Sora Kasuga: Face Equity, Neurodivergence & Inclusive Circus

Some stories don’t just entertain—they challenge the way we see the world. Sora Kasuga’s is one of them. Aerialist, activist, and storyteller, Sora moves through the global circus world with both grace and defiance, confronting centuries-old ideas of beauty, belonging, and who gets to take up space on stage.

In our conversation, Sora opened up about growing up on stage, losing jobs because of their facial difference, and finding community in the most unexpected places. We talked about the quiet power of true inclusion—not as a headline or a hashtag, but as a cultural shift built through everyday choices. Sora also shared how autism and ADHD shape their artistry, why constraints can fuel creativity, and how breaking inherited biases can open doors for the next generation of performers.

This is a conversation about more than performance. It’s about rewriting the script entirely. Full episode drops next week—stay tuned to hear the complete conversation.

What led you into performance, and how did your identity shape that journey?

Sora: I’ve been on stage since I was three years old, starting with ballet. The stage always felt like home to me. But as a Japanese-American person with a facial difference and later-diagnosed neurodivergence, pursuing performance wasn’t encouraged. My family was protective and worried about the industry’s bias.

Everything changed in Cleveland when I joined SafMOD, a collective of dancers, gymnasts, and circus artists. They normalized the idea that being a performer was a viable career. That support pushed me to train at circus school and take my first contract overseas.

I booked a UK tour right after training—but the company dropped me because they were concerned about how audiences might react during meet-and-greets when they saw my face up close. It was devastating. But for every painful experience like that, there were ten others where producers and directors hired me without hesitation. They saw my work, not my face.

That duality shaped me: the pain showed me how far we still have to go, but the acceptance proved that inclusive casting already exists—and works.

What kind of performances do you do, and can you share a “how did I get here?” circus moment?

Sora: I’m primarily an aerialist, though I started as a dancer and have done a bit of whip-cracking too. Circus has taken me around the world, but one of my favorite absurd, unforgettable moments happened in Shanghai during the AEMI International Comedy Festival.

My husband and I, along with 50 clowns from all over the world, were told to sit in the middle of the city and eat dumplings for a world-record attempt. Cameras were everywhere. It was chaotic, hilarious, and so circus: strangers coming together, performing in public spaces, and creating joyful absurdity.

These moments are why I love this world—it’s full of unpredictable collaborations that turn into beautiful memories.

From your perspective, is inclusivity in the industry actually improving—or just more talk?

Sora: I think it’s both. There’s definitely been a shift over the past five to eight years. There are more conversations around race, disability, neurodiversity, and representation. That’s real. But we also see a lot of tokenism and performative activism.

For real change to happen, inclusion has to move beyond the surface. It’s not just about putting someone on stage—it’s about including people with lived differences in writers’ rooms, producing teams, casting offices, and other decision-making spaces.

There also has to be cultural competence. It’s not enough to invite people into the room; the room itself has to allow multiple communication styles, perspectives, and leadership approaches. Facial difference, specifically, is still barely discussed, even though it’s legally recognized as a disability.

I see promising examples—like shows where characters with facial differences exist without the difference being a plot point. That’s the kind of quiet, powerful inclusion we need more of. Progress is happening, but unevenly.

How has being autistic and ADHD influenced your artistry and your life?

Sora: I didn’t know I was neurodivergent until adulthood. As a child, I was constantly misunderstood. I struggled with social dynamics and had undiagnosed auditory processing challenges, which made everyday interactions harder. But ironically, my neurodivergence gave me a kind of naive confidence: I assumed people would see me as I see myself. That helped me keep stepping forward into spaces where others might have hesitated.

Creatively, I thrive with structure. Too much open possibility can overwhelm me, but if I set clear “rules” for myself—like a creative framework—I find incredible freedom within it. It’s like how Dr. Seuss famously wrote Green Eggs and Ham with only 50 words. That kind of self-imposed structure fuels my best work.

Neurodivergence also gives me a different way of seeing patterns and ideas, though it can come with rigidity or delays in processing. It’s a package deal—but one I now see as a strength, not a burden.

For families navigating similar paths, I want them to know: stigma is learned, but it can be unlearned. And with the right structure, neurodivergent people can thrive in creative spaces.

What does meaningful advocacy and inclusion look like to you?

Sora: For me, it starts with unlearning. We have to interrogate the ideas we’ve inherited about beauty, normalcy, and worth. A big part of this problem is physiognomy—the ancient, debunked belief that facial features reveal moral character. It’s why so many villains in theatre and film have scars or facial differences.

What’s terrifying is that some AI hiring tools now scan faces, reviving these old biases in algorithmic form. So advocacy has to address both narrative and systems:

• Narrative: Put marginalized people at the center without making their difference a “tragedy” or “inspiration porn.” Let us just exist onstage and onscreen.

• Systems: Bring us into leadership roles. Hire across the pipeline—writers, producers, casting directors—and budget for access needs. Inclusion isn’t real if it doesn’t extend to power structures.

• Practice: Build cultural competence. Broaden audition specs. Stop equating “marketable” with the status quo. The most interesting stories are the ones that haven’t been told yet.

When I see shows that cast disabled or facially different actors without making it the story, I know change is possible. That’s the future I want.

Key Takeaways

Featured Image: Credit - Rick Guidotti for Positive Exposure