Karen. When did the ‘Karen’ movement begin? What even is that?

I have a proposal of what I think it is and what it isn’t.

My ideas are as follows:

Firstly, let me start with what it is. A Karen is a send-up at women going through mid-life change, then manifesting aggressive, loudmouth behaviour. She is short tempered, with an obnoxious couldn’t care less attitude, slightly neurotic, chaotic, overtly overweight, and who stuffs herself into cheapskate, designer outfits. Often a chain smoker or has another addictive penchant. None the less, a cheap vino swigging, Barbie Pink acrylic nailed up, botox injected, middle class, highly entitled and excessively demanding, fast food loving, white woman trash. A stereotypical 21st Century painted pen portrait.

Do you think that I have done ‘Karen’ justice?

Incredible. Hamburger and fizzy coke guzzling diners have sprung up in honour of you Karen. You can treat your loved ones to a trashy, not flashy, restaurant experience for a lavish slap-up meal, while simultaneously being subjected to verbal abuse and humiliation by Karen staff.  If that is your cup of tea. Hilarious. Take your grandmother to celebrate her significant birthday. I am sure you will make memories that she will never forget. Ever.

Secondly, this is what I feel it isn’t. Honest. That is what it isn’t. I honestly believe that this Karen phenomena has sprung up to suppress and belittle struggling women who have reached mid-life and do not have any real clue about who they are, or the trauma they carry in their fragile bodies, what they want, where they are going or how to get there. Stuck. Sick. Broke, pick one. Think in terms of basically, unprocessed trauma coupled with the symptoms of menopausal transitioning doubly amplified to manifest Captain Chaos. Then wonder which one is the lead or lagging indicator.

Maybe, after experiencing the many benefits of child rearing, hospital poking and prodding, medications to deal with anxiety and depression, divorce, death, domestic violence, in laws, aging parents, mixed with the heady transitions of menopause. Boom. Karen. She finds herself going around on the hamster wheel of life, dealing with unprocessed anger, anger that needs a place to vent, anger that builds and builds and builds with no direction to rage and set the world on fire.

Injustices are sprinkled on women every day, day upon day upon day from the moment they come into the world to the moment they die. Where should they direct that sudden onslaught of righteous anger? The media and the headlines can show them were. Homeless, immigrants, coloured, service providers, they are the people to blame for their injustice. This is what brings out the Karen archetype.

Do you think that Karen has even had the time to attend therapy? Somatic or talking? Or both? No. I don’t think that was even in her reality. Do you think the combination of unhealed trauma, knowledge of herself and the chemical change caused by the onset of menopause has demonically created the alter ego; Karen? I do. Bear with me whilst I explain a little more.

I can only talk from my own point of view, for that is what I recognise.

It’s May 2015 and a hot day, I’ve just had an Ablation in a private swanky hospital to cure my benign fibroid tumour (plum size) and continual bleeding, Menorrhagia. As a schoolteacher, I once wore two extra pairs of tights and knickers for work. I remember this one time sitting on the desk and bleeding right through to it. Mortified. Thankfully, no pupil was scarred for life because I made a bloody, swift clean with my shirt sleeve and promptly exited the classroom to clean myself up. Dreading a repeat, which resembled a scene out of the film Carrie, further Gynaecologist appointments and examinations ensued.

Returning to the crime scene, here I am waking up with Amnesia, after my general anaesthetic, feeling horribly groggy, and painful in my reproductive organs but happy that I had had closure despite the burning flesh smell emitting from my nether region. Noticing my lady garden stank like rotting fish.

Needless to say, I have had no therapy, I have drunk far too much red wine over the years as a coping mechanism. I witnessed my mum self-regulating like this while growing up, so I am just following the norm, right? I put all my trust in conventional western medicine. This is the only healing program that I have known for all my life. If sick, whip it out. Fast-fix solution. The great World Wide Web was not available back then.

What happens next is akin to a freight train hitting a brick wall and plummeting like a lead balloon. My operation fixes my bleeding. I was 45 years young and never bled again after my Ablation. Success. No more panty liners, or tampons. Confidently, I started wearing fitted clothing without the embarrassment of any bleeding incidents. I was free from the curse.

Shockingly, what the doctors did not tell me about was the fact that this operation can, and did, catapult my menopause into early catharsis.

Overnight, I became this insidious mid-life white, Karen woman who had no control of the ebbs and flows and anything goes of the mid-life transformation of the menopause. I felt like I was going mad at times. There was no thorough information about it. Davina McCall was not doing her thing back then, shining a spotlight on the historically hidden and hushed, demonised menopause. Hold onto your knickers darling, you are in for the ride of your life.

Sadly, both my grandmothers have, intentionally or not, taken their own lives in their mid 50’s. I swear it was because of severe menopause symptoms. To my knowledge, one of them had undergone Electric Shock Therapy too. Well done. You guessed it was for Hysteria.

I firmly believe that a woman must have a wholly wholesome, grounded awareness about herself, her ancestors, mother, and grandmothers by mid-life, otherwise the consequence placed on her sisters and brothers, her children, her place in the world, and her mental and physical wellness will be catastrophic. I ruminate a Karen is born out of limited enquiry. The unknown self. I became that persona for a short time until I started asking myself some big questions, which led me to travel the world as a seeker of truth. From the ashram to the classroom, from Liverpool to the universe.

Beyond Gratitude-A Journey to Positivity was born in April 2021. My first book. I got all the answers I needed. Albeit with some huge costs.

I found the importance of expression, of embodied movement, meditation, dance, massage, singing, drawing, cold water dipping, of sitting in circles with other women, yoga, and healthy eating for my personality type, of learning how to play the guitar, and of course therapy. It was the very first time that I had given myself permission to speak about how I really felt inside. And I felt safe to do so. I started to trust myself instead of going with the status quo. Quid pro quo Clarice.

Wonderfully, I opened to world of holistic health and taking accountability and responsibility for my own wellness. A first.

I had never taught this topic in education, nor did I know much of this mind body world. Some of it was a bit woohoo. But I quickly learnt how to cut the wheat from the chaff and discern from the spiritual narcissistic realms to the you cannot argue with science facts.

Fact of the matter being that us woman certainly get a hard time from patriarchal men. Karen you certainly do. Go and take the proverbial pint pot elsewhere. What every Karen wants is not an easy path to walk. Do you know a Karen in your life? Then choose to hold her hand with compassion instead of making fun of her sorry, befuddled state.

‘So, tell me what you want, what you really, really want?’ A zig-a-zig ah?

Imagine a world where we uplifted and supported each other as women, creating spaces to inform, create, and inspire one another. Embracing and celebrating our differences and unicorn-ness. Acknowledging each other’s struggles instead of ridicule and blame. A place where meltdowns were met with kindness.

God bless you, Karen. I see you.