She grew up surrounded by turmoil — a childhood defined by instability, pressure, and a level of scrutiny no child should ever have to bear. Yet from that chaos emerged one of Hollywood’s greatest stars.
Tragically, the little girl behind the glittering costumes and iconic roles was thrust into fame while being controlled, criticized, overworked, and given pills simply to keep performing.
Behind the sparkle was a child fighting exhaustion, insecurity, and an industry that valued profit far more than her well-being.
Born in Minnesota
Understanding her early life not only explains the brilliance that later captivated audiences but also exposes the dark machinery of early Hollywood — the pressure that shaped her adulthood and the emotional scars that never fully healed.
Her life eventually became a cautionary tale for generations of child performers, proving that even the brightest legends often rise from deep suffering.
From an incredibly young age, the girl who would one day follow the Yellow Brick Road was already performing. Born in Minnesota, she made her stage debut before she even turned three.
But her home life was far from magical. Her mother had reportedly sought an abortion but couldn’t obtain one, and the family lived under constant tension fueled by rumors about her father’s secret relationships with teenage boys and young men.
In June 1926, those whispers forced the family to quietly move to Lancaster, California.
Her parents, both vaudeville entertainers, had a marriage marked by repeated separations and reconciliations — moments she remembered with fear and confusion.
“It was very hard for me to understand those things and, of course, I remember clearly the fear I had of those separations,” she recalled.
Her mother was very jealous
As a little girl, she was taken into nightclubs to perform in environments wildly inappropriate for someone her age.
Biographers later reported that her mother routinely gave her pills to stay awake and others to sleep — a cycle that would plague her for the rest of her life.
As she admitted in 1963, “The only time I felt wanted when I was a kid was when I was on stage, performing.”
In a 1967 interview with Barbara Walters, she revealed that her mother was a “mean” stage mother.
“She was very jealous because she had absolutely no talent,” she said. “She would stand in the wings, and if I didn’t feel good, she’d say, ‘You get out and sing, or I’ll wrap you around the bedpost and break you off short!’ So I’d go out and sing.”
Later in life, she said her mother never wanted her, had tried to obtain an abortion before a medical student friend intervened, and even attempted to induce a miscarriage.
“She must have rolled down nineteen thousand flights of stairs and jumped off tables,” she would say.
Her mother even bragged to neighborhood women about the schemes and tactics she used.
Breakthrough
In 1935, she signed with MGM. Two years later, she made her first major screen appearance performing “You Made Me Love You (I Didn’t Want to Do It)” in Broadway Melody. It became the breakthrough she so desperately needed. Writer John Fricke explained:
“One movie would be wrapping up and she’d been in rehearsals for the next one. This overlapping went on from the late ’30s into the early ’40s.”
But even as her star rose, the studio fed her insecurities. Louis B. Mayer reportedly called her “my little hunchback,” and she was placed on a punishing regimen of cottage cheese, chicken broth, and amphetamine-laced diet pills to keep her weight down.
Producers feared audiences wouldn’t accept that such a small 13-year-old girl could sing with such power. Still, she pushed on. When MGM loaned her to Fox for Pigskin Parade, her performance was so impressive that MGM finally began offering her substantial roles.
Her father died of spinal meningitis
She had barely stepped off stage after a radio broadcast when she learned her father had died of spinal meningitis. Heartbroken, she continued working.
Film after film followed. She was already rehearsing Thoroughbreds Don’t Cry before the previous production ended, then moved immediately into Everybody Sing. Tours, radio appearances, promotions — the pace was relentless.
MGM quickly discovered her chemistry with young actor Mickey Rooney, and together the pair headlined a long run of successful films.
With that grinding schedule came something much darker: the pills she relied on to wake up, to sleep, to lose weight — a dependence that slowly turned into addiction.
Then came 1939, and the role that would define her.
As Darwin Porter and Danforth Prince later wrote:
“‘The Wizard of Oz’ marked a turning point in her career. It was the beginning of her later legend as she danced along the Yellow Brick Road in ruby slippers, which, decades later, would fetch big bucks at an auction.”
It was only after this unforgettable performance that the world finally learned her name:
Judy Garland.
“I’m the queen of the comeback”
The Wizard of Oz received critical acclaim, though its massive production and marketing budget — around $4 million at the time, roughly $71 million today — made it a financial gamble. The film transformed Garland into one of America’s most bankable stars.
She continued appearing in films such as Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) and Easter Parade (1946).
In 1954, she delivered what many consider her last truly iconic performance as Esther Blodgett (Vicki Lester) in A Star Is Born. Although she played the promising newcomer on screen, her real life more closely resembled Norman Maine — the celebrated star slowly losing control.
By age 32, she had already spent most of her life performing, her career rising and falling in tandem with her fragile mental and physical health — a pattern that persisted until her death 15 years later.
“I’m the queen of the comeback,” she said in a 1968 interview. “I’m getting tired of coming back. I really am. I can’t even go to… the powder room without making a comeback.”
On June 22, 1969, Garland’s newlywed husband, Mickey Deans, broke down the locked bathroom door in their London apartment and found her dead at just 47. An autopsy revealed she had died from a self-administered accidental overdose of barbiturates, a widely used sleep aid at the time.
Coroner Gavin Thurston later stated:
“This is quite clearly an accidental circumstance to a person who was accustomed to taking barbiturates over a very long time. She took more barbiturates than she could tolerate.”
Her passing, though devastating, was not entirely unexpected. Those close to her — and even the public — were aware of her lifelong struggles with addiction.
Garland battled depression and alcoholism for years and had reportedly attempted suicide multiple times. Her third husband, Sid Luft, claimed she had tried to end her life at least 20 times.
Her life ultimately resembled a tragedy far more than the hopeful characters she portrayed. Despite extraordinary talent and success, she wrestled with low self-esteem — something many trace back to executives who repeatedly told her she was an “ugly duckling.”
At one point, her agent Stevie Phillips described her as “a demented, demanding, supremely talented drug-addict.”
Yet biographer David Shipman noted that Garland also showed “astonishing strength and courage,” even in her darkest times. Actor Dirk Bogarde once called her “the funniest woman I have ever met.”
Despite everything, Garland rejected the idea that she was merely a tragic figure. Her daughter Lorna echoed this view:
“We all have tragedies in our lives, but that does not make us tragic. She was funny and she was warm and she was wonderfully gifted. She had great highs and great moments in her career. She also had great moments in her personal life. Yes, we lost her at 47 years old. That was tragic. But she was not a tragic figure.”
I have always adored The Wizard of Oz and Judy Garland as Dorothy — that once-in-a-lifetime voice, that radiance, that magic. She endured so much, far more than anyone should. My heart truly goes out to her. May she rest in the gentlest peace, far beyond the rainbow.
