THE ORDINARY PROJECT
Donuts & Kickflips
"Childhood was never meant to stand still."
"Can you photograph a child who won't sit still?"
It's one of the questions I hear most often.
Usually it's whispered.
Like parents are apologizing before we've even met.
"He's autistic."
"She has ADHD."
"They probably won't cooperate."
I always smile.
Because I have absolutely no interest in photographing children who cooperate.
I want the ones who climb onto skateboards before anyone tells them they can.
The ones who forget they're supposed to look at me because they've found something far more interesting.
The ones whose joy is bigger than whatever plan the adults had.
Those are my favorite people to photograph.
This family won a giveaway through my friends at Lumii.
We met at the skatepark with a box of pink sprinkle donuts, skateboards tucked under arms, and no real agenda besides seeing where the morning took us.
Brenda, the owner of Lumii, showed up carrying something that probably wouldn't mean much to most people.
A bin of sensory toys.
Not because anyone expected a problem.
But because she understood something I wish more people did.
Inclusion isn't something you offer after someone is struggling.
It's something you prepare before they ever need it.
That simple gesture changed the entire tone of the morning.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just space.
As a mom raising a child with ADHD, I know the feeling of walking into a new place already wondering if you're going to have to apologize. Will today be the day they're "too much?" Too loud. Too fast. Too distracted. Too emotional. Parents carry that weight everywhere. Sometimes without realizing it. But children don't. Children aren't trying to be difficult. They're trying to exist in a world that's constantly asking them to exist differently. So I don't ask them to perform. I build sessions where movement is the plan. Where climbing is encouraged. Where skateboards become playgrounds. Where donuts come before portraits. Where running away isn't ruining the session—
it's the session.
The funny thing is...
If you look through this gallery, you probably couldn't tell which child is autistic.
Because once children are allowed to be themselves...
they all become wonderfully unpredictable.
One wanted another donut.
One was determined to ride every skateboard.
One couldn't stop laughing.
One laid in the bowl staring at the clouds.
One decided the best place for a family cuddle was on concrete.
It turns out childhood looks a lot alike when nobody is trying to fix it.
Maybe that's why I love documentary photography so much. I'm not waiting for the perfect smile. I'm waiting for the moment a little boy forgets anyone is watching. The split second a parent laughs so hard they stop worrying about whether everyone is looking.
The chaos. The crumbs. The scraped knees. The pink frosting. The paper airplanes. The skateboard wheels echoing through the bowl. Those are the things they'll remember.
One day these kids won't fit on their parents' backs anymore. The skateboards will get faster. The donuts might become coffee. The paper airplanes might become driver's licenses. But somewhere in the middle of all that growing up... there will always be this morning.
A skatepark. A box of pink sprinkle donuts. A family who never once had to pretend to be anything other than exactly who they already were.
I don't specialize in photographing children with autism. I specialize in creating sessions where no child has to earn the right to be themselves.
A Few Things I Remember
Along the Way
The pink frosting disappeared first.
The paper airplanes landed wherever the wind wanted them to.
Someone lost a lollipop.
Someone found another reason to laugh.
The skatepark emptied before the memories did.
Some mornings have a funny way of staying exactly where you left them.
YOUR TURN
Every Story Begins Somewhere.
This one began with skateboards and pink frosting.
The next might begin with muddy boots, a family recipe, a favorite fishing spot, Sunday morning pancakes, or a backyard that's witnessed a thousand ordinary adventures.
It doesn't have to be extraordinary.
Because the ordinary was never ordinary.
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Turn The Page
Every ordinary day holds another story.
