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For many years, Lindsey Mazza played a game no one else could see. It was a quiet game with just one goal: to be perceived as “normal.” Blend in, smile politely, don’t ask for help, don’t draw attention, don’t be an inconvenience. She calls it hiding in plain sight, and it shaped almost every part of her life.
She was born with Holt-Oram Syndrome, a rare condition that affects the upper limbs. With her limb difference, it was obvious from early on that the world around her wasn’t built for bodies like hers. By six, she had already figured out that adults couldn’t always be trusted to protect or support her. One teacher denied her the help she needed to use the washroom, something her parents had arranged in advance. Lindsey still remembers sitting on the cold bathroom floor, scared and alone, trying to solve a problem a grown-up had created.
It wasn’t a one-off. Throughout her school years, she says the real challenges came not from other students, but from the very people who were meant to guide and protect her. Teachers. Some ignored her needs. Some embarrassed her in front of her classmates. Most didn’t understand how to support someone with a disability and they didn’t seem interested in learning either. Out of all the teachers she had, she can name just a few who were truly supportive. The rest made her feel othered, dismissed, or simply invisible. But she adapted, avoided asking for help and managed on her own as best she could. It became second nature to hide the parts of herself that stood out.
Time progressed and eventually she chose law as her career, a decision that came naturally after a lifetime of self-advocacy. Becoming a lawyer felt like a way to take control, build a career on her own terms and avoid being passed over again. She was also determined to prove herself in a system that rarely offers space to those who move differently through the world.
But law wasn’t the safe harbour she hoped for. She was denied accommodations for the LSAT. Law school lacked proper support. The profession itself was full of barriers, physical, structural and cultural. Courthouses weren’t accessible, workplaces expected long hours, face time and performance at all costs. Instead of empowerment, she found more of the same: systems that weren’t built for her. Still, Lindsey pushed forward, building her own firm and working hard to survive in a space that rarely made room for her. She says she was swimming upstream the whole time.
In late 2023, Lindsey lost her father, a lawyer and judge who shared her condition. He was the one person who fully understood what she dealt with. Losing him left a gap that nothing could fill, pushing her to a breaking point both physically and mentally. By January 2024, the thought of returning to work as a lawyer felt impossible. She found herself waking up wishing she didn’t have to. Not because she didn’t have purpose but because she couldn’t breathe under the weight of self-denial. She was exhausted from wearing a costume. Exhausted from pretending her disability didn’t shape every part of her world. Exhausted from hiding. She knew something had to change. So, she stopped pretending.
She started talking openly. About her body, her years of silence, the legal profession and the spaces that still remain inaccessible. She created Hiding in Plain Sight, a platform with messages that highlight what so many experience but don’t voice. Since then, she’s been speaking up loudly. Her story has reached national TV, conference stages, classrooms and podcasts. She’s delivered a TED Talk. But it’s not visibility for the sake of it. As an advocate for disability inclusion, she’s pushing for real, tangible change.
That includes changes in education. Lindsey is clear: inclusion needs to start at a young age. She believes schools have a massive role to play in shaping how kids see difference. Her own experience proved that kids aren’t naturally unkind, they just follow the lead of adults. When teachers ignore, belittle or separate students with differences, it teaches every child in the room to do the same and segregation becomes the norm. Lindsey says the real opportunity is in connection. When kids learn side by side, everyone benefits.
She’s flipping the script through honest connection. Her message lands hardest not with the “inspirational” lines people expect, but in the sharp, human admissions: I didn’t love myself. I hated my body. I just wanted to disappear. That’s the reality for so many who grow up disabled in a world that only values its own version of perfection.
She’s also calling out the legal system. Yes, she built her own law firm, but she still found herself battling inaccessible courthouses, policies that ignored accommodation requests and a culture that rewards exhaustion. She spent years navigating a profession where accessibility still means “hope someone opens the door” and meaningful change sits in the “too hard” pile of to-dos. Sadly, law firms remain dominated by outdated attitudes and asking for flexibility is often seen as weakness. Despite reaching out to legal institutions offering solutions, she’s been met with silence. It’s frustrating, but not surprising. She believes disability inclusion is still low on the priority list for many organisations, especially ones run by people who’ve never had to think twice about access.
One of her biggest frustrations, however, is surface-level inclusion. Hiring for the sake of diversity metrics doesn’t work if environments aren’t accessible, she says. True inclusion means creating workplaces, schools and public spaces where people can succeed without having to constantly fight for basic needs.
Lindsey also highlights how damaging silence can be. Cancel culture and fear of saying the wrong thing has made many people avoid discussions around disability altogether. But avoiding the topic increases distance and isolation. What’s needed is openness, education and room for honest questions.
Travel is another area that reveals gaps. She says Toronto Pearson Airport is one of the few doing things right. Staff are trained and systems work. But in most airports, help is inconsistent. She’s been refused assistance because it wasn’t pre-booked. On planes, she can’t reach the call button, so basic independence becomes complicated. In cities like Edinburgh, she was told that staff weren’t allowed to help her down a staircase from the plane. Accessibility often feels like an optional add-on, instead of a built-in priority. Despite all this, she keeps moving forward. She travels, with support and speaks with urgency, advocating not just for herself, but for anyone who’s ever felt boxed out.
But Lindsey is doing more than just pointing fingers, she’s actively ‘building things’. She’s calling out the legal system for its ableism and its cold, archaic obsession with face time and billable hours. She’s reaching out to school boards, knocking and knocking again on doors. She’s asking to be invited into rooms that are still mostly filled with suits who’ve never had to ask How will I open that door?
Her disability . . . she now sees this as a strength. It has shaped how she communicates, how she builds relationships and solves problems. It’s the reason people feel safe opening up to her. But she’s honest about the fact that it wasn’t always that way. She had to go through rejection, mostly of herself, before she could get here.
Today, Lindsey is on a quest to do more. More schools. More policy. Have more uncomfortable conversations. And her project, Hiding in Plain Sight, will be the megaphone through which so many untold stories are finally heard. It’s not just about her. It’s about everyone who’s ever edited themselves for someone else’s comfort, be it a person with a disability or the able-bodied. Through her podcast, TV work and public speaking, Lindsey is helping others step out of the background. Everyone is hiding something, she says. Shame, fear, identity, exhaustion. The first step to real inclusion is being honest. And it starts with speaking up, even when the room is not ready for it.
Website: https://www.lindseymazza.com/