“Inclusion” is a word we use often, but not always one we examine.
We see it in mission statements and strategic plans. We post about it online. But what does it actually look like on an ordinary Tuesday morning?
At Frazer, it looks like a child jumping on the numbers outside an office door.
Christy, our Accounting Manager, remembers when that same child first began therapy at Frazer. “He was quiet—not talking much at all. At first, he didn’t even want to walk down the hall with his therapist.” Now she watches him pause at the number 11, jump, and call it out confidently. “It’s amazing to see the children grow from where they started,” she says. “You can see the therapy working—it’s very satisfying.”
Inclusion looks like growth you can see.
Deanna, our CEO, carries a similar image with her. Not long ago, she watched a young child walk from the atrium to his classroom using a walker. “When I first came here, he could barely sit up,” she recalls. “Less than two years later, he was walking. His therapist was right beside him, but he was doing it.” Moments like that are quiet, but they are profound. “Successes like that make me realize we are here for a reason,” she says.
But inclusion at Frazer isn’t only about milestone achievements. Sometimes, it’s about what doesn’t happen.
Meredith, our Director of Development whose office sits across from one of our classrooms, describes hearing a child experiencing “big feelings.” “When he has those big feelings, it’s not a big deal,” she says. “It’s just people being who they are. I wish the entire world could be like that.” In many environments, differences are highlighted or managed in ways that make them feel larger than life. Here, they are part of the rhythm of the day.
Kristine, one of our Pre-K teachers, sees that rhythm play out among her students. “We have some kids who aren’t good at initiating play, and some who are really great at it. The ones who are good at it will go over if they see someone sitting alone.” That instinct—to notice and include—is learned by experiencing it. “None of the children feel excluded,” she says. “They don’t feel different. Even though there are differences, they don’t feel different.” Sometimes a child will simply say, “Oh, they’re just different,” and then move on. Different isn’t bad. It’s just part of being human.
This month, as we observe Developmental Disabilities Awareness Month, conversations across the country focus on visibility and understanding. Awareness matters. It challenges outdated assumptions and invites broader conversations about equity and access. But awareness alone does not build belonging.
Belonging is built in classrooms where differences are normalized rather than spotlighted. It is built when a child who once avoided the hallway now jumps confidently on the number 11. It is built when adults are known by their strengths instead of their diagnoses. It is built when therapists walk beside someone as they move forward on their own.
At Frazer, this isn’t something we turn on for a month. It is something we practice every day.
That practice requires intention and collaboration.
LaTonya experiences Frazer from two perspectives: staff member and mom. “There’s a lot of collaboration when it comes to getting things done here,” she explains. “You get information pulled from teachers, from the admin team. You get answers.” As a parent, that collaboration means something deeper. “My son is not getting ignored. He’s getting what he needs here. He’s not pushed under the rug.”
She speaks candidly about something many families quietly worry about—whether a center truly has the resources to support every child. “Some centers just have a lack of resources. But Frazer is a place that has an abundance of resources. And those resources benefit every child.”
Shelby, who welcomes families and visitors at the front desk, sees that support system in motion daily. “It’s all hands on deck,” she says. “Whether that’s for a tour or an assessment.” She points to the Inclusion Team, who conduct classroom rounds and step in when teachers need additional support. “I love the way all children are included,” she says. “And the work culture here—it makes me feel welcomed. Everybody is friendly, even if they don’t know you.”
That culture of belonging extends beyond our early education classrooms. In our Adult Services program, inclusion moves into the wider community.
Unondus, our Director of Adult Services, describes the environment simply: “Frazer Center is a unit. Everything works together in a way, like a family.” Participants are known by their names, by their strengths, their interests, and their personalities—not by a diagnosis. “Sometimes people ask, ‘What’s that person’s disability?’” she says. “And I tell them, we don’t know them by their disability.”
Community access is central to that philosophy. Visiting local libraries. Exploring parks. Participating in community programs. Trying something new. “It can spark a new interest or a new hobby,” Unondus explains. “Sometimes that’s eye-opening for the staff as well.”
Sandra, one of our Direct Support Professionals, sees that impact firsthand when our adults interact in the community. “You give them respect, they respect you back,” she says. “We’re all people.” She has watched strangers become conversation partners and community members recognize that the adults they meet have voices and agency of their own. “If you get to know them, you realize they can speak for themselves.”
That is what inclusion actually looks like.
It looks like therapists walking beside a child but letting the child take the steps. It looks like classrooms where differences are acknowledged but not magnified. It looks like adults discovering new interests and being welcomed into community spaces. It looks like staff members who have grown alongside the people they support for years.
Most of all, it looks like belonging—not as a slogan, and not as a once-a-year theme, but as a daily practice woven into hallways, classrooms, offices, and neighborhoods.
At Frazer, inclusion is not something we announce.
It’s something we live.