'Your sidewalk etiquette tells me everything I need to know about you.'

If you want to support independent women's media, become a Mamamia subscriber. Get an all-access pass to everything we make, including exclusive podcasts, articles, videos and our exercise app, MOVE.

By the time you've walked four meters, I've already judged you.

Not in the moral panic sense, not with biblical wrath or a clipboard of social metrics. No, I'm talking about the walk. The sidewalk. The way you navigate public pavement says more about your inner life than your dating app bio ever could.

There's a whole unspoken social contract underfoot, and the way you walk (or more damningly, don't) tells me everything I need to know about who you are, who raised you, and whether I'd trust you to look after my houseplants.

Watch: What's the most backhanded compliment you've ever received? Post continues below.

We speak often about "reading the room."

I say: read the sidewalk. Who yields? Who doesn't? Who adjusts their path for the woman with a pram, the old man with a limp, or the teenager trying not to trip over their own limbs? These moments, fleeting and forgettable, add up. They're the punctuation marks in our urban narratives.

To truly assess someone's sidewalk etiquette, we first need to decode the different styles of sidewalk navigation.

Let's begin with The Shoulder-Charger, who comes at you like a battering ram with a podcast playing at war-volume and the gait of someone whose gym routine is about to become your problem. They walk as if they're in a corporate promo video, always "heading somewhere."

These are the people who use the sidewalk like a spreadsheet: efficient, optimised, ruthless. To them, the pedestrian world is an obstacle course, and you are the cone.

Then there's The Swayer — a close cousin of the Flâneur, only far less poetic. The Swayer moves as if cast in a soft-focus heartbreak music video, weaving slow, side-to-side arcs that force everyone behind them into involuntary ballet.

Beautifully dressed, tote bag slung with an obscure print, they're thinking about something devastating they once said at a dinner party — at least, that's what their gaze suggests. I should know; I've been The Swayer. But that doesn't make it forgivable.

But the worst, the truly unspeakable, are The Abrupt Stoppers. They halt with no warning. No signal. No apology. Just a sudden standstill to check Google Maps or respond to a text. You, poor pedestrian, slam into the back of them like a trolley in a supermarket car park, and they have the gall to look surprised. Sometimes offended. Occasionally, they tut.

The Spatial Poet moves through the sidewalk like they've read the unwritten manual on 'How To Be In Public'. They don't just navigate space — they negotiate it, subtly and elegantly, as if in a slow-motion movie with the chaos of urban life. Their gift? An innate ability to read the room, even when the "room" is puddle-slicked cement at peak hour.

They sense bottlenecks before they form, pause half a second, so a bike can turn, and offer a micro-smile to the dog-walker doing a three-leash juggle. They're the kind of person who sees you fumbling with a tote bag and sidesteps and helps, not with irritation, but with an almost imperceptible generosity — like it's no trouble (because it isn't). They are not in a hurry, but they're never late.

In a world where everyone is trying to get ahead, the Spatial Poet moves with the grace of someone who knows there's nowhere to be but here.

Of course, sidewalk etiquette is deeply cultural. In Tokyo, it's a choreography of courtesy: silent, seamless, nearly balletic. In London, it's a passive-aggressive Olympics of sighs, shoulder brushes, and "sorry" weaponised to mean anything but.

Shibuya Crossing in Tokyo is the ultimate test of sidewalk etiquette. Image: Getty.

In New York, it's a contact sport. Everyone's a protagonist; tourists are cannon fodder. In Paris, the sidewalk is a runway, expect to be judged for both pace and outfit. And everywhere, the unspoken question looms: left side or right side? (There are entire Reddit threads and heated dinner party debates dedicated to this.)

However, these unwritten rules matter because they inform us on how to navigate shared space — both literally and metaphorically. To hog the sidewalk is to imply your story is more important than anyone else's. To step aside, to fall in line, to glance over a shoulder before stopping, these are micro-gestures of empathy. Spatial manners. The architecture of coexistence.

They whisper things about class, gender, age, and ego. About how you were raised. About whether you think of others when they're not in the room, or only when they're in your way. How some stride with the entitlement of inherited sidewalk, while others step aside as if apologising for taking up space at all.

So, the next time we pass each other on the pavement, know this: I am watching—not unkindly, but observantly.

Like a Jane Austen character with access to Google Docs and a finely tuned, mildly judgemental disposition. If you swerve politely, I'll mentally buy you a coffee. If you drift aimlessly while FaceTiming your mum at full volume, I'll imagine stepping on the back of your heel — just once, gently, for justice.

Because sidewalk etiquette isn't just about how we walk.

It's about who we are when no one's really looking.

Listen: Em V, Jessie, and Holly unpack the chaos that is modern social etiquette on Mamamia Out Loud.

Feature image: Getty.