When I walked into the Group of Racialized Ontario Women Litigators (GROWL) gathering, I saw a room filled with exceptional women — brilliant, accomplished, hardworking. Yet some carried themselves with hesitation, with gestures that seemed to apologize for occupying space. I recognized those gestures because I once carried them too, or occasionally, may still carry them.
If I could speak to the younger version of myself — the woman applying for law school from a women’s shelter, the mother told to give up school and become a janitor, the law student doubting her English — I would share three things to the younger me and anyone in this profession who feels unseen, underestimated, or unsure of their belonging.
1. Be Yourself Without Apology
When I prepared for On-Campus Interviews at my 2L year, I did what many racialized students do: I tried to be the version of myself I thought they wanted. I memorized answers, rehearsed for days, and even prepared 40 questions about my past experiences.
However, during one interview, a young white male associate became visibly bored, until I mentioned my child’s hockey team. Suddenly, the energy shifted. Half the interview became a conversation about skiing and hockey, two typical Canadian sports I barely knew. I left the Zoom meeting feeling foolish. Not surprisingly, I didn’t get the job.
Then the deeper question stayed with me: Why was I trying so hard to be someone I wasn’t?
I was a refugee woman who applied to law school from a women’s shelter. I had taken the LSAT three times. I once had to beg Ontario Works for $100 for LSAT study materials but was told, “We are not here to help you go to law school but to get you any jobs, a janitor job.” My children’s sports programs were funded through bursaries I found by writing dozens of applications. Words like “damp” and “miscellaneous” were new to me just a few years before law school. I still learn English through case law, conversations and grocery labels.
So why was I pretending to be a “normal” law student who had barely known struggle?
To my younger self — and to any young lawyer reading this: stop pretending to be someone else. Your journey is your strength. Your past struggles are not your shame; they are your medals.
2. Find Your Allies, and They Are Not Always Who You Expect
I heard different voices along my journey. In 1L, a law professor told me I should “go back to ESL school, not law school.” In 2L, a well-meaning lawyer told me my accent was “too strong” and no judge will understand me and suggested speech therapist. They could be right, but they could not foresee how much I would grow. Today, I represent my clients before tribunals and courts. I give interviews on local media. I deliver keynote speeches to social workers, newcomers, and legal professionals. My English improved with time and practice. So did my confidence. I know I did not grow alone. I grow because I found allies – mentor who guided me, encouraged me, and opened doors for me. Some of them were not who I expected.
People are just people: some are good and some are not. Lawyers are not exceptional. In my early career, some local lawyers told me directly that I would fail within a year and drown in debt. Some made it clear that, as a refugee-turned-single-mother with no connections, I was not their idea of a future colleague. Despite those unpleasant experiences, I also met remarkable mentors, including older white male lawyers who mentored me on cases with respect and generosity, female law firm owners who openly shared their experiences of management, seasoned immigration lawyers who shadow me over their challenging cases, and community partners who believed in my work before I believed in myself.
If I had looked only for people who shared my identity — refugee, racialized, single mother, first-generation student — I would have probably found no one. But when I open up and reach out, I often find genuine allies, especially in immigration and refugee law bar. I wish I had looked beyond stereotypes earlier and built relationships more bravely. I did not expect that my allies would not always look like me. But those allies and mentors are the ones who help me keep going on the days I questioned everything. They let me know that I am not alone, and I am not meant to be alone.
3. Think Bigger, Much Bigger
If someone had told the woman in the shelter — the one washing dishes for minimum wage, juggling two kids, with precarious immigration status and $18,000 of debt to CRA — that she would one day become a lawyer, open her own law practice, lead a team of four people, argue cases in court, and be invited to speak at conferences across Ontario, I would have laughed or cried, or both. I would thank that person politely but would probably not believe a word. All of this would have sounded impossible. But here I am. Not perfect. Not without struggle. But here I stand.
Comparison is the thief of joy. In my years in law school, I compared myself frequently to my classmates who were raised in legal families, with prestigious careers, or now earning enviable salaries in big law. All comparison gave me was bitterness and self-doubt. Eventually, I learned: do not compare myself to others; compare myself to who I was five years ago. My story, my ladder, my timeline, that all these woven into my own story.
So to the younger me, and perhaps to the younger you:
Think bigger than the limits of your past.
Dream bigger than the expectations placed upon you.
Climb until you decide you no longer want to climb.
When I look back now, even just a few years, I see a road paved with tears and laughter, hardship and victory, enemies avoided and comrades found. And I know this with certainty:
Everything along this journey, the ashes, the pain, the struggle, the suffering, have shaped a better me. And I know, not a moment in my life was ever wasted even if my journey to where I am now might be a bit longer than others’.
Final words to the younger me: if you ever doubt that you belong in this profession, remember how far you have walked to stand where you are. That alone is proof that you deserve to be here.
About the Author
Dr. Ningjing (Natalie) Zhang is one of the few refugee-turned-lawyers in Canada. She is the founder and principal lawyer of BridgePoint Law Professional Corporation (www.bridgepointlaw.ca), where she exclusively practises immigration and refugee law, serving communities in Kingston, Toronto, and beyond. This article is a reflection inspired by her personal story, shared at an informal gathering of the Group of Racialized Ontario Women Litigators (GROWL) hosted at RavenLaw LLP in Toronto on November 19, 2025.
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