TRACY IFEACHOR KNOWS THE POWER OF SHOWING UP
BY EBBY MAGAZINE
In HBO’s The Pitt, Tracy Ifeachor steps into the role of a doctor who keeps showing up, in the midst of personal loss. Her performance is raw and deeply human. Onscreen and off, she moves with grace, purpose, and strength, reminding us that presence is its own power.
PHOTOGRAPHS BY DAVID REISS
“STRENGTH DOESN’T ALWAYS LOOK LIKE STRENGTH. SOMETIMES, IT FEELS LIKE A WEAKNESS. SOMETIMES, IT FEELS LIKE BREAKING. BUT IT IS STILL STRENGTH. QUIET, PERSISTENT. STRENGTH.”
TRACY IFEACHOR, ACTRESS
There are performances you admire, and then there are ones that linger. Tracy Ifeachor’s turn as Dr. Heather Collins in The Pitt is the kind that leaves a mark: aching, layered, and unmistakably real. The HBO drama unspools across a single, relentless ER shift, but Ifeachor’s stillness inside the chaos is what pulls you in. She plays a doctor facing unthinkable loss, yet she doesn’t turn inward. She keeps going. She keeps caring.
It’s a moment and a role that resonates beyond the screen. Offset, Ifeachor brings the same clarity and presence to the conversation: thoughtful, deeply grounded, and disarmingly warm. Born in Plymouth, raised with Nigerian heritage, and now moving between London and the States, she carries a global awareness into everything she does. Her career spans Doctor Who, Quantico, Treason, and more, but The Pitt marks a new chapter: one where purpose and performance meet.
With awards season on the horizon and Emmy buzz building, Tracy Ifeachor isn’t just on the rise. She’s reminding us what it looks like when art meets soul.
Your character in The Pitt experiences something many women carry silently: grief in motion. What did it mean to embody that kind of quiet resilience, and how did it shift your understanding of strength?
Wow, that’s such an insightful and important question—thank you. Yes, many women, their spouses, and their families go through some form of trauma, and as you’ve rightly pointed out, it stays with us. I believe it lives in the body—in ways that are unique to each of us as women.
Since episode 107 aired, so many women have come up to me to share their own stories. Personal, raw, and sometimes whispered through tears. They tell me how the storyline and my portrayal of Dr. Collins made them feel seen. To me, that’s the most important thing—that different types of people, especially when they are at their most challenged, feel heard. That they know they aren’t alone in their grief.
Strength, to me, means being true to yourself—even in the face of the storm. I’ve always felt called to advocate for the vulnerable and the voiceless. It’s something that’s been hardwired into me from my earliest days—both in life and in this industry.
This show was a labor of love from the very beginning. We were thrown into the deep end, but something powerful came from that. Dr. Collins taught me that strength doesn’t always look like strength. Sometimes, it feels like a weakness. Sometimes, it feels like breaking. But it is still strength. Quiet, persistent. Strength.
The Pitt sheds light on the emotional toll of care work, particularly for women. Did this role change your relationship to your emotional labor?
Absolutely. Playing Dr. Collins in The Pitt was more than a role—it was like a mirror. It asked me to examine the weight of emotional labor I carry, not just as an actor but as a woman far away from family and my support systems, and especially as someone who’s often expected to “hold it together” for others.
Dr. Collins is a caregiver pushed to the edge of herself—intelligent and capable but quietly unraveling under the invisible pressures society places on women in care roles. Embodying her made me confront the ways I, too, sometimes give from an empty cup. There were moments on set where I had to stop and ask myself, am I performing this, or am I revealing something I haven’t had language for before?
It changed my relationship with emotional labor because I began to honor it more consciously. I started setting boundaries, protecting my energy, and recognizing that work—whether emotional, physical, or spiritual—is still work.
So, I had to remind myself that I, too, deserved respect. Deserved rest. And deserved to be seen and heard.
In a time when the world feels rushed and reactive, what helps you stay present?
What helps me stay present is trusting that stillness is not wasted time. Indeed, nothing and no experience is ever wasted as long as you learn something from it while you’re going through it.
In a world that pushes speed and spectacle, I return to what matters most: prayer, time with God, family, breath, and honest work. I ask God to center me—not in performance, but in purpose. That’s where I find the calm to listen, to respond rather than react, to get direction, and to give my best to the story in front of me.
Staying present is also about remembering why I do this; it is something I try to practice daily. Some days are more accurate than others. ;) Acting isn’t just a craft for me—it’s a calling. It’s how I serve. So, whether I’m on set, in my quiet time, or mentoring young kids and the next generation, I try to treat each moment like it matters—because it does.
We all have moments when life or work feels too loud. What grounds you when you need to return to yourself?
When life or work gets too loud, I turn down the world and turn up the silence. I pray. I remind myself that I am not what I produce—I am who God made me to be, even when no one is watching. That’s what brings me back and helps me remain grounded.
Sometimes, it’s as simple as leaning into stillness and not choosing to see silence as the enemy or loneliness as a desert but as an opportunity to study myself in new environments and lean into Scripture, into music that lifts the spirit, and spend time with those who have been on my walk with me through the most challenging environments, important people like my family.
I think in this industry, it’s easy to get swept up in noise—expectations, performance, pressure. But what grounds me is knowing that my worth doesn’t begin or end on set. It begins in spirit. In faith. And in the quiet, I hear God say, “Abide with Me.” There’s a plan and a purpose for each and every one of us. That’s all I need to return to myself.
You’ve spoken about being British and Nigerian and now spending more time in the U.S. How has moving between cultures shaped your voice not just as an actress but as a woman?
I am also an American citizen too. I don’t want to forget that, as it is important to me and means a lot! Each culture I carry is a chorus—not a conflict. Moving between cultures is a blessing, a gift, and has given me a broader range—not just in performance, but in perspective. Being British-American Nigerian means I carry multiple histories in my voice. There’s rhythm, there’s resistance, there’s reverence, and there’s nuance. Shooting this show in Los Angeles has added yet another lens—one that’s encouraged me to believe in myself more, trust my instincts and my craft, and be intentional about what I hold on to.
Being an actor is a gift. I can hear subtext in silence, and I love that. We are emotional historians! I know how to hold space for contradiction and leave it for others. And as a woman, it’s taught me resilience—how to adapt without erasing myself, how to belong without performing assimilation and losing who I am in the process. That’s been a journey of faith, too. Knowing that God made me whole, not fragmented.
I’m still learning how to honor all parts of my identity without compromise, and that is a daily challenge, depending on the different teams and personalities I encounter along the way. But I think that’s where my power lives—in the in-between.
How do you navigate the space between visibility and privacy in a career that asks so much of both?
That’s a tough one. It’s a delicate dance. This industry rewards visibility, as you’ve correctly identified, but I’ve learned that not everything sacred needs to be seen. I’ve had to ask myself what parts of me are for work and what parts are for home.
Being intentional and specific with oneself is important. I want to be visible for the right reasons—to encourage others, to be a positive ambassador for the next generation, and to uphold the integrity and values I believe in.
For those who grew up like me—in a small city, dreaming of a life where they felt included—I want my work, my presence, and my story to say, “You also belong.” I want to be visible for my craft, for the stories I tell, and for the light I try to carry.
My faith and my family help keep me grounded. They remind me that even when no one’s watching, I’m still whole. Still worthy. Still loved. Who I am in the quiet is who I truly am. And I do this—to shine a light on the things that matter most to me.
So, I share what’s honest, not what’s expected. And when I feel pulled in too many directions, I know I’ve drifted, so I come back to God’s presence through fasting, prayer, and time with Him, back to my purpose, and to that ‘still small voice.’ That’s where I hear my own voice and what I truly desire again and am reminded of why I do this and who I am.
What have you had to unlearn on your way to becoming the version of yourself you are today?
I’m still learning to unlearn! I’ve had to unlearn the idea that I need to shrink to be safe. That comfort is safety. That being agreeable is the same as being kind. That silence keeps the peace.
I’ve had to unlearn perfectionism—this deep, quiet fear that if I don’t get it exactly right, you won’t be enough. That I have to over-explain, over-deliver, and over-function just to belong. That doing everything ‘right’ will mean you’ll never be bullied, misunderstood, or pushed out. I’ve had to unlearn that setting boundaries and sticking to them is wrong; I know now that it’s actually necessary for survival and my own well-being and survival. ‘Guarding your heart’ should never mean hardening your heart. We still need the soft and sensitive parts of ourselves, especially in artistry.
I have learned that even if a person ‘has it all,’ they can still be empty and pursue you for your peace so they are more comfortable with you destabilized. And through walking with the Lord, I’ve had to unlearn the belief that rest is laziness, that surrender is weakness, or that I have to have all the answers of how things will turn out before the journey begins. I’ve been taught that not everybody is for everybody, and that’s okay. That even if you do everything ‘right or correctly,’ some will still always want to see the back of you.
I now know that letting go isn’t giving up—it’s giving over. It’s saying, “God, I trust You more than I trust the fear.” What is designed to break you will actually build you.
Unlearning has been just as important as learning. It’s how I made space for truth. For joy. For peace. For a version of me that doesn’t just perform strength—but lives in it.
You’ve played everything from Shakespearean heroines to MI6 agents. How do you choose a role now? Is it intuition? Alignment? Something else?
I know! I’ve been really fortunate to have been able to play such a wide range of characters!
You know, a very wise friend once told me they look at the part, the project, and the people—and that’s stayed with me. I can’t count how many scripts I’ve read that, on the surface, seemed compelling, but underneath were thinly veiled agenda pieces—stories that subtly or overtly diminished the dignity of a particular community or group of people I deeply respect.
For me now, the people behind the project really are the starting point. That’s where the voice of the character is born. If the creative team is putting harmful or degrading narratives into the world—especially about people like me—then that’s not something I can align with. No matter how many zeros are on the end of that cheque. The conversations on set will inevitably be ongoing, and I will be placed in uncomfortable situations, having to defend and explain, and that’s just not comfortable or right. I care deeply about the story, but I care even more about the spirit behind that story.
Finally, it’s no longer just about the size of the role—it’s about the weight of it. The truth is inside it. I ask myself, what does this character say about this type of person in the world? Is it edifying? It’s uplifting, even if I’m the villain of the piece. :) Does this character and piece encourage the next generation? Inspire them somehow? Does it stretch me? Does it say something I believe in, even if it scares me to say it out loud?
And always, I pray. I ask God to show me what’s mine and to give me the grace to let go of what isn’t, even if it looks great on paper. There’s no expiry date on the promises or dreams you’ve been given; I keep this in mind. I’ve learned that every yes costs something. I’m an artist who gives my whole self to each and every role and project I’m a part of. Saying ‘yes’ always needs to be worth it.
“I REMIND MYSELF THAT I AM NOT WHAT I PRODUCE—I AM WHO GOD MADE ME TO BE, EVEN WHEN NO ONE IS WATCHING.”
What’s something you’ve said “no” to lately that made room for something better?
I want to say the breadsticks at Capital Grille Steakhouse in Providence, where I’m currently shooting, as I’m a real foodie, and their steaks are delicious! I jest! But no, I’ll say, recently, I said no to a role that, on paper, looked like a great opportunity—big platform, high visibility, good cast. But when I sat with it, something didn’t feel right. The story asked me to embody a version of womanhood that felt hollow and one-dimensional. It didn’t honor the fullness of who we are.
Saying no wasn’t easy—it never is when promotion appears to beckon. But it created space for something more aligned, something that felt like purpose instead of just exposure. Not long after, a script came to me that moved me deeply. It had integrity. It had heart. I do love a good love story, action movie, espionage, and anything sci-fi!
It was so beautiful, and as I sit here in my dressing room, writing this, ready to head to set not far from Boston, I know I made the right decision. I knew immediately: this is the one I’ve been making room for. That experience reminded me that “no” is not rejection—it’s redirection. And if I’m faithful with my no, God will always be faithful with His yes.
We often think of luxury in terms of status, but there’s also quiet luxury, the kind that nourishes the soul. What feels like a luxury to you now that maybe once went unnoticed?
Oh, another good one. Okay, I guess I’d have to say that unhurried time is a kind of wealth I didn’t know I had. I’ll give an example of something simple: When I was a drama school student on scholarship, I didn’t have much money—as many students don’t. But once a week, because that was the budget, I’d go to this little Chinese takeaway in Ealing. I’d buy my food, walk over to Ealing Broadway Park, sit in the sun, and just eat. No one cared what I was wearing. No one was taking pictures. I wasn’t thinking about how I looked or who I was ‘wearing.’ I was just there. Present. Quietly, joyfully stuffing my face in the sunshine!
And I miss that simplicity. I miss the freedom of days when you’d go over to a friend’s house, and the visit would stretch into six hours without a plan. Maybe you’d get lunch. Maybe you’d all see a play that evening. One thing would turn into another—spontaneously, beautifully.
I didn’t realize that kind of time was a luxury. Now, even seeing a friend means pulling out calendars and coordinating weeks in advance, especially if children are involved. Life moves faster now. And that’s okay—other wonderful things have filled the space. But those unstructured, unhurried moments? That was a kind of wealth I didn’t know I had.
So yes, if I had to name a luxury I once took for granted, it’s unhurried time. The time that isn’t booked or rushed or ‘optimized.’ Just time to be—to linger, to laugh, to be human without a schedule. That’s the kind of quiet luxury I hold close now, and I get it in whenever I can.
What’s your relationship to rest, restoration, and softness in a world that glorifies the hustle?
I recognize and remind myself that I can and will always accomplish more from a state of rest than I ever will from exhaustion. For a long time, I wore hustle-like armor. I used to joke that I was a ‘workaholic,’ not realizing that this is the most harmful addiction there is. Just pause here to think about that for a moment. It’s the only addiction that is encouraged and praised, but it’s slowly harming you and those closest to you.
I thought rest had to be earned; that softness was something you postponed until after the work was done. I would say, ‘I can sleep when I’m dead.’ But I’ve unlearned that. Now, I see rest not as the reward—but as the foundation.
My relationship with rest is sacred. It’s where I reconnect with God, with myself, with the version of me that doesn’t need to prove, only to be. Restoration isn’t passive—it’s powerful. It’s where my clarity lives. It’s where my yes becomes strongest, and my no becomes holy.
Softness, too, is a discipline. It takes courage to stay tender in a world that celebrates exhaustion and self-preservation. I don’t need to grind myself down to be worthy. I am already enough, just as I am. My rest is not a pause from my purpose—it’s part of it. My father used to tell me, ’From now until the end of time, there will always be more to do, more to watch on TV, and you will never have done it all! So, press pause and take time to rest is what I realize is important to do!
When you imagine the woman you’re becoming, what does she know for sure?
She knows that peace is non-negotiable. That anything—any job, any relationship, any room—that costs her peace is too expensive.
She knows that she doesn’t have to chase what’s already hers. That God ‘makes all things beautiful in His timing.’ That delay is not denial, and closed doors are often protection. That delay does not negate the promises you’re clinging to.
She knows how to listen to God’s voice above the noise. How to rest without guilt. How to lead with softness and stand with fire.
She’s done asking for permission to take up space. She’s earned her right to be there and right to speak and respectfully express her thoughts. She no longer edits herself to fit in. She knows she is called. She knows she is kept. And she knows she doesn’t have to become someone else to be loved, respected, or seen.
She knows—for sure—that who she is becoming has always been enough.
