And in telling her story, she found closure. She transformed her private pain into a message of empowerment for others who felt pressured to hide their struggles.

Her fans embraced her confession with tenderness. Many said they felt even more connected to her. They admired her strength. They appreciated her honesty. And they understood, perhaps more than ever, the emotional cost performers pay to bring joy to others.

La Voix’s story has since become a reminder that behind every glittering performance, every dazzling costume, every confident smile, there may be invisible battles being fought. It reminds us that strength is not measured by how much pain we can hide, but by how much truth we can reveal.

She may have been forced to quit Strictly earlier than she wished, but in doing so, she emerged not defeated, but transformed. And the world, now privy to her story, sees her not as a performer who stepped away—but as one who stepped into authenticity with grace, courage, and heart.

In the months that followed her departure from Strictly Come Dancing, La Voix found herself stepping into a phase of life she hadn’t anticipated—one filled not with sequins and applause, but with silence, reflection, and a surprising amount of vulnerability. Leaving the show had felt like stepping off a moving train she had desperately tried to stay aboard, and once the motion stopped, she found herself standing still in a world that suddenly felt too quiet. For the first time in years, she wasn’t racing from rehearsal to performance, from costume fitting to camera call. She wasn’t balancing the dual demand of being both spectacle and substance. She wasn’t pushing her body to meet choreography that defied her limits. Instead, she found herself alone with her thoughts, her pain, and the heavy truth she had carried for weeks: she had hidden her injury not just from the public, but from herself.

In those early days after the withdrawal, she grappled with a sense of profound loss. The lights of Strictly had been so bright, so enveloping, that stepping away felt like stepping into shadow. She missed the hum of the rehearsal room—the sound of dancers counting beats, the echo of laughter bouncing off mirrors, the warmth of her partner’s steady encouragement. She missed the adrenaline of live performance, the thrill of hearing her name called, the electric applause that always made her heart race. She missed belonging to something bigger than herself. And yet, she also knew that her body had reached its limit. Acceptance, however, did not arrive easily.

She would wake in the morning and instinctively prepare herself for a rehearsal that no longer existed. She would glance at her Strictly notes, scribbled with ideas, reminders, and dreams that would now never be fulfilled. She would open her wardrobe and see the costumes she had planned to wear for routines she would never perform. Every sight became a reminder of a journey interrupted. And every reminder carried the same ache: the feeling that she had unfinished business in the ballroom.

But pain, she soon realized, carries within it the possibility of transformation. As the weeks progressed, she began to understand that the silence she feared was not emptiness—it was space. Space she needed to heal. Space she needed to grieve. Space she needed to rediscover the parts of herself that had been overshadowed by the immense pressure she had placed on her body and mind. Her physiotherapist encouraged her to think of healing not as a setback, but as a chance to rebuild. Her closest friends reminded her that rest was not weakness, but wisdom. And slowly, very slowly, she started to believe them.

She began journaling—a habit she had never maintained before. At first, her entries were short, fragmented, shaped by frustration and sorrow. But as time went on, her writing deepened. She explored the emotions she had suppressed while performing through pain: fear of being replaced, fear of being forgotten, fear of being judged. She wrote about the pressure to appear strong, to hide vulnerability, to uphold an image of resilience at all costs. She wrote about the pride she felt in representing the LGBTQ+ community on such a huge platform, and the guilt she carried for stepping back. She wrote about childhood dreams, adult responsibilities, and the strange collision of joy and grief she had experienced on the Strictly stage.

And in the process of writing, she began to see herself with a gentler lens.

She recognized that part of the reason she had pushed so hard was because she had spent a lifetime proving she belonged in spaces that were not built for performers like her. Growing up, she had learned to equate visibility with validation. She had learned that opportunities were rare and must be grasped fiercely. She had learned that people like her often had to work twice as hard, shine twice as brightly, and endure twice as much to be taken seriously. Strictly had been her chance to show the world not only her talent but her tenacity. Letting go of that chance felt, at first, like letting down the version of herself who had clawed her way into the spotlight.

But as she continued her emotional work, she began to understand something she had never allowed herself to believe: she did not have to prove anything anymore. Her worth was not measured by how much pain she could endure. Her legitimacy was not tied to perfection. Her value was not dependent on pushing through injury. The public loved her not because she hid her vulnerabilities, but because she shined through them. They loved her humor, her heart, her authenticity. They loved her because she was real.

This realization marked the beginning of her healing—not just physically, but spiritually.

As the weeks turned into months, she returned gradually to performing, but this time with a different intention. Instead of pushing herself to exhaustion, she prioritized joy. Instead of forcing routines that demanded physical strain, she chose numbers that allowed her to be expressive, theatrical, and emotionally present without risking further injury. Her audiences welcomed her back with open arms. They stood for her, cheered for her, embraced her journey as part of her artistry. And in turn, La Voix began to see her performances not as proof of her resilience, but as celebrations of her spirit.

Her fans told her that her departure from Strictly had not diminished her—it had humanized her. They told her that seeing someone they admired admit vulnerability made them feel less alone in their own struggles. They shared stories about injuries, chronic pain, burnout, heartbreak, fear of failure. She realized that her journey was not a private wound—it was a collective mirror. People saw themselves in her perseverance, in her silence, in her eventual honesty. She had become, without intending to, an emblem of the universal struggle between ambition and self-care.

And that realization gave her purpose.

She began speaking openly about her injury in interviews—not for sympathy, but to advocate for the importance of listening to one’s body. She spoke about the dangerous myth that strength equates to silence. She spoke about the cultural pressure to endure pain quietly. She spoke about how fear of disappointing others can drive people to harm themselves. In every conversation, she emphasized the need for compassion—not only from others, but from oneself. Her authenticity resonated deeply.

In time, she revisited her Strictly journey with softness rather than sorrow. She watched clips of her performances, not with regret, but with pride. She saw not a woman who quit, but a woman who gave everything she had. She saw the sparkle in her eyes, the joy in her movements, the connection with her partner. She saw the courage it took to step onto that dance floor week after week, despite everything. And she began to accept that the beauty of her Strictly experience lay not in its duration, but in its impact.

There came a day—a small but significant milestone—when she attended a live Strictly show as an audience member. It took courage to walk back into a world she had left so painfully, but she felt ready. As she entered the studio, the smell of hairspray and lighting gels washed over her, familiar and strangely comforting. Audience members spotted her, their faces lighting up. The dancers rushed to embrace her. Producers welcomed her warmly. And as she sat watching the show unfold, something inside her settled. She realized she no longer felt the sting of what she had missed—only gratitude for what she had experienced.

In the glow of the studio lights, she understood something profound: Strictly had not been the culmination of her journey—it had been a catalyst. A beginning, not an end. The injury that forced her off the stage had also forced her to pause, reflect, and transform. It had taught her to rest. It had taught her to heal. It had taught her to value herself not as a performer but as a person.

Still, the emotional layers of her healing continued to unfold in beautifully unexpected ways.

One day, while sipping tea after a performance, she found herself thinking back to the exact moment the injury happened. The sudden jolt, the sharp pain, the fear that flooded her veins. For months, that memory had haunted her. Now, it felt distant—like a moment in a story she had already rewritten. She closed her eyes and whispered softly, “Thank you.” Not because she was grateful for the pain, but because she finally understood what it had given her: perspective.

She began mentoring younger performers, teaching them not only the craft of entertainment but the emotional resilience needed to survive it. She told them the truth she had once denied herself: that vulnerability is not the opposite of strength—it is the foundation of it. She encouraged them to speak up when in pain, to ask for help, to rest when needed. She became the mentor she wished she had when she was younger—a reminder that ambition should never cost you your health or your self-worth.

Her journey also deepened her relationship with her fans and with herself. She embraced a softer version of herself, one who didn’t need to perform strength constantly. She allowed herself days of rest, moments of stillness. She allowed herself to heal not by returning to who she had been, but by becoming someone new—someone wiser, gentler, and more attuned to her body and heart.

As a performer, La Voix had always known how to command a stage. But now, she understood how to command her life.

And perhaps the most beautiful part of her transformation was this: she no longer saw Strictly as the dream she lost. She saw it as the dream that taught her who she truly was.

Her final reflections on the experience were filled with gratitude. Gratitude for the chance to dance. Gratitude for the support she received. Gratitude for the fans who understood her heart. Gratitude for the injury that forced her to pause, reflect, and grow. And above all, gratitude for the reminder that her journey—like her voice—was far bigger than any single stage.

She realized that her story was not defined by the moment she left Strictly, but by what she did afterward: she healed, she learned, she evolved, and she returned to the world not diminished, but reborn.

Her injury may have ended her time on the show, but it ignited something far more powerful—an unshakeable understanding of her own worth.

And for La Voix, that was the most triumphant performance of all.