Scarlet's Journey

This Journey explores how workplace accessibility and inclusion, or the lack thereof, can shape the experiences of employees with disabilities. It draws on the lived experiences of Scarlet, who has navigated multiple work environments, from fast-paced service settings to academic research teams. 

The story highlights experiences in two roles: 

• A stylist assistant and receptionist at a local hair salon, and  
• A research assistant at an academic institution 

The Journey reflects on challenges such as informal communication, unpredictable workflows, and insufficient accessibility supports, as well as positive practices that foster inclusion, such as structured documentation, written meeting summaries, and thoughtful team communication. It emphasizes how small, intentional adjustments can transform workplaces, allowing employees to contribute meaningfully, reduce cognitive load, and feel included, while also illustrating the personal impact of environments that fail to adapt. 

As an early career professional, Scarlet shares valuable insights from the youth perspective. This Journey is told as a first-person written reflection; it was submitted directly by Scarlet. Through this story, the key message for employers is that inclusion is most effective when it is embedded in daily practices and systems, rather than treated as an optional or individual accommodation.

Accessibility: My Understanding

My understanding of accessibility and inclusion in the workplace has developed over time through lived experience, starting with my very first job at 15, and continuing into my current role as a research assistant. These experiences, in many ways, sit at opposite ends of the spectrum. One showed me what it feels like to be excluded by systems that don’t adapt, while the other demonstrated how small, intentional changes can create an environment where I can fully participate. 

My first job was as a stylist assistant and receptionist at a local hair salon. 

I was 15, newly entering the workforce, and eager to prove myself. During the interview, I made a point of sharing that I am hard of hearing. My employer, who was also the lead hairstylist, was very reassuring. She told me they were happy to provide accommodations and made it seem like my needs would not be an issue. That initial interaction made the experience feel positive before it had even begun. I remember leaving the interview feeling excited, relieved, and included. 

However, once I started the job, the reality was very different. The salon itself was a fast-paced, noisy environment, multiple hairdryers running, music playing, clients talking, and stylists calling out to one another across the room. Instructions were almost always given verbally and often in passing. For example, my employer might say something like, “Can you mix a toner for chair three and grab towels?” while walking away or standing behind me with a dryer running nearby. If I missed even part of that instruction, it became difficult to recover. 

While there was a visual schedule of appointments at the front desk, the reality of the salon was constantly changing. Clients would shift their plans mid-appointment, for example, deciding to go lighter than expected, and the lead stylist would call out quick, verbal instructions, like adjusting bleach measurements on the spot. Those directions were often given while I was juggling multiple responsibilities at once: shampooing a client, answering the phone, cleaning stations, greeting people as they walked in, and checking on processing times for others. No two shifts ever looked the same, which made it hard to anticipate what was coming next or feel prepared. On top of that, we were frequently understaffed, which intensified everything, the pace, the pressure, and the expectation to keep up without missing anything. 

I quickly found myself stuck in a pattern, a kind of catch-22. If I didn’t ask for clarification, I risked making mistakes. But if I did ask, I risked frustration, embarrassment, or being seen as incapable. There was one moment that really stands out to me. I didn’t fully hear a task related to preparing a client, and I ended up setting up the wrong station. When I asked for clarification, the instruction was repeated louder, in front of others, with visible frustration. It felt less like support and more like I was being called out. In those moments, I became very aware of how I was being perceived, not as someone navigating an inaccessible environment, but as someone who “wasn’t paying attention.” 

Team communication was highly informal. Stylists would update each other quickly about supply needs, walk-in clients, or equipment availability, often mid-conversation or across the room. Missing one piece of information could mean missing the entire context of what was happening next. As a result, I spent a lot of energy trying to piece things together, watching body language, anticipating needs, and double-checking tasks whenever I could. 

My response at the time was to try harder. I overcompensated by being hyper-aware, constantly scanning the environment, watching for visual cues, and putting in extra effort to piece together conversations and instructions. Over time, this led to a kind of listening fatigue. Because I couldn’t rely on hearing alone, I was using significantly more cognitive energy just to keep up with what was going on around me. By the end of each shift, I felt completely drained, not just physically, but mentally. 

What made this experience negative was not the work itself, I genuinely enjoyed being in the salon and supporting clients, but the lack of adaptation. Accessibility was framed as something I needed to manage on my own, rather than something the workplace could share responsibility for. Because this was my first job, I didn’t immediately recognize these as accessibility barriers. I assumed this was just what work was supposed to feel like, that struggling to keep up and constantly second-guessing yourself was normal. It took time and later experiences for me to understand that the issue wasn’t my ability to do the job, but the lack of structure and support in how the work was communicated and organized. 

Looking back, there were many things that could have made this experience more inclusive. What was missing was structure around the constant changes, having key instructions written down in the moment (like specific colour measurements or task priorities) would have made a big difference. Creating clearer systems for communication, such as brief written task lists during busy periods or more intentional check-ins, would have helped me keep track of shifting responsibilities. Adjusting phone duties or offering alternative ways to contribute at the front desk could have also reduced unnecessary barriers. 

Equally important was the lack of predictability. No two shifts looked the same, and without consistent routines or communication practices, it was difficult to feel prepared or confident in what was expected of me. Even small efforts to build predictability, like outlining roles at the start of a shift or flagging potential changes in advance, would have helped reduce that constant uncertainty. None of these changes would have been difficult to implement, but together they would have made a significant difference in creating a more accessible and supportive work environment. 

In contrast, my current role as a research assistant has been a highly positive experience where I feel included and able to fully participate. 

In this role, I work as part of a collaborative research team, where we regularly meet to discuss ongoing projects, share updates, and make decisions. These meetings can be fast-paced, with ideas building on one another quickly. Early on, I noticed a familiar challenge: if I missed something at the beginning of a discussion, it could be difficult to follow the rest of the conversation. For example, if a team member referenced a change to the study protocol or inclusion criteria and others began building on that point, missing that initial comment made it difficult for me to follow the conversation and contribute meaningfully to the discussion. 

At first, I managed this in similar ways to my past experience, I took detailed notes, focused intensely, and filled in gaps as best as I could. But there was still a level of uncertainty after meetings. I would sometimes follow up with teammates to confirm what I had heard or double-check my assigned tasks. 

A key shift happened when our team began consistently sharing written meeting minutes after each meeting. These were not overly formal, just clear summaries of what was discussed, key decisions made, and who was responsible for what moving forward. 

One specific example that stands out is during a meeting where multiple action items were assigned quickly at the end. In the past, that kind of rapid transition would have been stressful for me, as I might worry about missing something. But having access to the written summary afterward allowed me to go back, confirm my responsibilities, and start my work with confidence. 

What made this experience especially meaningful is that this practice wasn’t framed as something “just for me.” The entire team used and benefited from it. I noticed team members referencing the notes in later meetings, saying things like, “Let’s go back to what we decided last week,” it became a shared tool for accountability and clarity. 

The people involved in making this work well included the entire research team, particularly those responsible for organizing and documenting meetings. My role was to continue engaging, contributing, and being open about what helped me participate effectively, but I wasn’t solely responsible for creating accessibility. It was embedded into the team’s workflow. 

This experience highlights a disability-inclusive practice that has worked well for me: providing written summaries of verbal communication. It is a simple adjustment, but it has a broad impact. It reduces reliance on real-time auditory processing, supports different learning and communication styles, and creates a reliable reference point for everyone. 

When I look across both experiences, what stands out most is not the difference in my ability, but the difference in the environment.  

When I first started working at 15, I didn’t have the language to describe what was happening. I just knew that I was constantly trying to keep up, monitoring everything around me, second-guessing what I heard, and feeling like I was always one step behind. I thought that was just part of working. 

Looking back now, I can see that what I was experiencing was the weight of carrying accessibility on my own. What stays with me is how invisible that burden can be. From the outside, I may have seemed less efficient or less confident in the salon, but in reality, I was doing two jobs at once: the actual work, and the work of trying to access it. Because that second layer wasn’t acknowledged or shared, it became something I managed quietly in the background, through extra effort, overcompensating, and, at times, self-doubt. 

In my current role, that second layer hasn’t completely disappeared, but it’s no longer something I’m constantly managing on my own. I’m not as focused on trying to piece everything together or worrying about what I might have missed. I can spend more of my energy actually engaging with the work, contributing, and feeling surer of myself. That shift, from holding it all on my own to having some of that responsibility shared, has changed how I experience work, day-to-day. 

These environments have also shifted how I understand inclusion. It’s not something I think of as extra support anymore. It feels more connected to how work is organized and communicated in the first place. In the salon, where everything was fast-paced, verbal, and constantly changing, that lack of structure made it harder for me to keep up and fully participate. In contrast, in my research role, where communication is more structured and documented, I’m able to engage more confidently and contribute in a different way. 

That contrast has made me realize that inclusion isn’t about changing the type of work someone does, but about how that work is set up. When accessibility is considered in how a workplace functions, whether it’s a busy, unpredictable environment or a more structured one, it creates space for different ways of working and participating. It makes it easier for people to contribute without constantly having to prove that they can.