Jane Moore left the I’m A Celebrity jungle first last night and her Loose Women colleagues are now speaking out.

On Friday night, Loose Women star Jane became the first campmate to be voted out. Viewers were divided over the elimination, with some admitting they weren’t surprised while others were sad to see Jane go.

One of the people sad to see her go was her co-star Ruth Langsford, who recently flew out to Australia to appear on the spin-off show I’m A Celebrity… Unpacked as well as support Jane.

Another of Jane’s Loose Women co-stars, Nadia Sawalha, has also hit out over her jungle exit.

Nadia Sawalha hit out over Jane Moore’s I’m A Celebrity exit (Credit: Instagram)

Jane Moore leaves I’m A Celebrity

Speaking on Instagram, Nadia said in a video: “Not only am I gutted, but I do get [bleep] off with these shows where the older person always seems to get out first.

“They’re the ones with the best chat. I think it’s a real shame because Jane would have been such a good one to watch.”

She then tagged I’m A Celebrity in the post and wrote: “@imacelebrity give older women more airtime… they have a lot to offer!”

Nadia also gushed that she felt “proud” of Jane.

Jane became the first celebrity out (Credit: ITV)

Ruth Langsford on Jane Moore

Meanwhile, speaking on Unpacked on Friday night, Ruth said of Jane’s exit: “Gutted for her. The Loose Women will all be gutted for her.

“The thing I’m pleased about for Jane is that people did get to see the non-fierce Jane because she’s very forthright, she says what she thinks, as we saw.”

I think it’s a real shame because Jane would have been such a good one to watch.

She continued: “She won’t change her mind, she’s very opinionated. But I think people saw the caring side of her.

“They saw the side of Jane where she just draws people out just by asking the right questions.”

Ruth said she feels “gutted” over Jane’s exit (Credit: ITV)

I’m A Celebrity… Unpacked

She went on to say she feels “gutted” for Jane because she’s “always wanted to do the show”.

Ruth was then asked about Jane’s comment about “hard workers” during her exit. As she said goodbye to her campmates last night, Jane said: “Hard work does not get rewarded, let’s put it that way.”

Earlier this week, Jane hit out at camp leaders Barry McGuigan and Danny Jones for giving her the chore of washing up dishes. She called the decision “sexist”.

Unpacked co-host Sam Thompson asked Ruth: “Do you think she maybe feels like they’re not getting enough of the screen time?”

From the moment Jane Moore stepped into the jungle, viewers noticed something different about her compared to the usual roster of I’m A Celebrity contestants. She carried with her not only the curiosity and courage expected of new arrivals but also a quiet steadiness, a sense of groundedness that comes from years of navigating heated debates, headlines, and live television. Having been a familiar face on Loose Women for so long, she was no stranger to public scrutiny or unpredictable conversations. Yet nothing could have fully prepared her for the raw, unfiltered reality of the jungle—the relentless insects, the unpredictable trials, the uncomfortable nights, and the psychological unraveling that inevitably follows. Still, she faced it with dignity, humour, and the kind of resilience one develops only after years of juggling public and personal responsibilities. It didn’t take long before she became a favourite both in the camp and among viewers.

Her exit, however, sparked a wave of reactions far bigger than anyone—particularly Jane—had anticipated. Fans were quick to flood social media with comments ranging from heartbreak to outrage, insisting that she was “robbed,” “underrated,” or “gone too soon.” But beyond the viewer response, something else began brewing publicly: vocal support from her Loose Women colleagues, women who had worked alongside her for years and who understood her both professionally and personally. Among them, Nadia Sawalha emerged as one of the most passionate voices, openly questioning the circumstances surrounding Jane’s departure with a mix of affection, frustration, and sisterly protectiveness. Watching her hit out over the exit gave fans a glimpse into the tight-knit relationships that often exist behind the polished panels of television shows.

Those who knew Jane well weren’t surprised that her journey in the jungle turned into a larger conversation about her strengths, her vulnerability, and the loyalty she inspired. She had always been a woman who could hold her own, whether discussing politics, parenting, or personal revelations. The jungle only amplified what viewers had known for years: Jane Moore was not merely a commentator or columnist—she was a person capable of navigating hardship with grace, humour, and thoughtful reflection. And that, perhaps more than anything, was what made her exit so emotional for so many people.

Behind the scenes, her colleagues on Loose Women had been cheering her on from the start. They dissected every trial, celebrated every victory, and laughed at every awkward moment as though watching a sister or a close friend navigate unfamiliar territory. The show’s panel is known for its vibrant personalities and differing perspectives, but when it comes to supporting one another, the women often operate like a family—a messy, loud, opinionated, but deeply loving family. So when Jane’s exit aired, it was impossible for them to react with indifference.

Nadia’s response was the most public. She took to social media, recording a heartfelt video that oscillated between irritation at the timing of Jane’s departure and admiration for her emotional fortitude. The video, laced with her characteristic wit and expressive gestures, captured the attention of thousands almost instantly. She didn’t accuse the show of wrongdoing; she simply expressed disbelief that someone like Jane, who had shown so much authenticity and emotional intelligence, could be voted out so early. Fans echoed Nadia’s sentiments, leaving comments like “She deserved to go further” and “Jane brought kindness and heart to the camp—why do the gentle ones always go first?” The public outpouring that followed revealed just how emotionally invested people had become, not only in Jane’s journey but in the sisterhood surrounding her.

Back at home, Jane took the reaction with her usual calm. In interviews conducted after her return, she described the experience as “intense but illuminating,” offering glimpses of the psychological highs and lows she had encountered. She confessed to missing her children, missing the warmth of her home, missing small comforts she had taken for granted—like uninterrupted sleep and conversations not punctuated by the buzzing of insects. Yet she also spoke about the beauty she found in the jungle: the camaraderie formed through shared adversity, the rare moments of quiet reflection beneath the thick canopy, and the unexpected vulnerability that came from being stripped of all distractions.

Of course, there were trials she wished she could forget. She spoke candidly about facing fears she hadn’t known were so deeply embedded—whether they involved heights, confined spaces, or unidentifiable creatures crawling where she least expected them. But she also admitted that the hardest challenges were not always physical. Sometimes the real difficulty lay in maintaining emotional stability while surrounded by uncertainty, hunger, and sleep deprivation. She found herself testing her own patience, negotiating internal battles, and learning to relinquish control—something she rarely allowed herself to do in her daily life. The jungle demanded surrender, and although surrender did not come naturally to her, she learned to embrace it gradually, unexpectedly, humbly.

Her colleagues, observing her through a screen, saw these layers unfold in real time. They recognised parts of her that most viewers never fully grasped—a softness beneath her sharp wit, a shyness that occasionally surfaced despite her confident on-screen presence, and a fierce loyalty that shaped how she interacted with others. They saw her encouraging campmates quietly, offering comfort without theatrics, and navigating disagreements with the diplomacy of someone used to balancing diverse opinions on a daily talk show. Her time in the jungle revealed not only her adaptability but her depth.

When Nadia expressed her frustration over Jane’s departure, it wasn’t rooted in competitiveness or fan statistics. It came from knowing Jane intimately enough to recognise the emotional labour she invested in every interaction. It came from wanting the world to see Jane the way she saw her: resilient, wise, compassionate, and deserving of recognition. Her reaction wasn’t about the show—it was about the woman behind the headlines.

Other Loose Women stars soon added their voices. Some posted throwback photos, others wrote long captions about how proud they were of Jane, and a few shared private stories illustrating her strength and humour. Their collective support painted a vivid picture of the bond that exists among the panelists—a bond built over years of debating, laughing, crying, and learning from one another. Through their reactions, fans glimpsed a softer, more intimate version of the group dynamic: women supporting other women in an industry that often encourages competition rather than solidarity.

For Jane, watching this unfold was both heartwarming and humbling. She had never seen herself as someone who elicited dramatic public defences or emotional declarations. Her natural inclination had always been to remain measured, thoughtful, even reserved when it came to expressing vulnerability. Seeing her friends rally around her so vocally made her realise that the years she had spent investing in relationships—both on and off screen—had created a support system far stronger than she had ever expected.

But even as the warmth of their support surrounded her, she found herself grappling with a quiet internal question: Why had the exit stirred so much emotion in others? Why had it resonated so deeply? The answer, she eventually realised, lay in the very nature of the jungle experience itself. I’m A Celebrity doesn’t merely challenge contestants physically—it exposes them. It strips away the curated image, the rehearsed responses, the professional polish, and leaves only the bare humanity beneath. Viewers had seen her without makeup, without preparation, without control. They had seen her as a woman navigating fear, hunger, fatigue, and doubt. They had witnessed not just her strength, but her fragility. And fragility, when shown authentically, connects people far more than strength ever could.

Her exit marked the end of that visibility, and perhaps that’s why it felt abrupt to so many fans. They wanted the continuation of her story. They wanted to see her evolve further, laugh more, cry more, confront new challenges. They felt that they had been granted a rare, unfiltered window into her heart, and they weren’t ready for it to close. In that sense, Nadia’s passionate reaction mirrored the feelings of thousands who felt robbed of a journey that had only just begun.

Yet as Jane often does, she approached these emotional reactions with perspective. She insisted that her exit did not diminish the value of the experience. She explained how the jungle had taught her to release expectations—not only of herself, but of outcomes. She described it as a place where control dissolved, where ego dissolved, where everything extraneous dissolved. The experience of letting go, she argued, was more important than whether she stayed two days or two weeks longer. And although fans wished she had remained, she felt oddly complete, as though her time had served precisely the purpose it needed to.

What she did not anticipate, however, was the way the experience would ripple into other areas of her life. Returning to Loose Women after weeks away felt both familiar and foreign. Familiar because she slipped back into the rhythm of conversation with ease, foreign because she felt subtly changed—lighter somehow, more open, more present. Her colleagues noticed it immediately. They commented on her calmness, her introspection, the softness in her laugh. She joked that maybe it was simply the joy of eating proper meals again, but the truth ran deeper. She had brought something back from the jungle, something intangible but powerful: a renewed sense of self.

During her first show back, she spoke candidly about her exit, acknowledging the disappointment fans expressed while also explaining her own peace with the outcome. Nadia, sitting beside her with an expression of affectionate indignation, rolled her eyes playfully as she insisted once again that Jane should have stayed longer. The moment captured everything fans loved about their dynamic—the humour, the warmth, the genuine care beneath the teasing—and it went viral within hours. Viewers commented that it felt like watching two sisters reunite, each with her own way of expressing love.

The more Jane shared about her experience, the more it became clear that her exit had sparked a larger conversation about resilience, authenticity, and the value of emotional exposure. She discussed the fears she confronted, the lessons she learned, the relationships she formed, and the unexpected tenderness that emerged from living so far outside her comfort zone. Her reflections resonated with viewers not because they were sensational, but because they were relatable. Fear, vulnerability, growth—these were universal experiences, and the jungle simply magnified them.

Meanwhile, Nadia continued to defend Jane in interviews, podcasts, and posts, emphasising that her friend had been a pillar of emotional intelligence and wisdom in the camp. Her protectiveness became almost symbolic. Fans began commenting that every woman deserved a friend like Nadia—someone who would not only celebrate their strengths but stand up for them loudly when the world underestimated them. Their friendship became a storyline in its own right, a portrait of genuine female solidarity in a space often dominated by competition.

As the publicity around her exit gradually settled into something calmer, Jane shifted her attention toward integrating the lessons of the jungle into her non-televised life. She found herself more patient, more intentional, more willing to let moments unfold without trying to control them. She saw her relationships deepen, not because she changed dramatically, but because she became more expressive about her inner world. She began to prioritise rest, emotional honesty, and meaningful conversations. The jungle had stripped her down, but in rebuilding, she had become more complete.

But even as she settled back into her routines, she felt the ongoing ripple of support from her Loose Women colleagues. They joked about her jungle habits, teased her affectionately, and checked in on her frequently. Their camaraderie sustained her in ways she had not realised she needed. In interviews, she often emphasised how grateful she was for the sisterhood she found in them—a sisterhood strengthened by shared experiences, mutual respect, and the kind of emotional transparency that only comes from years of vulnerability on live television.

Her relationship with the public also shifted. Fans wrote long messages about how her journey helped them confront their own fears or reckon with their own vulnerabilities. They spoke about how they saw themselves in her—ordinary people navigating extraordinary emotions. They thanked her for her honesty, for her humour, for the way she remained composed even while visibly uncomfortable. Jane responded with humility, reminding them that she had been just as scared, just as uncertain, just as human as anyone would be in her position.

And that, perhaps, was the greatest transformation of all. The jungle had not changed who she was—it had simply revealed her more fully. And the world had responded with love.

The unexpected depth of support from her colleagues, the passionate response from Nadia, the messages from fans, and the emotional clarity she gained—these elements wove together into a narrative Jane would carry with her for years. It was not the story of a celebrity exit. It was the story of a woman seen fully, supported fiercely, and strengthened emotionally by an experience that challenged her at every level.

In time, when people looked back on her I’m A Celebrity journey, they did not dwell on how or when she left. They remembered how she showed up—fearlessly vulnerable, steady, thoughtful, and deeply human. They remembered the loyalty she inspired, the wisdom she shared, and the way the women beside her rose in her defence with unapologetic solidarity. They remembered her laughter echoing through the jungle, her calm during chaos, her dignity in discomfort. They remembered the heart of her.

And Jane, looking back with gratitude, understood that her exit had been less an ending and more an illumination—a moment in which the world recognised her not as a panelist, not as a journalist, not as a television personality, but as a woman who walked into the unknown, embraced every challenge, and emerged more connected, more supported, and more authentically herself than she had ever been before.

In the quiet days that followed Jane Moore’s return from the jungle, long after the noise of her exit had faded from the headlines and the first round of interviews had been completed, she found herself sitting alone in her living room one afternoon, the soft winter light spilling through the windows in pale sheets. It was the kind of afternoon that did not ask anything of her. No deadlines, no cameras, no discussions waiting to be analysed by millions. Just quiet—gentle, unassuming quiet. At first, it unsettled her. She had become so used to movement, pressure, scrutiny, and the vivid intensity of the jungle that stillness felt like a foreign language. Yet as the minutes passed, she began leaning into it. She let her shoulders drop. Let her breath deepen. Let her thoughts wander not toward tasks or obligations, but toward the strange, unexpected emotional journey she had walked since returning home. And it was only then, in that simple stillness, that she realised how much the experience had shifted her—how her exit, her relationships, and the voices that rose in her defence had woven themselves into something far more meaningful than she initially understood.

For days, messages had poured in—thousands of them. Some from viewers who were heartbroken to see her leave, others from women who saw their own fears and resilience reflected in her quiet strength, and many more from Loose Women fans who adored the way her colleagues had stood behind her with such fierce loyalty. She read each message slowly, trying to absorb the warmth they carried. She laughed at some, cried at others, and tucked many into her heart like small handwritten notes full of tenderness. It moved her in a way she wasn’t prepared for. The world had always known her as a journalist, a panellist, a commentator—someone articulate, composed, and often analytical. But now, people were reaching out to her not because of her opinions, but because of her humanity. They had seen her stripped down, raw, vulnerable, aching, hopeful. They had seen her laugh through discomfort and push through fear. And they had responded with empathy, not expectation.

She wasn’t used to being the emotional centre of a public conversation. On Loose Women, she often played the role of the calm observer, the measured voice, the one who grounded discussions when things threatened to drift into chaos. But now, unexpectedly, she was the one being analysed, defended, and embraced. And what touched her most deeply was the sincerity of the support—especially from the women she worked with every day. She had always known they cared for her. They had shared dressing rooms, backstage tears, private secrets whispered between commercial breaks, laughter that shook the sofa during rehearsals, and disagreements that healed through honesty. But seeing them speak publicly, loudly, protectively, with affection that overflowed beyond the parameters of their show—it awakened something inside her that she had long buried, a certainty that she was not alone, not in her vulnerability nor her resilience.

Nadia’s reaction had been the most surprising, not because Jane doubted her friend’s loyalty, but because of the intensity of it. Jane replayed the video several times in private, watching Nadia’s expressive frustration, her passionate defence, her refusal to let Jane’s exit go unacknowledged. Each time, Jane felt the same emotional tug deep in her chest. She had never thought of herself as someone others would fight for with such fire. She had always been capable, independent, used to navigating life with a sense of emotional self-sufficiency. Realising that someone loved her enough to publicly express outrage on her behalf softened her, disarmed her, and reminded her that strength did not always require solitude. Sometimes strength was found in the way others wrapped themselves around you when you didn’t even think you needed to be held.

As she reflected more, she understood why the exit stirred so much emotion in her colleagues. They had watched her face her fears with quiet dignity. They had seen her offer comfort to campmates when cameras weren’t focusing on drama but on the simple rhythms of survival. They had seen her laugh at her own discomfort because humour was her armour, her way of protecting the softness inside. They had witnessed her patience, her thoughtfulness, her ability to bring calm into chaotic moments. To them, she wasn’t just a contestant on a show; she was a complex, layered woman they knew deeply. Losing her so early felt like watching someone deserving of a longer chapter have her story cut short. Nadia said as much in countless interviews, her voice laced not with bitterness but with heart. Coleen, Ruth, Kaye, and so many others echoed her sentiments in quieter ways—through messages, posts, or simple phone calls that strengthened the invisible threads between them.

For Jane, every word of support felt like a balm, not because she needed validation, but because it reminded her of the emotional intimacy that comes from years of shared experience. She recalled the early days of joining Loose Women, when she wasn’t sure if she could navigate the fiery personalities and the vulnerability required to flourish on the panel. Over time, she learned that the show wasn’t about debate—it was about honesty, sisterhood, and allowing each woman to be seen in her full complexity. The jungle had offered the world a glimpse of who she was beneath her professional poise, but her colleagues had always seen her that way. And now, their support reflected not surprise at her resilience but recognition of it.

Still, there were private emotions she hadn’t spoken about publicly. The moment she heard her name called for elimination, she had felt a familiar ache—a mixture of disappointment and acceptance. Part of her had been ready to leave, missing her family so intensely that her chest tightened every time she thought of them. But another part of her had wanted just a little more time to prove to herself that she could stay, endure, evolve. She wasn’t chasing victory; she was chasing understanding, a deeper emotional truth she felt she was on the verge of discovering. And even though she left before she reached that truth fully, she realised later that the journey continued outside the jungle. The clarity she sought did not diminish when the cameras turned off; if anything, it grew louder in the quiet moments afterward.

Now, sitting in her living room weeks later, she allowed herself to feel both the gratitude and the grief. Gratitude for the friendships that had revealed themselves so beautifully. Gratitude for the public who had embraced her with gentleness, for the messages that reminded her that vulnerability connects people in ways logic never could. Gratitude for the experience that had stripped her down and rebuilt her slowly, layer by layer. But also grief—the soft, quiet grief for the moments she wished she’d stayed long enough to experience, for the late-night conversations she would never have, for the trials she might have conquered, for the laughter she might have shared around the campfire when the sky opened above them like a velvet curtain dotted with stars.

She closed her eyes and let the emotions wash over her without judgment. She didn’t try to analyse or repress them. She let the nostalgia come, bittersweet and tender. She remembered the smell of the jungle air—thick and earthy, alive with sound. She remembered the feeling of dirt beneath her nails, the ache in her stomach that reminded her she was human, vulnerable, mortal. She remembered the laughter that carried them through hunger, the silliness that relieved the tension of fear, the humility that bound them all in a shared understanding that fame meant nothing when confronted with raw survival. These memories were no longer sources of pain but of softness, reminders of a chapter that had changed her in ways she didn’t need the world to understand.

What surprised her most was how the jungle had expanded her emotional vocabulary. She found herself more present now, more attuned to the small joys she once overlooked. The warmth of a cup of tea. The weight of her dog resting its head on her knee. The way her children’s footsteps echoed down the hallway in the early morning. She felt life more intensely, as though the deprivation had sharpened her senses rather than dulled them. She laughed easier. Cried more freely. Loved more openly. She felt like she had been hollowed out gently, not painfully, and filled again with something richer, something softer, something unmistakably human.

She hadn’t expected her friendships to deepen so profoundly after the show, but they had. The women reached out constantly—not out of obligation, but out of genuine affection. They wanted to hear her thoughts, her fears, her reflections. They wanted her to feel held. She realised that in a world often unkind to women, especially women in media, their solidarity was not simply comforting; it was revolutionary. Their support was not performative. It was emotional truth. And she allowed herself to lean into it, something she rarely permitted in the past. She let them be her anchor. She let herself be someone worth anchoring.

One evening, when she met Nadia for dinner, the conversation flowed effortlessly from laughter to tears to deep introspection. At one point, Nadia placed her hand over Jane’s and said, “You showed people who you really are. That’s why they’re fighting for you. That’s why we’re fighting for you.” Jane felt something inside her shift, a knot she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying loosening gently. She understood then that her exit wasn’t a failure or a disappointment. It was a moment of revelation—not for her, but for the people who loved her. They saw her clearly now, without the armour she had built over the years. And they embraced her not despite that vulnerability, but because of it.

Her journey had also reshaped her understanding of strength. She no longer saw strength as the ability to endure without breaking. She saw it as the ability to break openly, honestly, and rebuild with intention. Strength was not stoicism. Strength was surrender. Strength was admitting fear but moving forward anyway. Strength was allowing others to hold you when you could not hold yourself. The jungle had shown her all of this, not through dramatic trials or televised challenges, but through the quiet, unseen moments when she sat alone in the dark, listening to the hum of life around her, feeling both scared and brave in equal measure.

As the weeks turned to months, she carried this emotional transformation into her work. Viewers noticed a tenderness in her voice, a new warmth in her interactions, a softness that did not erase her intelligence but enhanced it. She was more expressive, more open, more willing to explore emotional terrain she once skirted. She found that she no longer feared vulnerability on air. Instead, she embraced it as a way of connecting with viewers, of creating conversations that went beyond opinion and entered the realm of truth. Her colleagues mirrored this shift, and the show itself felt different—richer somehow, more human.

And through it all, she held onto the love that had been shown to her during her exit—the messages, the comments, the videos, the heartfelt support from the women beside her. She understood now that her time in the jungle had not been cut short; it had simply unfolded exactly as it needed to. Her purpose there had not been to win, but to open—to herself, to her friends, to her audience. Her exit had been the closing of one chapter, yes, but it had also been the beginning of another, one shaped not by public perception but by emotional truth.

Now, sitting once more in her living room in the softness of late afternoon, she realised that the final lesson the jungle gave her was the most profound: that her worth had never been measured in longevity, in winning, in accolades, or in votes. Her worth lay in the way she lived, in the way she loved, in the way she allowed herself to be seen—not as a celebrity, not as a panellist, not as a polished personality, but as a woman navigating life with courage, humour, fragility, depth, and grace.

Her exit, far from diminishing her, had illuminated her. And the world—her friends, her colleagues, her viewers—had responded with a collective whisper that felt like a warm embrace: We see you. We value you. We’re with you.

And in that moment, Jane understood that sometimes the most meaningful journeys end not with triumph, but with transformation. Not with victory, but with visibility. Not with applause, but with connection. And as she closed her eyes and let that truth settle into the deepest part of her, she felt at peace—not because her story had ended, but because it had finally, beautifully, truly begun.