Michelle – Barriers Are Built Into Systems, Not Bodies

I was lucky enough to grow up around my Aunty and cousins who never treated me any different. At home, I was just one of the kids swimming, building treehouses, filling the hallway with Lego cities. It wasn’t until I started kindy that I realised my mobility was going to be an issue.

Back then I wasn't using a wheelchair, I was walking but with heavy calipers that made me slower than the other kids. Moving from one classroom to another, I was always the last to arrive. My best friend Jodie, would hold my hand to help with balance and walk with me wherever we went. Even when the teasing came because I looked and walked differently, having her by my side made school feel like somewhere I belonged.

But things changed. One day a bus showed up at our house to take me to a different school because my old one apparently “couldn’t cope.” No one asked me or my family what I wanted. I cried getting on that bus. At the new school the classes were small and structured, but the work felt watered down. I finished first, got extra marks, but I wasn’t being challenged. Later, I was moved back into mainstream another decision made without me.

Each change was a reminder that it wasn’t me holding myself back it was the system around me. Stairs I couldn’t climb, toilets in the wrong place, playgrounds I couldn’t reach in time. It wasn’t my body that made school harder, it was the way schools were designed and the decisions made without listening to me.

Through it all, I found strength in connection. I think about Bradley, a boy with cerebral palsy who communicated by tapping out letters while I wrote them down. To me, he was the smartest person in the room, a reminder that ability isn’t lost when communication looks different, it’s lost when people don’t take the time to listen

Looking back now, I can see how much things have changed and I’m grateful that children today have more opportunities to be included. But we still have a long way to go. Decisions about where children with disability learn, play, and grow are still too often made without them or their families at the table.

We can’t let systems decide what children are capable of. We need schools, services, and communities to see us as part of the decision-making, not as problems to be solved. That’s why we must keep pushing, because true inclusion isn’t about adapting people to fit systems, it’s about changing systems so every person belongs.

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*This story is shared by a community member who uses a mobility support aid. Their name has been removed to protect privacy.

I’ve always loved going to music festivals and big events the energy, the people, the atmosphere. But every time, I’ve had to advocate for myself just to enjoy it like everyone else. And it’s usually the simplest things.

At one recent festival, I went to the ‘accessible viewing area’ only to find there weren’t any chairs. Once again, I had to go and ask, to explain why it mattered, to remind people that accessibility is about more than just a space behind a barrier. They did bring chairs in the end, but it shouldn’t be this hard.

I wish I could say that story was a one-off but it’s not. I’ve had similar experiences at most events I’ve attended. Too often, accessibility features are there in name only: ramps blocked by signage, “accessible” spaces that aren’t actually usable, or staff who haven’t been trained to manage them properly. At the last event I went to, the accessible viewing area had even been opened to the general public because security didn’t understand why it needed to be reserved. It’s not about bad intentions it’s about systems that still don’t understand the purpose behind accessibility.

I’ve worked in the community and not-for-profit sector for a long time, so I know firsthand how much time, energy, and passion goes into running events and I also know that accessibility isn’t optional. There are clear legal requirements, but beyond that, there’s a moral responsibility to make sure everyone can take part.

When you attend a lot of events, you start to see the difference between accessibility that’s been ticked off on a checklist and accessibility that’s been thought through with real people in mind. One feels like a box ticked, the other feels like genuine inclusion.

That’s why it means so much that Advocacy WA has taken my story on board. Instead of me having to keep speaking up on my own, they’re working with event organisers to give lived-experience feedback and turn it into change. There’s power in knowing my experience won’t just fade away it will help shape events so the next person doesn’t have to fight the same fight.

For me, that’s the real hope: that one day going to a festival will just be about the music, the friends, the fun not about battling for the basics and with All Access Events, I believe we’re heading in that direction.

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Story told by his mum, Bec

When I was pregnant with Jack, we received no real support or guidance. We were handed a single black-and-white pamphlet about Down syndrome and told to come back in two weeks if we had questions. There were no referrals, no connection to services, and no sense of community to walk alongside us in those first days.

From the start, we had to carve our own path. Jack was deemed “not complex enough” for public care, so every cardiology, ENT, and ophthalmology appointment was arranged privately and self-funded. We became not only his parents but his coordinators, advocates, and constant champions.

When it came time for school, people questioned our choice to enrol Jack in a mainstream classroom. There was an assumption that disability automatically meant segregation but we knew Jack belonged with his peers. And we were right. His school welcomed him wholeheartedly, ensuring meaningful participation with the support of his EA and AAC device.

The result has been nothing short of incredible. Jack has thrived in his mainstream environment, not just learning but leading. He has been elected Student Councillor for Year 1, joins in assemblies, and is an active, valued member of his school community. This school has been one of the few places where I haven’t had to fight for his inclusion, where support was offered freely, not wrestled from the system.

Of course, battles remain. Access to out-of-school care and vacation programs continues to be a struggle, with many centres lacking the resources or willingness to accommodate children with disability. Advocacy is still part of our daily life.

But Jack’s story is not defined by barriers. It’s defined by friendships, leadership, and possibility. His journey proves that when communities choose inclusion, children with disability don’t just “fit in” they flourish.

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Stu Schonell, CEO – Advocacy WA

When I was 22, a life-changing accident left me paraplegic. Experts told me meaningful work wasn’t in my future, but I refused to let a diagnosis define my destiny.

I returned to university and earned an HR degree as one of the only students with a disability on campus. I re-certified in SCUBA diving—defying assumptions that wheelchair users couldn’t explore beneath the waves—and regained my driver’s licence. Frustrated by employers’ unwillingness to hire me, I launched a shoe-repair shop. That small venture grew into a thriving entertainment-games business spanning the South West from Bunbury to Manjimup to Augusta. Along the way, a chance meeting led to a sales role with Bacardi Rum, a role that enabled me to earn a commission when visiting towns to service and empty gaming machines.

At 36, I embraced my first salaried position as a business lecturer at TAFE Karratha. Teaching adult learners in the mining sector ignited a new passion, so I completed a Master’s in adult learning and founded a registered training organisation. I pioneered fly-in fly-out training sessions by wheelchair—another first in a demanding industry.

The 2008/9 financial crisis prompted me to seek stability, so I applied for a senior teaching role at the University of Tasmania. After nine years of shaping programs that welcomed students of all abilities, ending with a stint as an Associate Dean, it was time to head home.

Today, as CEO of Advocacy WA, I draw on these decades of barrier-breaking experience to dismantle obstacles for people living with disability. I lead a team that advises government, influences legislation and provides direct support to hundreds of Western Australians every year.

My journey proves that purpose, persistence and belief can transform every “no” into a stepping stone. I’m driven by the conviction that true inclusion begins when we refuse to accept limits—whether imposed by others or ourselves.

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