What My Dogs Taught Me About Being Photographed
- 17 hours ago
- 5 min read
And why the best photographers understand that connection comes before the camera
Before I begin, I'd like to acknowledge that this article reflects my personal experience as an AuDHD (Autistic and ADHD) woman. Neurodivergent people are not a monolith, and not every autistic or ADHD person will relate to the experiences shared here.
The best photography advice I ever received didn't come from a photographer. It came from my dogs.
What My Dogs Taught Me About Being Photographed
Over the years, I've watched veterinarians, trainers, photographers, friends, and complete strangers interact with them. Nobody expects a dog to immediately feel comfortable in a new environment. We let them sniff. We give them time. We build trust before asking anything of them. We use clear cues instead of expecting them to read our minds. We learn what makes them feel safe.
And perhaps most importantly, we accept them exactly as they are.
As an AuDHD woman and founder of Apawrel, I've often wondered why we don't always extend that same courtesy to people standing in front of the camera.
What my dogs taught me about being photographed is this...
Let me sniff first
Anyone who knows dogs understands the importance of a good sniff.
Sniffing isn't a distraction. It's how dogs gather information about the world around them. It's how they assess safety, familiarity, and environment.
My version of a sniff looks a little different.
Before a photography session, I'll probably ask a lot of questions:
Who will be there?
What happens first?
Will there be flash photography?
How long will it take?
What equipment are you bringing?
What are we trying to capture?
I'm not being difficult. I'm gathering information.
The more I understand the environment, the more comfortable I can be within it.
For me, questions create predictability. Predictability creates safety. Safety creates authenticity.
It's the human equivalent of a really good sniff.
Familiarity is part of consent
Dogs are often given the opportunity to choose how they engage with a new person.
We don't usually rush towards them expecting immediate trust. We allow a relationship to develop first.
Photography can be incredibly vulnerable.
A camera isn't just documenting how we look. It's capturing how we move, express ourselves, and exist in the world.
While a signed contract may provide legal consent, genuine comfort comes from something deeper.
Connection.
Who are you?
Can we have a conversation before the camera comes out?
Can I get a sense of your personality?
Can we become familiar before I'm asked to be vulnerable?
The photographers who have made me feel most comfortable have always focused on sharing about themselves as a person before the photograph.
New things deserve investigation
My home is my safe space.
I know where everything lives. I know the sounds, the lighting, and how the environment feels.
Then photography equipment arrives.
Tripods.
Light stands.
Bags.
Reflectors.
Flashes.
Suddenly, my familiar environment isn't quite as familiar anymore.
Sound familiar?
It's exactly what happens when you bring a new object into your house and your dog absolutely must inspect it before they can move on.
I feel the same way.
One thing I deeply appreciate is when photographers take a few moments to explain what they're doing.
Show me how the flash works.
Let me hear the shutter.
Walk me through the process.
Let me experience it before it suddenly happens.
The dogs benefit from that approach.
So do I.
My dogs have never worried about being photogenic. Humans deserve that same grace.
Cues work better than commands
Good dog handlers understand the power of clear communication.
They don't simply tell a dog to "be natural".
They provide cues, reference points, guidance, and encouragement.
The same applies to me.
As an AuDHD person, I often hold my body in ways that feel comfortable rather than conventionally posed. Eye contact isn't always natural for me, and staring directly down the lens can feel incredibly intense.
The moment someone says:
"Just act natural."
I suddenly become aware of every hand position, every facial expression, and every possible way I might be getting it wrong.
The best photographer I've worked with approached things differently.
He kept conversations flowing behind the camera.
He moved around me instead of constantly moving me.
When adjustments were needed, they were gentle and specific.
"Turn your hand so the scissors are at a 45 degree with the cutting board"
"Tilt the label by 5mm towards me."
"That angle looks great, keep your head stationery and raise your eyea to look at the thread"
It felt collaborative rather than corrective.
And the result felt far more authentic.
The thing nobody talks about: masking
Many neurodivergent people spend their lives masking.
We learn to suppress certain behaviours, rehearse social interactions, force eye contact, monitor our facial expressions, and adjust ourselves to fit expectations.
Photography can either reinforce that mask or create an opportunity to put it down.
The difference often comes down to the photographer.
If every instruction feels like a request to be less yourself, the session becomes another performance.
But when a photographer creates a sense of safety, something shifts.
The shoulders relax.
The smile becomes genuine.
The awkwardness becomes personality.
The quirks become character.
The photographs stop looking perfect.
They start looking real.
And real is infinitely more interesting.
Please don't Photoshop the person
There's something beautiful about how we photograph dogs.
We don't usually look at an ageing muzzle and think it should be edited.
We don't remove every imperfection.
We don't slim them down, smooth them out, or transform them into something they're not.
We love them because they're themselves.
Humans deserve that same grace.
Particularly young girls and women growing up in a world flooded with heavily edited images.
Every time we erase lines, texture, age, expression, and individuality, we're quietly sending the message that authenticity isn't enough.
As someone who has spent much of her life feeling different, the idea of having my appearance altered, even slightly, feels uncomfortable.
Adjust the lighting? Absolutely.
Remove a distracting power pole? Go for it.
Edit out the random wheelie bin? I won't complain.
But please don't edit away the person.
My biggest fear isn't looking imperfect.
It's someone looking at a photograph and saying:
"That doesn't even look like you."
Because the whole point is that it should.
The photographer who got it right
Recently, I had the privilege of working with a photographer who instinctively understood all of these things.
He gave the dogs, and me, time to investigate.
He connected before directing.
He adapted instead of forcing.
He explained the process.
He made space for curiosity.
And he never made me feel like I needed to be anything other than myself.
What stands out isn't how I looked. It's how I felt.
Comfortable. Safe. Seen.
And honestly, I think that's what the best photographers are really capturing.
Not perfection.
Connection.
Final thoughts
The best photography advice I ever received didn't come from a photographer. It came from my dogs.
My dogs have never worried about being photogenic.
They don't suck in their stomachs.
They don't apologise for taking up space.
They don't worry about wrinkles around their muzzle.
They don't wonder whether they'll look better after editing.
They simply show up as themselves.
Maybe that's the best photography lesson they've been trying to teach me, and you, all along.
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