Finding the Shy Kid in the World — One Show at a Time

Michael Sanders doesn’t talk about theatre like it’s a hobby. He talks about it like it’s home — a place where people become brave, where they find their voice, where they learn they belong. And if you spend even a few minutes listening to him reflect on a life shaped by stages, rehearsals, and hundreds of performances, one thing becomes clear: theatre didn’t just give him something to do. It gave him somewhere to be.

Michael began when he was 13. He describes himself as a very shy kid who hated school and felt the sting of being bullied — particularly because he was gay, even if he didn’t fully have the language for that at the time. His first show was Flower Drum Song with a light opera club in Hamilton, and although he didn’t continue consistently until he was 17, that early taste of performance mattered. It was a doorway into a different world — one where he could step out of his daily life and into a character, into a script, into something that made sense.

He puts it simply: when you’re on stage, you’re not yourself for two hours. You become someone else. And in that transformation, something lifts. Your worries quieten. Your world changes shape. Acting, for many people, is not just performance — it’s relief. It’s focus. It’s a way to breathe.

At 17, Michael joined Hamilton Operatic Society because his mother believed that if you’re going to do something, you do it with the best people. That decision — guided by a strict but supportive upbringing — became a turning point. His early mentors weren’t just directors; they were the people who taught him discipline, timing, standards, and pride in the craft. He remembers Robert Young in particular as someone who shaped his work ethic: you start on time, you finish on time, you don’t drift. Theatre isn’t only creativity. Its structure.

From there, the years accelerated. Michael speaks about a time when doing eight shows a year wasn’t unusual. One show would be in season, and rehearsals for the next would already be underway. Saturday night: opening. Sunday: rehearsals again. That rhythm left no room for much else. It wasn’t just a schedule — it was a way of life.

And it wasn’t only acting. Michael discovered that what he loved most wasn’t simply being on stage, but creating the world around it. He talks about the thrill of designing costumes and headpieces — those moments when something you made appears under the lights and the audience applauds before anyone even sings a note. That applause hits differently. It’s a recognition not just of performance, but of vision.

Over time, Michael moved into choreography and directing. He helped start a small theatre company in Hamilton when he and his friends realised nobody was going to hand them opportunities — so they created their own. His first play as a director was Steel Magnolias, and it mattered deeply because his mother had died of cancer. The story of the show touched something personal, and Michael’s direction was shaped by that. He didn’t want the cast to imitate the film. He wanted them to bring it from their own hearts. If they could make one person cry, they were doing their job.

They made many people cry.

What’s striking is how often Michael returns to this idea: theatre must come from the heart. He’s proud of amateur theatre for that reason. Professional productions can be flawless, but sometimes the passion is missing. In community theatre, no one is paid. People show up because they love it. And Michael’s philosophy is direct: if you’re not enjoying it, why are you here?

That’s not naïve optimism. It’s leadership. Because leading a show means holding far more than blocking and music. It means managing personalities, mediation, budgets, ticket sales, running costs, and the invisible pressure that sits behind every curtain. Michael knows what it costs to keep a theatre alive — even in months without performances. He talks about replacing seats for $100,000 and how comfort matters because audiences won’t return if the experience isn’t good. Theatre is art, yes — but it’s also logistics, strategy, and sustainability.

And still, for all the stress, Michael keeps coming back to joy.

He tells stories about people who walk into audition rooms terrified, unsure, and convinced they don’t belong. He tells them to have a go anyway. Auditioning is scary, especially when you face a panel — but every person judging you once stood where you are standing. Sometimes someone walks in with no history, no credits, and simply blows you away. Sometimes someone isn’t “the best,” but they bring a spirit that transforms the room.

Michael shares a story about Joy, a Japanese woman who wanted to dance in a show. She wasn’t the strongest performer at first, but she brought so much joy (aptly named) that Michael would put her in any show. Because what people remember is not perfection. They remember presence.

This is a recurring theme: theatre as a place where people blossom.

Michael speaks with pride about performers who started on his stage and later moved into professional work, including on cruise ships, in major productions, and on international stages. He mentions Kerry Harper from TrueBliss. He recalls Hayden T, who played Tin Man at 16 and later performed in Les Misérables in Canada. He speaks about how special it is to watch someone you once worked with shine on a world stage — and to feel, quietly, “I knew him when.”

But even beyond fame, the most powerful impact is often private. A young person who was lost finds their people. Someone shy learns they can be seen. Someone who didn’t fit anywhere discovers a community where difference is not something to hide, but something to bring.

Michael’s own journey includes that truth, too. He speaks about learning to dance later in life — starting classes at 22 and taking exams alongside kids — because he had been raised with the idea that boys don’t dance. Theatre became the place where those rules could be rewritten. He also choreographed Queen of the Whole Universe for a decade, and he tells a story about a straight married man in the show who wasn’t very good in rehearsals. Michael was stressed, trying to figure out how to “hide” himself. Then, on the night of the show, the man told him it was one of the best experiences of his life.

In that moment, Michael realised something important: stop being so judgmental. Let him live his best life.

That, in many ways, is the heart of Michael Sanders’ leadership. He creates spaces where people can become more themselves by stepping into performance. He makes theatre into a place where passion matters more than polish, and where belonging is built through shared effort.

After more than 100 shows, he still talks about wanting younger people to step in, to lead, to discover what theatre can give them. He has moments where he feels tired, where he considers stopping. Then a rehearsal happens, a cast bonds, a show opens, a young performer finds their confidence — and he remembers why he can’t live without it.

At the end of the conversation, Michael offers the simplest encouragement: if you want to do it, grab it. Grab life. Find your people. Find a passion. Give it 110%. Not because it will make you rich — he openly says he has spent more money than he has ever made from theatre — but because it fills your heart.

And for him, that is the real reward.

Because somewhere along the way, the shy kid who hated school found a stage.

And then he spent the rest of his life making stages for others.

Full Podcast: Finding the Shy Kid in the World — One Show at a Time