We sat down for an exclusive interview with Layla Warren who brings Long Way Home to Edinburgh Fringe. A deeply personal show, it traces one woman’s journey from war-torn Tehran through the council estates of London to the bright lights of American television – and all the emotional terrain in between.
Catch Long Way Home at Gilded Balloon (Snug) from Wednesday 5th – Monday 31st August (not 17th, 24th) at 11:40am. Tickets here.
How did shaping your own life story into a solo performance change the way you understand your journey from Tehran to the entertainment industry?
Turning my life story into a solo performance was cathartic. I don’t write with a strict outline or make beat sheets; I kind of let the process guide me and try to stay open to where that takes me. It’s like getting in the car with no GPS and just starting to drive.
Through that process, there were moments when I uncovered feelings I didn’t know I had. At times, it felt uncomfortable and vulnerable, and I wrestled with what to keep private and what to share. But I knew I couldn’t tell my story halfway; I had to be honest not just with the audience, but also with myself.
Seeing myself as a character in my own narrative also brought patterns into focus. No matter how much stability I’ve found, my earliest memories — especially my childhood in Iran — continue to shape me more than I realised. That sense of survival follows me across time and place.
The entertainment industry can feel like a veneer, and one of my biggest challenges throughout my career has been navigating its unspoken rules, especially when my survival instinct and having zero filter don’t always align with the industry’s politics and façade.
What tensions did you want to explore between the idea of “home” as a place of safety and as something more psychological or emotional?
That’s a tough question, and one I still find myself thinking about.
When I was younger, I wanted to assimilate. I remember walking to primary school with my mum speaking Farsi to me, and me replying in English. Back then, home was a literal place — first England, then the U.S. — and safety meant fitting in, not standing out, not being seen as “other”.
Years later, at the start of my career, I met with an agent in LA who asked about my background. By then, I’d embraced my heritage, so I told them I was Iranian. They suggested I say I was from England and keep that part of myself low-key. It was a strange contradiction. Just as I was learning to claim home, I was being told to hide it.
Now, having built a family of my own, home feels more emotional than physical. Still, with age, I feel a growing pull toward my motherland.
How do you balance humour with the weight of trauma when revisiting such formative experiences on stage?
I don’t think there’s any other way to approach it. Solo shows can already feel self-indulgent, so without humour — especially when the material gets heavy — the story has nowhere to travel. Humour creates movement; it gives both me and the audience space to breathe and reflect.
Those close to me know I have a dry sense of humour, often at my own expense. I tell my kids the same thing: you have to be able to laugh at yourself. The world can be harsh, and if you can find the joke, it takes the other person’s power away. It’s a survival instinct I learned early on, and it’s carried me through.
A couple of years ago, before cancer surgery, I was joking with my husband, telling him that if I kicked the bucket he could run off with hot Instagram models. He said, “Only you would be this dark.” But that’s how I cope. Humour for me isn’t avoidance — it’s resilience.
In what ways does the show challenge common narratives around assimilation and the idea of the “success story”?
I think the more specific and personal a story becomes, the harder it is to reduce it to a single narrative.
Assimilation is often framed as a clear arc — a struggle followed by a polished success story. In reality, it’s a lot less tidy than that. I’ve never followed a blueprint, either in my writing or in everyday life. I’m less interested in challenging those ideas and more interested in complicating them.
Success isn’t always clean or easily defined. It can be ongoing, contradictory, and shaped by moments of doubt as much as growth. By focusing on my own experience, I hope to move away from clichés and toward something more honest.
Ultimately, I’d love for audiences to see themselves in the story — to feel a sense of connection rather than distance — as someone navigating many of the same questions around belonging, identity and home.
How did collaborating with Sepy Baghaei influence the portrayal of diaspora identity and cultural complexity in the piece?
Collaborating with Sepy was essential, especially in shaping the portrayal of diaspora identity and the complexities surrounding it. It was imperative for me that we worked with someone who truly understood the cultural layers within the story. I told my husband, “In my dream world, I’d love to meet an Iranian woman with rich life experience to direct this piece.”
So from the moment I met Sepy, I knew she got it — she got me. She brings a calm, reassuring presence, but she’s also incredibly sharp and intentional. Everything she says and does is thoughtful and meaningful. Her perspective is layered and deeply informed, and I’m so fortunate to have her.
What do you hope audiences reflect on about survival, belonging and the long-term impact of displacement?
I hope audiences reflect on the fact that the immigrant experience is rarely a simple choice. Most people don’t want to leave their homeland. Families often move because circumstances leave them with no real alternative — conflict, instability or lack of opportunity. When you look more closely, those conditions are often shaped by decades of external influence and political intervention. In Iran’s case, for example, the roots of today’s reality go back generations and are tied to global interests like oil.
There’s also a growing divide around immigration and war, even within the diaspora. It can feel intimidating to speak openly because everything is reduced to opposing sides — the mentality that you’re either my friend or my enemy.
Because of that, I often feel politically homeless. What’s missing is a willingness to listen, to sit with different perspectives and find common ground. I’m not suggesting easy unity — I’m not that naïve — but I do think we’ve lost something essential in how we engage with one another.