Dame Judi Dench On First Loves, Found Family & Lucky Breaks: A Life of Magic, Mischief, and Miracles

If you ever get the rare privilege of sitting across from Dame Judi Dench—yes, the Dame Judi Dench—you’d better prepare yourself for a ride. Not a stately, dignified carriage ride through the rolling hills of the English countryside, but something more like a wild, laughter-strewn, memory-crammed spin on a vintage bicycle, with Judi herself at the handlebars, pedaling furiously, hair flying, eyes sparkling, and stories tumbling out in all directions. Because that’s what being in her presence is: a glorious, unpredictable adventure, peppered with wit, warmth, and the kind of honesty that makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.

It’s hard to believe that the woman who once roller-skated, cycled, and swam her way through a chaotic, post-war York childhood is the same one who would become the grande dame of British theatre, the steely “M” who put James Bond in his place, the Oscar-winner, the national treasure. But for Judi Dench, the journey from Yorkshire tomboy to global icon has always been a matter of luck, love, and the families—both chosen and found—that have carried her along the way.

Ask her about her first crush and she’ll grin, eyes twinkling, and drop you right into a scene from her childhood: “Do you remember the first boy you fancied?” she’s asked, and without missing a beat, she’s off, recalling a friend of her brother’s, the innocent thrill of a first fancy, and the way boy’s friends always seemed just a little more interesting than the boys themselves. She’s candid, even about her first kiss—a Canadian boy named George Magnus, who, she reports with a hint of mischief, now owns an island and an apartment on a boat called The World. She’s seen him in recent years, she says, and you can’t help but picture the reunion: Judi, elegant and ageless, George, perhaps a little more weathered, both laughing at the sheer improbability of it all.

But for all her tales of first loves and school dances, Judi’s real love story is with the theatre—and with the family she found there. “I felt lucky,” she confesses, looking back on those early days at Central School, the heady thrill of sitting in the gods at the Old Vic for 11 pence, watching John Neville and Richard Burton, dreaming of the day she might join their ranks. She remembers her classmates—Vanessa Redgrave among them—and the sheer randomness of who made it and who didn’t. “It’s luck,” she says, and you believe her, because for Judi, luck has always been the invisible thread running through her life.

Her big break came, as so many do, almost by accident. After a final student show, she was summoned to the Old Vic and asked to read for Ophelia. She did, hair up in a makeshift plait, nerves jangling. The director asked her to take her hair down, imagine Hamlet throwing her to the ground, and do the scene again. She did—“badly,” she insists—but he took a risk and cast her anyway. She didn’t get good reviews, but she learned, understudying, playing walk-ons, soaking up every second of stage time she could get. “That way you’ll learn,” she was told, and she did—by watching, by listening, by being part of a family that demanded everything and gave back just as much.

It’s that sense of family that defines Judi’s life and career. Ask her about the difference between theatre and film, and she doesn’t hesitate: “Theatre is like a family,” she says. “You’re trying to get it better each night, for that particular group of people, on that particular night. On film, you can meet someone in the morning, do a scene, and never see them again.” For Judi, the magic is in the ensemble, the camaraderie, the shared struggle to make something beautiful and true.

That’s why her years in rep, touring America, living out of suitcases and sharing meals with fellow actors, remain some of her fondest memories. That’s why “A Fine Romance”—the sitcom she starred in with her beloved Michael Williams—felt so special. “Could you spend every day with him and not get ratty?” she’s asked. “Yes,” she laughs, “though sometimes we did.” Michael, she says, was always better at knowing his lines; Judi, ever the perfectionist, was “absolutely petrified.” But together, they made magic, both on screen and off.

Her love story with Michael is the stuff of legend—two actors, thrown together by fate and a little theatrical matchmaking, finding in each other not just a partner, but a soulmate. She remembers the moment she knew he was the one: in Australia, after the sudden death of a company member, Michael flew halfway around the world to be with her. “That’s when I think we knew,” she says, voice soft with memory. Through marriages, moves, and the everyday chaos of life, they were each other’s anchor, their partnership a testament to the power of found family.

But Judi’s family is bigger than just Michael. It’s the friends she’s collected along the way—the Maggies, the Eileens, the fellow Dames with whom she shared tea and laughter in “Tea With the Dames.” It’s the generations of actors she’s mentored, the young women who look to her for advice (though she insists, with typical humility, that “nobody ever comes to ask for advice”). It’s the audiences who have watched her grow, fail, succeed, and soar, night after night, year after year.

And through it all, there’s been luck. “Real luck,” she says, marveling at the way opportunities have fallen into her lap, the way doors have opened, the way her path has wound, sometimes unexpectedly, toward greatness. But luck, as anyone who’s watched Judi Dench work knows, is only part of the equation. There’s also grit, and fearlessness, and a willingness to risk looking foolish in pursuit of something true.

Was she scared, those early days? Of course. “Very,” she says. But innocence, she notes, is a kind of ignorance—a blessed unawareness of the pitfalls ahead. As she gained experience, fear crept in, but so did the knowledge that one more step could mean falling off the edge. “I felt lucky,” she repeats, and you sense that for Judi, gratitude is the only way to make sense of a life so full.

Her Quaker faith, she says, has been a source of strength. “It’s like the stick you put in a wilting plant. It holds you up.” The silence of Quaker meetings, the shared meditation, the sense of community—these things have grounded her, given her a place to rest when the world felt too noisy, too demanding. Even her marriage to Michael—a Catholic—was marked by a desire to bring people together, to create a union that honored both their traditions, that made everyone feel at home.

At nearly ninety, Judi Dench is still learning, still laughing, still finding new ways to share her gifts. Her latest book, “Shakespeare: The Man Who Pays the Rent,” is a conversation, a collection of memories, drawings, and insights gathered over a lifetime spent in the Bard’s company. She’s proud of it, but quick to credit her collaborator, Brendan O’Hea. “He wrote the book,” she insists, “but it’s my words.” Like everything else in her life, it’s a team effort, a shared creation.

Ask her for advice, and she demurs. “I don’t think advice,” she says, but then, quietly, she offers the wisdom of a lifetime: talk to someone, let your friends get you through, don’t sit around contemplating your navel—just get on with it. She admits she’s not good at being alone, that she likes the quiet of others more than the quiet of solitude. “I like to know that someone’s there,” she says, and you realize that for all her accolades, all her achievements, Judi Dench is, at heart, just like the rest of us: searching for connection, for comfort, for the joy of shared experience.

She’s honest about the challenges of aging, about the frustrations of failing eyesight, about the difficulty of navigating a world that sometimes feels just out of reach. But she’s also fiercely determined to keep going, to keep living, to keep finding the magic in every day. “You don’t know how much of it is left,” she says, matter-of-factly, but there’s no trace of self-pity, only a kind of gentle urgency.

Her memories are a patchwork of laughter and loss, of triumph and heartbreak. She recalls the thrill of winning the Southern England Shakespeare Cup for a monologue from “Pericles,” the pain of losing a role, the joy of finding family in the most unexpected places. She remembers the nerves before a red carpet, the terror of stepping onto a new stage, the relief of having a friendly arm to hold onto when the world feels unsteady.

And through it all, there’s the sense that Judi Dench has never stopped being that girl from York—curious, mischievous, open to the world and all its wonders. She’s lived a life of first loves and lucky breaks, of found family and fearless leaps into the unknown. She’s made mistakes, taken risks, and, above all, kept going.

As the conversation winds down, she’s asked what she does when she wakes up in the morning. “Wake up and get out of bed,” she says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Have a bath. Get on with it.” It’s classic Judi—no fuss, no drama, just a quiet determination to keep moving forward, no matter what.

If you’re lucky enough to share a sofa with Dame Judi Dench, you’ll find yourself wishing the conversation could go on forever. You’ll want to bring your own drinks, your own stories, your own memories, and stay for Sunday lunch, just to soak up a little more of her magic. Because in the end, that’s what Judi Dench is: magic. Not the kind that dazzles or deceives, but the kind that transforms the ordinary into something unforgettable.

She’s lived a life of first loves and found family, of lucky breaks and fearless choices. She’s made the world a little brighter, a little kinder, a little more full of possibility. And as long as her stories are told, as long as her laughter echoes, as long as her spirit endures, we’ll all be a little luckier for having shared in her remarkable journey.