This story was originally posted on the McGill Human Rights Internship Program Blog. By Laurissa Brousseau.
If you’d asked me a year ago what “accessibility” meant, I might have offered a polished, well-meaning response about ramps and elevators—those neat little additions designed to make life easier for some. But let’s be honest—I hadn’t truly seen accessibility. My understanding was narrow, shaped by the few broader (yet painfully oversimplified) conversations I’d encountered. Accessibility felt like a box to tick, a compliance to meet. And that was the extent of it.
But here’s the thing—accessibility isn’t just about propping open doors; it’s about weaving each of us into the fabric of our shared world, ensuring that no thread frays, no voice is silenced, and no contribution is overlooked. My time with Citizens With Disabilities Ontario (CWDO) wasn’t a sudden revelation; it was more like a giant neon sign, flashing a truth I’ve always known but hadn’t fully embraced—one that, judging by the realities I encountered during my internship, the government also struggles to fully grasp. It’s not enough to merely grant access; we must actively engage with those most affected, ensuring their voices are not just heard but are integral in shaping the decisions that impact their lives.
Expanding my Understanding of Accessibility
Before this summer, the full scope of accessibility barely registered on my radar. Digital accessibility? Sensory accommodations? The tangled mess of attitudinal and systemic barriers? These were abstract, distant concepts, like fog on the horizon. My understanding of disability was boxed in by the world’s narrow view—a world that often labels it as a limitation, a burden. But CWDO quickly shattered that narrow box, beginning with a week-long personal initiation that expanded my horizons beyond measure. Courses like *AccessForward: Training for an Accessible Ontario* and the discovery of the *Office Accessibility Centre* (which, shockingly, I had never even noticed despite being a lifelong Office user) were very informative. Then came the idea of Universal Design, which reshaped my understanding even further. Accessibility isn’t just for those who “need” it; it’s a universal key that unlocks better lives for all of us. But as I dug deeper, one thing became painfully clear—Ontario still has miles to go. No surprise, but it stings all the same.
The people I’ve met, the stories I’ve heard—they’ve reshaped my thinking in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. Disability doesn’t demand pity; it commands respect. PwDs aren’t seeking sympathy—they’re fighting for autonomy, equality, and the right to live life on their own terms. The idea of “vulnerability” doesn’t belong here; it’s an insult, a weak attempt to diminish the strength and resilience PwDs demonstrate every single day. It became glaringly obvious—this perspective needs to break out of the confines of academic journals, government policies, and strategies that lazily lump diverse communities under the label of “vulnerability.” It’s reductive, it’s harmful, and it’s got to go.
Think of the living tree doctrine that shapes our laws, constantly growing and adapting to new realities. My understanding has followed a similar path—twisting, expanding, and reaching into new territories I hadn’t previously considered. I, like everyone, am shaped by my experiences, each journey and lesson carving deeper meaning into my perspective. Sure, there are times I wish we could instantly bring the Charter into the present, make it as relevant as it should be. But my time with CWDO taught me that real growth isn’t a sprint; it’s a chaotic, messy process of unlearning, rethinking, and evolving. It’s in grappling with what accessibility and disability truly mean today that we plant the seeds of meaningful change. These ideas, like the living tree, need time to take root, to flourish and adapt—just as I have.
But this transformation didn’t happen in a neat, tidy arc. It required deep reflection, stumbling through mistakes, and a willingness to confront my own assumptions head-on. But through this process, I’ve grown. My previous work, always rooted in minority linguistic rights—a cause close to my heart—now feels intrinsically linked to the broader struggle for accessibility and human rights. Both are about dismantling barriers, ensuring everyone has a place at the table, and making sure that no one, absolutely no one, is left behind.
CWDO might not ring a bell for everyone, but it should. It’s not just an organization; it’s a movement, a collective heartbeat fighting for the rights, freedoms, and responsibilities of persons with disabilities. Through community development, social action, and member support, CWDO tackles the systemic barriers that many don’t even realize exist.
What’s more remarkable? It’s entirely volunteer-run. This adds a layer of authenticity and dedication to the work.
The Hybrid Reality
My internship with CWDO was a chaotic blend of locations, each with its quirks. It started in the heart of Montreal, where city life buzzed around me, but real focus came when I moved to an apartment near some greenery and with lots of sunlight—something I will never take for granted ever again. Then, Quebec: working from my grandparents’ place meant battling their notorious “internet à pédale” and the occasional Zoom cameo by my grand-maman during team meetings.
Alberta was more challenging because wildfires forced me indoors. I’ve lived through “smoke season” many times before—it’s what we call it back home. I’ve even warned tourists to avoid traveling then; they won’t see the mountains with the smoke filling the Bow Valley. But this time, coupled with Jodoin’s final project topic last winter and my experience with CWDO, it deepened my understanding of emergency preparedness for persons with disabilities, a topic I’m keen to explore further in my next blog.
The virtual nature of the internship offered flexibility but also brought a touch of loneliness from staring at a screen all day. The irony of feeling isolated in a field centered on virtual inclusion was palpable. Yet, through this mix of busyness and solitude, I looked forward to team meetings, and eventually, I got the chance to present mine and my supervisor’s research during a “lunch & learn” available to all Ontario ministries. About 80 people attended, many with their cameras on, which gave me a little boost towards the end, reminding me how important this work was and how life-changing it could be for many. Through all of this, I learned that accessibility isn’t just about physical spaces—it’s about making our digital and emotional worlds more inclusive too.
Moving Forward
My journey into this field began with the McGill International Human Rights Internship Program—a gateway into a world I hadn’t fully explored. My role as an intern with CWDO was just the beginning, and this September, I’ll step into a new role as the disability events coordinator for my faculty. It feels like a natural progression, a continuation of the work I started this summer. The work doesn’t end when the internship does; it’s ongoing, evolving, just like my understanding of accessibility.
This summer wasn’t just an internship—it was a journey of discovery, reflection, and growth. It challenged me to rethink what I knew, deepen my understanding, and connect the dots between accessibility, human rights, and the lived experiences of those navigating the world differently. As I move forward into new roles and responsibilities, I carry these lessons with me. Building an inclusive world isn’t a single project or a summer job—it’s a lifelong commitment. And I’m ready to keep advocating, ensuring no one is left behind.