THE CASE FOR INCLUSION w/Linsey Mazza

Born with Holt-Oram Syndrome, Lindsey Mazza learned early on that the world wasn’t designed with her in mind—but that never stopped her from shaping her own path. From fighting for accommodations in school to building a successful multi-city law firm, she turned obstacles into opportuni​ties, proving that resilience is more than just survival—it’s a strategy for change. Now, as a lawyer, leadership wellness expert, and disability advocate, Lindsey is on a mission to redefine inclusion, ensuring that future generations don’t just overcome barriers, but never have to face them in the first place.

ALLIÉ: Growing up with Holt-Oram Syndrome, you had to figure out how to do things differently—whether in the classroom, on the field, or in everyday life. Can you share a moment from your childhood when you realized that the world wasn’t designed for you—and how you found the strength to navigate it on your terms?
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LINDSEY: Obviously, the world is not built for me, but I think from a small age, the thing that really hammered home the point that the world wasn't made for me was my experience as a small child with adults who were supposed to be safe for me—and they weren’t.

Some of my most traumatic events were with teachers at school from a very young age. One particular incident I will always remember—it was the first time I truly understood that outside the safety of my family and my home, it was kind of… me against the world.

I was six years old and in Grade One. Every year, my mom and dad would go to the school to make sure all of my accommodations were in place. This year was no different. A few weeks into Grade One, one of my accommodations—part of my IEP—was a buddy system, which meant that whenever I went to the washroom, I was allowed to bring a friend with me just in case I needed help. One day, I asked my teacher if I could go to the washroom. She said, “Sure, you can go—but you're not allowed to bring your friend.” I remember saying, “But Miss, Mom and Dad said that I’m allowed.” Despite my pleading, she said no.

I remember sitting on the bathroom floor at six years old thinking, How am I going to figure this out? I was all alone, and nobody came to look for me. In the end, I figured it out. But it was in that moment that I realized most adults actually weren’t safe for me.

As an adult now, it's unfathomable to me that a teacher did that to a six-year-old. It makes me angry just thinking about it. But I had enough insight, even at that young age, to go home and tell my parents because I knew what had happened was wrong. The next morning, they marched into the school—together—and had a meeting with the principal. The teacher was scolded.

But that didn’t matter. I still had to sit in her classroom for the rest of the year, knowing I wasn’t safe with her.

ALLIÉ: And to feel unsafe at that young age… I just can't imagine.

LINDSEY: You can imagine how my parents felt. I’ll never forget my dad pacing the floor and my mom plotting all these things she wished she could do to that woman. And I share those memories with them now because I can’t imagine—I cannot imagine—how they must have felt. I also can’t understand the level of… I mean, really, evil—for an adult to do that to a six-year-old child. And she got away with it. She got a slap on the wrist. That’s it.

What that moment exemplified—for me and for my classmates—was that I didn’t matter.

ALLIÉ: The legal industry has long been known for its rigid structures and inaccessibility. What were some of the biggest obstacles you faced in your journey to becoming a lawyer? Was there ever a moment when you felt like giving up—and what pushed you to keep going?

LINDSEY: I think I chose law because I thought I’d naturally been an advocate my whole life. I was making a case for myself at the age of six—so why not go into an industry where I could direct my natural advocacy skills? I thought it would be an easier path for me because, but of course I faced discrimination. People wouldn’t hire me for jobs. However, I also chose law because I knew it was a profession where I didn’t necessarily need to rely on anyone to hire me. I knew I could carve out my own place.

I thought, “Why not go into a career field that is built on equality and advocacy for justice?” But it turns out, it’s not. It’s a fallacy. I was denied accommodations to even write my law school entrance exams. I had to appeal just to apply to law school. And then, when I went to law school, they had an accommodation center for exam writing—but even that lacked proper accessibility. And the profession itself? It’s not accessible at all. The courthouses I practiced in were not accessible. So, I just figured out my own accommodations along the way. I would pay people to come with me to the courthouse.

Was there ever a thought in my mind that I would give up? No. Because I just never have. But I can tell you that I lived a large portion of my life frustrated and angry—because I would ask people for accommodations. And my disability is visible. So, my need for assistance is also—at least I would think—quite obvious. And yet, I was constantly told no.

ALLIÉ: You often speak about the importance of representation and why it matters for kids growing up with limb differences. What do you wish you could tell your younger self about the power of visibility? And how do you hope your story changes the narrative for others?

LINDSEY: As a child, I wanted my differences to be acknowledged in a way that didn’t ostracize me—if that makes sense. But they weren’t. So it was either: we don’t really care, or we’re going to single you out.

Looking back, I would say that part of my experience created this pattern where I actually stopped talking about my disability altogether. I built this wall around myself. And even though it’s visible, I think now—having had time to reflect through these interviews and conversations—I really understand that yes, it was a form of self-protection. But it was also a learned behavior. Because it didn’t matter how much I talked about it—people still weren’t helping me or meeting my needs in the way that I needed them to.

So, the message I would give little Lindsay is: “Keep talking about it. Keep being loud about it.”

Something I like to say is, children are not innately mean. Children are innately curious. And in school, yes, I experienced bullying. But honestly, it was the adults who failed me—not the children. And I think parents really need to understand that.

Parents need to make sure they fully understand and give their children the language to deal with situations as they arise. Because my teachers… I’m telling you. And listen, I had some good teachers—but overall, my school experience was not good. My experience with doctors was not good either.

The thing I tell parents now is: “Make sure you are sheltering your child from those conversations where adults are telling you all the things your child cannot do.” Because I can tell you—the day I was born, doctors didn’t think I would do anything. And I ran laps around people without disabilities in my legal profession. Thankfully, I had parents who had enough understanding and foresight to not listen to that. But there are so many parents who don’t have that experience, and they think what teachers, doctors, and professionals say will dictate their child’s future. Please—don’t listen to them. And don’t let your children hear those things either.

ALLIÉ: Many organizations view accessibility as a box to check rather than a mindset to embrace. In your work advocating for real inclusion, what do you believe are the biggest misconceptions about accessibility? What does true leadership in this space look like?

LINDSEY: I think the biggest misconception is that companies believe if they follow government recommendations, they’re making their space accessible—because they’re compliant. But the truth is, as someone who has attended many courthouses that are government-funded and fall under the government legislation umbrella, they are not accessible. So, the government gets it wrong.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a single government form—whether it’s for disability funding or accessibility within buildings—that gets it right. And that’s not to take away from the effort, because of course, we’ve made a lot of progress. But what I’ve found is that funding is a real hurdle for companies, because obviously, making spaces accessible is expensive. But what I like to say to people is this: accessibility due to disability or illness is a bucket that every single person will or can fall into at some point in their lifetime. Just because it’s not affecting you now doesn’t mean it never will. We have an aging population, and you could get hit by a car tomorrow and need an accessible workspace. The fact that we pay the least amount of attention to this means we’re going to be in a really tough situation as the population ages—because accessibility won’t just be a nice-to-have; it will be a requirement.

I went to a conference, and it was not accessible at all. It was only their second or third one, so I gave them grace. I approached a couple of the founders, and in the moment, I could feel them get really offended. So I said to myself, “Okay, they’ve put a lot of work into this—I’m just going to take a beat.”

They promised they’d get in touch with me. They didn’t. So, a month later, I followed up—and got radio silence from all of them. And this is a supposed women’s leadership and empowerment group. That’s when I got angry, because it felt so inauthentic. Don’t say you care about people if you don’t care about all people. We all make mistakes—I make mistakes. But let’s be open to having the conversation. Because when you shut off the ability to have a conversation, you make yourself stagnant.

I think the best leaders—the ones who demonstrate true leadership—are the people who understand that they don’t get it right all the time, but they’re open to having the conversations. They’re open to evolving. They check their ego at the door. Because the number of people I’ve raised accessibility issues with—whose immediate response is as if I’ve offended them—is shocking to me. This isn’t about you. Me telling you something isn’t accessible isn’t an attack—it’s constructive feedback.

In today’s world, when it comes to gender or racial issues, if someone used openly offensive language, there would be an immediate reaction—and there would be consequences. But when it comes to the disability community, offensive language and behavior still seem to be acceptable. It’s the one group of people where discrimination is still tolerated—and it continues to be that way.

ALLIÉ: After losing your father—a judge and a quality advocate—you shifted your focus toward helping others break barriers. So this last question for you is: how did that loss reshape your mission? And now, what does resilient leadership mean to you today?

LINDSEY: Yeah, so my dad also had Holt-Oram Syndrome. He had a visible disability, and he was a baby boomer—born in 1946. His story was one of, you know… when he was born, the hospital took him from his parents, hid him for three days, and wanted to put him in an institution. That’s how his life began.

His parents—first-generation Canadians whose parents were Italian immigrants—didn’t have much money, but they said, “Absolutely not. Our son is going to do whatever his siblings do, and we will make sure he has all the same opportunities.” The Catholic school didn’t want him to attend, and the Catholic church didn’t want him coming to mass. It was barrier after barrier, but he had these really progressive parents. He went on to become a lawyer, and then a judge. He broke barriers throughout his entire life. He was my teammate.

Like I mentioned earlier, I stopped talking about having a disability, but my dad was always open and got the accommodations he needed. When he passed away, and I heard people reflect on the impact he had made in their lives at his funeral, it was a pivotal moment for me. I realized that, while I had been advocating for others, I wasn’t showing up authentically as myself—because I was still hiding a huge part of who I was.

When I went back to work—I was a family law lawyer—arguing over used dining room furniture just didn’t seem important to me anymore. It was like my whole life had shifted. I realized I needed to turn my advocacy into something different—something with purpose. And in order to do that, I had to really show up with all parts of me. By sharing my story, I could help others.

ALLIÉ: So beautiful. Lindsey. Thank you so much for sharing all of that. I love how this calling—this advocacy work—really created a shift for you. It gave you a new perspective, a deeper purpose, and more confidence in your path. And hey, while used living room furniture is important in some circles, you just found other circles that were more important to you.

LINDSEY: And with regard to resilience, I think people with disabilities don’t really have the option not to be resilient. We use this word ‘resilient’ all the time, but for us, it’s not optional. You either shut yourself away, or you keep showing up. A lot of people think resilience means big, grand gestures or life-changing events. But I think resilience is really about consistently showing up—for you—so you can show up the way you need to in order to help make the world a better place. ∎

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Find & follow Lindsey on Instagram: @thelindseymazza