Latest / The Good Fight: People Fighting for Justice & Change / Building Playgrounds That Welcome Every Mind: A Practical Guide | The Good Fight
Transcript
- You know that sound a child makes when they finally feel safe enough to scream? It’s not anger. It’s relief. I want you to close your eyes for just a second. Imagine a playground. Not the one in your childhood memory with the rusted swing set, but one from today. You hear the shrieks of joy, the thud of sneakers on rubber mulch, the shouting of rules. But then, you notice something missing. Or rather, someone who isn’t there. Because for so many of our children, especially those who are neurodivergent, the standard playground is not a place of joy. It is a minefield. Think about the sensory overload. The way the metal slide gets hot enough to burn if it’s been in the sun. The screech of a swing chain that hasn’t been oiled in years. The bright, flashing colors of plastic structures that demand attention rather than inviting rest. For a child with autism, ADHD, or sensory processing differences, this environment doesn’t offer play. It offers threat. And when the brain perceives threat, it shuts down. It retreats. It hides. I’m talking to you today because I need you to understand that inclusion isn’t just about having a ramp at the entrance. We’ve made great strides in physical accessibility, and thank goodness we have. But true inclusion is deeper. It’s neurological. It’s emotional. It’s about designing spaces where a child doesn’t have to mask their needs to participate. Where they can regulate their body without being shushed by a parent who is trying their best in an exhausting world. This is the hard part. We often think of play as chaotic noise. But for some kids, silence is the loudest thing in the room. Let’s get practical. When I say we need inclusive play spaces, I don’t mean we need to rebuild every park in America tomorrow. I mean we need to look at what’s already there and ask different questions. What happens when the wind picks up and the leaves scatter across the path? Is that a hazard or a texture to explore? What happens when the sun hits the glass panel of the fence? Is it a design feature or a trigger? I worked with a community group last year in a suburb just thirty miles from here. They had a new park. It was beautiful. Modern. Sleek. And it was completely unusable for two families in the neighborhood who had children on the spectrum. Why? Because the only seating was backless benches placed right next to the high-traffic slide area. No shade. No quiet corner. Just exposure. The parents didn’t complain. They just stopped coming. They played in their living room instead. And I’m telling you, that breaks my heart more than any protest sign ever could. Because play is how children learn to navigate the world. It’s how they build social skills, motor coordination, and confidence. If we deny them access to public space, we are denying them a fundamental human experience. So, we asked the city council for simple changes. Benches with backs. Shade sails. A designated quiet zone with natural elements like logs and stones instead of loud electronic panels. The cost was minimal. The impact was profound. Now, those families come every Tuesday. They stay until sunset. And the other children in the park? They learn empathy. They learn patience. They learn that difference is just another form of beauty. There is a persistent myth that inclusive designs disrupt the experience for neurotypical children. That if we add soft flooring or muted colors, the fun will vanish. Let me tell you what actually happens. When a space is designed for the margins, it becomes better for everyone. It’s called universal design. Think about curb cuts. They were built for wheelchairs. But now, everyone uses them. Parents with strollers. Delivery workers with carts. Teenagers on skateboards. Playgrounds are no different. A swing with high sides isn’t just safer for a child who might lose balance; it’s more comfortable for anyone who wants to lean back and relax. A sensory garden with lavender and mint isn’t just calming for a child overwhelmed by noise; it’s a pleasant surprise for the tired adult waiting on the bench. We have to stop seeing accommodation as a burden. It’s an upgrade. I remember sitting with a young boy named Leo. He was seven. He couldn’t speak much, but he loved water. The local park had a fountain, but it was dry most of the day and the edges were slippery concrete. Leo’s mother told me she was afraid to take him there. So, we helped organize a volunteer day. We painted the edges with non-slip grip tape. We installed a small, shallow basin with a hand pump so the water flow was predictable and controllable. Leo went there the first time we opened it. He sat there for an hour, pumping water, watching it swirl. His mother cried. Not because it was expensive. But because she saw her son happy. Truly, unburdened happy. That is what we are building. Not just parks. Moments of peace. This brings me to how we actually make this happen. You cannot wait for permission. You cannot wait for a grant that might come in three years. You start with conversation. Who lives near you? Who walks their dog past the empty lot on Maple Street? Who complains about the broken equipment? Gather them. Not in a formal meeting with agendas and minutes. Gather them on a Saturday morning with coffee. Ask them what they see. Ask them what they fear. Often, the resistance to change comes from fear of the unknown. People worry that ‘inclusive’ means ‘chaotic.’ We have to show them that chaos is managed through design, not exclusion. We showed photos of other parks. We brought in experts who explained sensory needs in plain language. We didn’t use jargon. We used stories. When you invite people into the process, they become stakeholders. They care about what they help create. I’ve seen neighbors who were initially skeptical about adding a ‘quiet zone’ end up defending it fiercely when developers wanted to replace it with a larger skate park. They realized that the quiet zone wasn’t a concession. It was a gift to the whole community. It provided balance. It provided rest. And rest is necessary for play to be meaningful. This is sustainable change. It grows from the ground up. It’s rooted in relationships. And it lasts. What’s next? Start small. Look at the nearest park in your town. Walk through it with fresh eyes. Put yourself in the shoes of a child who is easily overwhelmed. Notice the glare. Notice the noise. Notice the lack of places to sit and breathe. Write down three things you would change. One thing you can do yourself. Maybe it’s planting native flowers to soften the visual noise. Two things you can ask the local council to consider. Maybe it’s installing a bench or fixing a light. Then, find one other person who cares. Just one. Share your observations. Ask them to walk with you next week. Build a team. Small teams move fast. They don’t get bogged down in bureaucracy. They act. Remember, we are not asking for perfection. We are asking for progress. Every step toward inclusivity is a victory. Every child who enters a space and feels safe is a win. Don’t let the scale of the problem paralyze you. Focus on the next right step. That’s the hard part. Deciding to start. But once you do, the momentum carries you. You’ll find others who feel the same way. You’ll find resources. You’ll find solutions. And you’ll realize that justice isn’t a distant destination. It’s a series of choices we make every day. Choices to see. Choices to listen. Choices to build. Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring. And thank you for showing up, even in small ways. I’m Judy Growney. Keep fighting the good fight. I’ll see you next time.