What It Takes: Lessons from Women Who Ran for Office.
Former federal election candidates - Kerrie Harris, Elise Searson Prakaash and Claire Miles.
Two campaigns in nine months was never going to be easy but the thought of saying no to an opportunity to speak on behalf of my community was even harder to stomach. So, I said yes and strapped myself in for the race to the safest senate seats in Australia. Knowing, the only way to win is if I had a Steven Bradbury moment, you know that guy? He won an olympic gold after all four of his opponents crashed on the final turn of the race.
Women with public profiles often warn about trolling, sexism, and discrimination — but nothing quite prepares you for what it feels like when it’s directed at you. You wonder, what could they even say? “You’re fat”? “You’re a mole”? It all seems ridiculous — until it starts. The abuse only came from men, and the intensity of their anger felt strangely personal, as if I’d wronged them directly. It was one of the most bizarre and unsettling experiences I’ve had with strangers. I would be lying if I said it didn’t bother me, because it absolutely did - it left me wondering if the trolls are people who I interacted with in person and to be honest, that made me feel incredibly unsafe during the campaign.
Facebook screenshot of a real life troll.
I managed to internalise the abuse like a seasoned candidate — until the final week of pre-poll. By then, the toll had started to show. The night before, I’d been called a “dump slut” online. At a community forum, I was cut off midway through my four-minute pitch. I was tired — physically and emotionally. It was also school holidays, and my four- and seven-year-old were home. Still, I kept repeating my mantras: “There’s never a perfect time” , “Walk through doors that open”, And for the most part, it worked. Until it didn’t.
That day, I was handing out how-to-vote cards when a staffer from the red party walked up behind me. Without warning, he interrupted my conversation with a voter, placed his candidate’s flyer directly on top of mine, and said, “Don’t take hers, she’s an anti-vaxxer.”
I turned to him and asked, “Excuse me, what did you just say?”
Me at pre-poll in Tuggeranong.
Instead of backing down, he doubled down. A volunteer joined him. Together, they insisted I was mistaken — gaslighting me in real time. And for a brief moment, I questioned myself. Did I hear that right? But I quickly gathered myself. I had heard him correctly, and I knew this behaviour wasn’t acceptable.
So I responded — firmly and publicly. In front of a queue of voters, I said: “Show me where it says I’m against vaccines. You are factually incorrect — and you would never have done this if I were a man.”
He used a false label to discredit me, publicly, for nothing more than a moment of one-upmanship — and that’s what stung the most. It wasn’t just personal; it was strategic and demeaning.
Later, I sought accountability in the MP’s office. The staffer apologised: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” His boss remained passively complicit in what had happened.
When I walked back outside, eyes swollen with tears, I felt the weight of it all. I was embarrassed — not by my emotions, but by the fact that I’d been forced into public vulnerability. I quietly stepped away and called it a day.
Not all attacks come from opponents
To my surprise, one of the most disheartening experiences came not from anonymous trolls or political opponents — but from a woman in my own network. What began as passive-aggressive comments in a group chat slowly escalated into something more hostile: smirking and laughter while I spoke at public forums, volunteers openly scoffing at me during pre-poll in her electorate, icy glares when we crossed paths, and even my yard signs kicked over and local posters graffitied.
It wasn’t just pettiness — it was a deliberate attempt to undermine and humiliate me, both publicly and privately. And it hurt more than I expected, because it came from someone I once considered a peer.
When I stepped into the political arena, I was prepared for scrutiny, sexism, and party politics. What I wasn’t prepared for was the conditional support from other women — support that seemed to depend on whether I aligned with the right affiliations, the right networks, or the right image.
Sisterhood, I learned, is not always unconditional in politics. And that’s a truth we need to talk about, too.
Graffiti on corflute near my home.
My ambition to enter politics was driven by lived experience — my own, and that of the people I hoped to represent. I came into it with the belief that authenticity, integrity, and a good heart would be recognised and respected. In hindsight, that was naive. I underestimated how threatening those qualities can appear to some in a system more focused on power than principle. What has stayed with me most is not the pressure or the pace, but the inability of some people to simply be decent — to act with basic humanity. That, more than anything, is what I won’t forget.
“It Was an Investment in Myself”: Cooma Mother and Teacher Reflects on Running for Senate
Kerrie Harris is a former Independent Senate Candidate for Eden-Monaro. Photo: Supplied
Kerrie Harris, a mother of three and a teacher from Cooma, ran a zero-cost campaign as an Independent Senate candidate for Eden-Monaro — driven by a desire to represent everyday Australians and offer an alternative to the major parties.
“Running for elected office is something I have always wanted to do,” Kerrie says. “So I felt like it was an investment in myself to take my leave and give it everything I had.” With no party backing or campaign budget, she put herself forward as a relatable, grounded candidate — someone she describes as “an average woman wanting to represent everyday Australians.”
Though the odds were stacked against her, Kerrie embraced the challenge. “I knew that running for the Senate and getting elected as an Independent would be pretty much impossible,” she admits. “But I feel like putting myself out there and offering people an option to the major parties was worthwhile.”
Homemade yard sign. Photo: Supplied
Her campaign resonated with many in her community. “My messages and what I stood for were really well received,” she says. Support poured in through social media and private messages, encouraging her to run again. “I was really overwhelmed by people being willing to publicly support me — this was the best outcome imaginable for me.”
Like many women in politics, Kerrie wasn’t immune to criticism. A few nasty comments appeared on Facebook, targeting her intelligence and questioning her legitimacy as a candidate. “Some people said I was dumb or that I should leave politics to more serious people,” she recalls. “But honestly, they were really minor in comparison to the support I received.”
Reflecting on the experience, Kerrie says the campaign left a lasting impact. “It was an amazing experience — I learnt a lot about people, about politics, and about myself,” she says. She’s now back at school, teaching full time and raising her three daughters, but the spark hasn’t faded.
“I’d really love to run again,” she says. “I think there’s room for a new party — something that could give democracy in Australia the opportunity for a bit of renewal. And I’d love to put my efforts into that possibility.”
'It Has to Be a Partnership': What One Former RAAF Officer Learned from Running for Office
Former Independent Candidate for Canberra, Claire Miles. Photo: Supplied
Claire Miles ran as an independent candidate for the lower house in Canberra, stepping away from her career in the Royal Australian Air Force to focus entirely on the campaign.
“Resigning from the RAAF was a big decision,” she said, “but it gave me the space to fully commit.” Before making that call, Claire sat down with her family for a frank discussion about what it would mean for all of them — who would need to take on what, and how they’d manage daily life while she was campaigning. “We’ve always supported each other’s goals, and this was no different. It was a real team effort.”
As an independent female candidate, Claire was prepared for a challenge — but some moments still surprised her. “One comment that really stuck with me came from a man I’d met a few times,” she recalled. “In a group conversation, he said, ‘Oh, you do have a brain. I just figured you were another idealistic blonde.’”
She didn’t let it stop her. There was also trolling online, but she chose not to take it personally. “It was harder on my friends and family, actually. They felt protective.” Claire made a conscious choice to only engage with people who were genuinely interested in discussing policy or ideas. “If it got personal, I didn’t respond. It wasn’t worth the energy.”
Former Independent Candidate for Canberra, Claire Miles with volunteers in Civic. Photo: Supplied.
The campaign taught her a lot — about politics, people, and herself. “The biggest lesson was the importance of staying true to myself. There’s so much advice out there, and a lot of it is conflicting. I just kept coming back to my values and trusting my instincts. Authenticity matters.”
Reflecting on the experience, Claire says running for the seat of Canberra was deeply rewarding. She met people from all walks of life and had meaningful conversations that reshaped her understanding of her community. “It only strengthened my drive to make sure Canberra gets the representation and outcomes it deserves.”
And would she run again? “Absolutely — if the community supports me and says they want me to represent them. But it has to be a partnership. It only works if we’re in it together.”
Despite setbacks, the fight for authentic representation continues
Running for office as a woman — especially an independent or micro party — means stepping into a space that often wasn’t built with you in mind. It means weathering attacks from strangers, disappointments from those you once trusted, and constantly proving your worth in ways your male counterparts rarely have to.
But it also means discovering deep wells of strength, community, and purpose. It means refusing to let cynicism win. I didn’t enter politics to be liked, or to play the game — I entered it to speak for people like me, who are often left out of the conversation. And despite everything, I’d do it again.
Because the truth is, we need more women with lived experience — real women — in politics. Not just for the symbolism, but for the substance. For the communities we serve. For the future we’re still brave enough to fight for.