Maria Williams’ What Dreams Are Made Of isn’t just a coming-of-age story, it’s a nostalgic time machine hurling you back to the awkward, exhilarating chaos of (unrealised)queer adolescence in the early 2000s. As a late-realized lesbian myself, I spend the entire show nodding along like a dashboard toy, equal parts cringing and cheering at the painfully relatable journey from closet-case confusion to self-assured main-character energy.

Williams’ delivery is flawless. She morphs from fumbling tween to full-throttle diva with such precision you’d swear she’s powered by Hilary Duff’s entire filmography. Even her costume changes are storytelling gold: layers shed like a nesting doll to reveal each new chapter of the story. Each transition mirrors that universal gay glow-up we all fumbled through.

The show thrives on controlled chaos. Running gags snowball and grow as the story progresses to the show-stopping finale. When things go ‘off-script’, it only heightens the joy. Williams’ ADHD-as-charm approach means even her “I’m not prepared!” disclaimer feels like part of the act, because honestly, what’s more relatable than thriving on last-minute panic?

Her pacing is masterful. Jokes land to consistently keep us in stitches. With just the right amount of tension, audience participation feels like an in-joke between friends, and multimedia interludes (shoutout to the deeply nostalgic early-2000s visuals) never outstay their welcome.

The only hiccup? A few tonal tightropes where satire and sincerity blur. When Williams talks about her Catholic upbringing, the room occasionally hesitates (are we meant to laugh at this? or sit with it?).  A smidge of adjustment could easily signpost the intent and avoid any uncertainty.

But here’s the magic: even the rough edges feel intentional. This isn’t a slick Netflix special – it’s a living, breathing, messy story of a queer kid who learned confidence despite the confusion. By the finale, when Williams fully becomes the pop icon her teenage self dreamed of, the crowd’s roar says it all: we’re not just applauding a show. We’re celebrating our own journey.

Copyright © in the review belongs to the reviewer