I hissed at a man on the train. Don’t judge me, there are two types of Karens

6 hours ago 3

Opinion

November 2, 2025 — 5.00pm

I have sympathy for so-called Karens because with each passing day I realise I’m turning into one.

I haven’t sent a half-eaten meal back to the kitchen, complained that my decaf soy latte with sweetener tastes awful or asked to speak to the manager – if you don’t count last week when I tried to make sense of my stroke-inducing gas bill via a Philippines-based call centre.

But I’ve chided an older man on the Quiet Carriage of the train as he worked his way through the minutiae of his life on speakerphone.

I don’t want to be a Karen, but sometimes you just need to stand up for yourself.

I’ve reported dumped trolleys, delayed putting my bin out so neighbours don’t corrupt my carefully sorted recycling (even though in my heart I doubt the contents are recycled) and I’ve half-jokingly admonished one of my kid’s able-bodied friends for parking in the disabled spot next door.

I’ve resisted telling the school kids on my train to get their wet, muddy shoes off seats and been so annoyed with e-bikes parked across the footpath I’ve fantasised about pushing them over, one by one, like dominoes.

So who even am I? An uptight, intolerant mid-lifer who needs to smell the roses and mind her own business or a worldly-wise empath who fights injustice when she sees it?

I’ve entered the twilight zone in which any effort to advocate for myself or others, follow rules, or seek clarification is weaponised as Karen-like behaviour.

It’s OK to speak up unless you’re a woman in midlife. Is there a demeaning descriptor for the young dad who went off his tree when lifeguards told him he should get off his phone and watch his child’s swimming class, or the rude older man talking down to the receptionist?

If I ask a question of a sales assistant, request water at a cafe, ask for more Parmesan, or make small talk with staff, my kids squirm. I’m not always grateful for their feedback.

I’m not giving people the evil eye, I insist. I’m squinting because I can’t read the price tag, menu, chalkboard. Tick which applies.

A week after the MCG gun brouhaha, a young security attendant at Marvel Stadium confiscated my transistor radio. I explained it was a device to listen to the footy. He called for the supervisor who handed it back without apology. Nothing says troublemaker more than an overweight middle-aged woman in sensible shoes who packs her radio to follow the play from the top deck. You should have said it was “old tech” my husband proffered unhelpfully. One of the kids was worried I’d made a fuss. I hadn’t.

But the reality is that this one-size-fits-all descriptor of women as Karens is lazy. There are good Karens and bad Karens.

I mostly count myself as a “good” Karen. I’m a community-minded problem-solver. Just ask me.

I’ve been the mum navigating a pram down the street, teaching a child to ride a bike and watching elderly neighbours forced to walk up the road while avoiding bins strewn around the street days after rubbish day, dodging discarded hire bikes and avoiding people driving the wrong way up the street.

I’ve been the mum of a squawking baby on a plane, felt judged when my bolting toddler refused to listen and, in efforts worthy of a UN delegate, negotiated toy-shop-aisle meltdowns. With those years firmly in the rear mirror, I’m more likely to try to help than pass judgment.

One of my girls cites a situation in which a friend’s mum was a bad Karen. The sales assistant greeted her: “Hey babe, how are you?”

She told the sales assistant that she was a grown woman and not a babe and she should do better. Her daughter shrunk in embarrassment. But others will say she was entitled to call it out.

From time to time, I feel I’m being patronised. But if the barista wants to call me as gorgeous when I’m clearly not, I’ll pick my fights.

The Karen meme has been linked to white middle-class privilege. Examples include a white woman who made a false police report against an African-American man who asked her to put her dog on the leash in a bird watching area in New York’s Central Park.

Instead of sucking it up, she called the police and said a black man was threatening her. The incident was videoed, went viral and Amy became a quintessential bad Karen.

Closer to home we had our own polarising Karen from Brighton who broke the 5-kilometre curfew during COVID lockdowns because she had “done all of Brighton”.

I was regretting my life choices that day of the talkative man on the train. Fellow passengers were glaring in his direction.

Eventually, I hissed at him to quieten down.

“You’re very bossy, you must be a teacher,” he stated. Imagine being a teacher called Karen!

But it’s the women bestowed with the name Karen at birth I really feel sorry for. It was popular in the 1950s and 1960s (the name peaked as third most popular name for girls in the US in 1965). They’ve become a punchline.

In the latest series of Australian drama The Twelve, jury foreperson Sharon tries to pull two misbehaving young jurors into line.

“OK, Karen,” one says. Everyone laughs.

I know of a Karen who has a coffee name because having her “soy latte for Karen” order called out by a too-cool-for-school barista, and the accompanying snickers, ruins her day.

The reality is that we good Karens just want everyone to get along.

Put a leash on your dog if it’s an on-leash area. Don’t drive up the wrong side of the road. Pick up your dog poo. Stop oversharing on the phone on public transport. It’s time for us good Karens to fight back.

Claire Heaney is a freelance journalist and communications consultant.

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