The Thng Family

I’ve had the privilege of photographing Cephas and his family twice.

The first time, we spent the day outdoors at Jacob Ballas Children’s Garden. The second, I joined them at home — in the place where the rhythms of everyday family life simply happen.

Cephas lives with Angelman syndrome. But that is only one part of who he is, and certainly not the thing I remember most when I think about photographing him.

I remember his smile.

That huge, completely uninhibited smile that seems to take over his entire face.

I remember how fiercely he loves the simplest things. Stickers are fascinating. Plastic bags can be the greatest treasure in the world. Give him something that catches his attention and there is this wonderful, uncomplicated delight in it.

And I admire that about him enormously.

There is something about Cephas that makes me wonder when the rest of us became so difficult to impress.

As adults, we spend so much of our lives looking for the next thing. Something bigger. Something better. Something we haven’t experienced before. Somewhere along the way, the ordinary stopped being enough.

Cephas reminds me that joy doesn’t always need very much.

Sometimes it’s a sticker.

Sometimes it’s a plastic bag.

Sometimes it’s being pulled along in a wagon, getting absolutely drenched at a water playground, laughing with Dad, running towards Mum, being fussed over by Grandma, or simply being home with the people who love you.

And that was why photographing him at home felt just as important to me as photographing the family outdoors.

At home, there was no need to find anything extraordinary. I could photograph the life already there — Mum close by, Dad’s hand in his, the quiet interactions on the bed, a hug, some screen time, Grandma sitting with him in front of the television.

Even the little things around the house become part of his story. Two sessions. Two very different settings.

But the same Cephas in both.

Sweet. Curious. Completely himself. And surrounded by a family whose love for him appears in a hundred tiny gestures rather than one grand photograph.

I don’t photograph Cephas because I want to tell a story about Angelman syndrome.

I photograph him because his life is worth remembering exactly as he experiences it — with all the laughter, affection, fascination and wonderfully simple things that make his world his own.

And perhaps that’s the thing I admire most about him.

I wish the rest of us could hold on to just a little more of that innocence. To find immense happiness in something small. To laugh without wondering who is watching. To love what we love without needing to explain why. To experience the world with a little less cynicism and a little more wonder.

Maybe we could all grow up to be a little more like Cephas.