How Lindsay Ziehl went from a beauty queen to a foundation founder

This week we share Lindsay’s story. 

Lindsay Ziehl M.B.E. is one of South Africa's most respected voices in the fight against domestic violence and gender-based abuse. With more than 25 years of frontline experience and recent recognition in a personal letter of support from HRH Queen Camilla, Lindsay has dedicated her life to protecting and empowering survivors. Her work is lived, raw, and relentless.

After losing her son and surviving cancer twice, Lindsay has channelled her grief into purpose, founding The Andrew Ziehl Foundation and becoming an internationally-recognised advocate. At nearly 76, she's authored multiple books including Shine a Light on Domestic Violence and children's series Bunn Bunn's Act of Kindness, proving that resilience and service know no age limits.

In this story:

— Written by Sharon Brine and brought to you by Kintsugi Heroes and Women for Purpose.

Q: What inspired you to get involved in the not for profit sector?

A: It started with my dad. He came from a very poor family and from that experience he became aware of how important it was to help people. So from the time I was little he’d say, “Be kind. Does that person need a hand? Give them a hand.”

And then in my late teens, when I was living in Melbourne, I became Miss Victoria 1969. And as part of that, I was involved with raising funds for the Cerebral Palsy Association. That experience left a mark on me as well.

But the first time I truly felt a calling was during my first bout of cancer. I live in South Africa now and many of our Non Profit Organisations, Non Profit Charities and Foundations are started by people who’ve survived some kind of trauma: the loss of a child, a catastrophic accident or a disability. While I was going through chemotherapy, I used to visit other patients in the hospital. We were all staring down the same question: “Will I live or will I die?” I became friends with some of the patients—some passed away; others went into remission.

While in South Africa, I was offered a live-in position at a shelter for abused women. It was difficult at first but I absolutely loved it. What was meant to be a three-month stay turned into something much bigger. I moved into a secret safe house for longer-term survivors and started immersing myself in the world of domestic violence and gender-based violence. I studied everything I could get my hands on, went back to university in my 60s, became a therapist, did countless courses and I loved every second of it.

So from being a beauty queen to becoming a voice for women, it’s been a journey of more than two decades. I’m still inspired every single day by the courage of the women I work with and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Q: Nearly every Christmas at the shelter, you’d have a party for the mothers and children. One of those Christmas parties stayed with you. Can you share more about it?

A: That Christmas still makes me cry when I think about it—it had such a deep impact.

You have to understand, South Africa is a very violent and poor country. More than a third of the population is unemployed. Children and adults are begging on the streets, and some people live in shacks and have no homes. 

So when the little ones came to our Christmas party—with their beautiful, impeccable manners, calling me "ma'am"—they sat there with their presents and didn't know what to do. They were so well-mannered they didn't want to open anything without permission. So I had to coax them to rip the wrapping paper open! 

These were children who had seen so much violence and pain and very rarely experienced generosity. Their mothers could only do so much.

There was one boy there. His mother had contracted HIV and we couldn't keep him at the shelter past age twelve. I had wondered what to get him for Christmas and settled on a watch. 

Not a Rolex or anything like that, it was quite an ordinary watch.

When I gave it to him, he opened it and ran to his mum screaming in delight. Then he got down on his knees and said, "Mommy, a watch! A watch!" 

His reaction was so pure and vulnerable, just complete joy and gratitude for this ordinary watch. I had to step away and close the door because I couldn't hold back my tears. My eyes well up just remembering this moment.

That one Christmas made me understand something profound: Do you really need your Chanel earrings or your Birkin bags? No. 

What you need is to see joy. Joy is so important in life. When you put it out there and help people, you get that back. It's much better than any designer bag.

Q: When you think back to that Christmas, and other similar moments, how have they shaped the way you show up as a leader today?

A: I’ve faced loss, illness, poverty, and pain. 

I’ve lived in a shelter with survivors, not as a visitor but as part of their daily lives. 

I’ve sat with women as they broke down, held children who didn’t know what it meant to feel safe, and I’ve lived through the unimaginable loss of my only child. 

Those experiences changed me at the core.

I also live in a country with 12 official languages, immense poverty, and incredible cultural diversity. And every single day, I learn something new.

If someone does something differently to how I was raised, I don’t rush to question it. I listen. I learn. And that has made me a better person.

To be here, doing this work, learning from the South African people, it's not just a job or a calling. It’s an honour. I’m still learning, even at my age, and I thank every person I’ve met along the way who’s taught me something. It’s because of them that I lead the way I do—with empathy, humility, and a deep sense of gratitude.

Q: Starting a foundation often means creating your own opportunities. In those early days, what doors just wouldn’t open, and how did you overcome that?

A: So many doors didn't open. It was closed, closed, closed.

After I lost my son, I didn't know what I was going to do. I had no finances, no resources. I'd worked and lived in the shelter for 18 years, so I knew everything about domestic violence and running a shelter, but I didn't know how to start a foundation.

Even my good friends said, "No, you can't do that. You've got to register it, go through the tax requirements, do this, do that."

Everyone says, "When one door closes, another opens." Well, here’s my version: “When one door closes, don't wait for the other door to open. Break down a wall.” Even if it means chipping away at it at first.

So I started small. I got the registration going and assembled a fabulous team of women on my board who I'd known for years.

I thought, "Great, I've got it registered, I've got a board. Now what? We need money."

Unfortunately, we started up the foundation toward the end of COVID. People had lost jobs and homes, companies weren't giving donations. Another wall to break down.

During one of our board meetings, I had an idea of how to get funding—writing books.

They said, "But you've never written a book."

I said, "There's always a first time. I'm sure Ernest Hemingway was worried about his first book too." 

Now, I'm no Ernest Hemingway. I'm not a natural writer.

But I thought, "All I can do is learn."

One of our ambassadors is a author who's written a library full of books. I asked if he'd give me tips, and he said, "I don't know why you haven't written a book already." That really lifted me.

So, with his help, I started writing Shine a Light on Domestic Violence to raise money for the foundation. 

But then I realised publishing costs a lot of money. Another wall.

So I reached out to my network and a week and a half later, we had money to publish the book.

I've since also written a children's book and I'm working on Shine a Light on Bullying.

You have to be willing to ask, and you have to be willing to start small.

Go work in a soup kitchen on Sundays. Help with jersey drives at your local church. From there, something else will come along. And then one day, you might just have your own foundation.

Q: Your son Andrew was the inspiration behind your foundation, yet you would’ve suffered immense pain, grief and loss when he passed. How did you find the strength to continue serving others?

A: When my son Andrew passed away in Brisbane, I remember I'd been trying to reach him for days. I said to my Australian friend on our board, "He's so naughty! I keep trying to send him messages and he won't get back to me." I couldn’t understand it.

Then on a Monday morning, I got a call from a police officer in Pretoria. He asked, "Do you have a son? Is he in Australia?" 

It made me nervous that he knew that much. 

He said, "I'm terribly sorry, but your son has passed away."

I went absolutely frozen. I didn't know what to do. You see people screaming in movies, but for me, I didn't understand what was happening.

Every day I had to get up, get dressed, and do what needed to be done. Even though I wanted to, I couldn’t live in a shell.

I went to see my Rabbi, a very wise man. I wanted to know one thing: Why?

He said, "Don't ask why, ask what. What now?" He told me, "Live. Honour your son's life. What would Andrew want for you?"

I said, "Not this."

That's what pushed me. Every day I push—it doesn't get easier. I still wake up in the morning and it hits me. But now I have something that honours his name because he was the most incredible young man: The Andrew Ziehl Foundation.

After his death, I learned things I never knew. People from all over called me saying, "You don't know me, but I knew Andrew. What he did for me, I can never repay."

Someone said he'd sit at the hospital with them when no one else was there. Another person told me Andrew bought Adele concert tickets for a woman going through hard times because her daughters loved Adele and he knew that would bring them joy.

We’re never going to be millionaires working in charity, but that's not why we're here.

Q: Having worked in the not for profit sector for as long as you have, what’s something you think people often get wrong about the sector and how would you set the record straight?

A: A big misconception is that working in the nonprofit sector is somehow easier or less serious than the corporate world. I can tell you now, it’s not. In fact, it can be even tougher. We’re expected to do the same level of work, but with less money, fewer resources and often more pressure because people’s lives are directly affected by what we do.

Another thing people often get wrong is thinking leadership is about titles or control. It’s not. Real leadership—especially in this space—is about service.

I’ve scrubbed floors, comforted women in the middle of the night, fought for funding, and written books just to keep the lights on.

Q: Lastly, if people could remember you with just two words, which ones would you want them to choose?

A: She helped.

In Yumi Lee’s story next week, she gives her honest account of the ageism, racism and disappointments she’s faced, and what showing up actually demands… Stay tuned…