Content warnings: suicide, drug abuse, self harm, bereavement, depression.

Last week, I had the pleasure of being invited to OVERSHARE by Eleanor Hill at Greenwich Theatre – a one-woman show marketed with enough self-awareness to rival Bridget Jones. Having witnessed the show’s cryptically chaotic Instagram presence, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was met with a masterclass in intimate theatre, authenticity, and the power of holding a mirror (or ring-light?) up to real life.

A self-proclaimed “tale of toxicity”, OVERSHARE explores distinct moments from Hill’s own life: losing her mum, surviving a turbulent relationship, and navigating persistent mental health struggles. The show is performed in real time – the audience are encouraged to keep their phones on, permitted to capture the performance as it unfolds. These segments are woven together with archival footage – real Instagram stories, and old video clips and clever tech design (Matt Powell) projected onto the back wall; this production blurs the line between storytelling and surveillance, observing the space in which confession meets digital connection.

OVERSHARE is structurally ingenious: social media isn’t just a theme but a medium. Hill performs the entire show to her phone rather than the live audience, and in one brilliant moment, turns the camera around to livestream the audience back onto the stage via a projector. It’s startling, uncomfortable, and brilliantly executed – the realisation dawns that we’ve been watching someone’s ultimate demise through a phone all along.

The entire piece unfolds within a single room: Eleanor’s bedroom (set design attributed to Constance Villemot) . The moment we stepped into the studio, we were utterly immersed – a double bed splattered with fake blood took centre stage, laundry mountains, tangled wires, and the residue of real life strewn around. There’s no illusion of polish or pretense; the space is deliberately messy, lived-in, and emotionally loaded. Before the show begins, Hill is onstage with her back to the audience, posting to the show’s Instagram account (@oversharetheplay), inviting us to watch her through the screen before she formally commences.

What follows is an astonishing solo performance. Hill writes, performs, and composes the entire show herself (accompanied by Squizz the Squirrel), and her ability to command the space – and the audience – is magnetic. Her energy is conversational yet controlled, moving between humour and discomfort with disarming ease. The tone could easily have tipped into overwhelm, especially given the grave themes and extensive content warnings, but Hill handles it with remarkable sensitivity, underscored consistently with humour.

It’s especially poignant that OVERSHARE was performed during World Mental Health Week. In an era where vulnerability is often curated, Hill’s work cuts through the noise with something rarer: unfiltered honesty. The performance doesn’t preach, diagnose, or solve – it shows. It sits in the mess, in the fractured storytelling and unstable timelines, and offers solidarity in its place. You don’t leave with a moral; you leave feeling exposed, unsettled and forced to confront your own inner workings.

One moment in particular lingered long after the show ended: a video of a ‘mental health walk’ Hill took, whereby she arrived at a bench on which each version of herself — past, present, and future — have resided. Speaking to her past self with reassurance, seeking the same comfort from future her, trusting that she will be there to offer it. The quiet vulnerability of this moment, so small yet so vast, moved the room.

By the end, what Hill offers isn’t a neat story arc or a resolution, but something far braver: a fractured, funny, painfully honest mosaic of what it means to keep going when the worst happens.

When OVERSHARE comes back, get tickets. Take your phone. Take a friend. Take a beat to process what you’ve just witnessed. Eleanor Hill has created something astonishing – and yes, she absolutely deserves to overshare about it.

Image credit – Rich Lakos