Why people still mock vegans—and what it actually says about them, according to psychology

I remember the first time someone mocked my vegan lunch. I was fourteen, unwrapping a warm bean-and-avocado burrito while my classmates devoured pizza.

A boy wagged his slice at me and yelled, “Rabbit food!”

Cue the laughter. I felt a flush of embarrassment—and, strangely, a flicker of pride. If my lunch triggered such theatrics, maybe it carried more power than I realized.

Two decades later, the jokes haven’t aged much. Scroll any social feed and you’ll spot memes about vegans “announcing themselves.” Late-night hosts riff that plant eaters are humorless, and uncles at barbecues still quip, “I’d rather die than give up bacon.”

For every earnest headline about climate-smart diets, there’s a comment thread calling vegans sanctimonious. The mockery seems wildly disproportional to the choice: a person simply declines certain foods. Why the backlash?

Psychologists point to the “meat paradox,” the cognitive dissonance most omnivores experience when they claim to care about animals yet eat them. When confronted with someone who resolves that tension by skipping meat altogether, ego armor snaps into place.

A landmark study on social identity and diet found that meat eaters, when reminded of animal suffering, derogated vegetarians to protect their self-concept.

Mockery, in this light, is a defense mechanism: belittle the messenger so the message hurts less.

Humor offers a low-stakes shield. Instead of grappling with uncomfortable questions:

• Is my burger ethical?
• Is this steak sustainable?

A quick joke deflects.

Researchers call the reflex “defensive omnivorism.” In experiments, carnivores exposed to vegetarian arguments rated animals as less capable of suffering and cracked more jokes at vegetarians’ expense. The laughter isn’t organic — it’s strategic, a smoke screen for unresolved guilt.

Economics and culture reinforce the gag. Meat has long symbolized prosperity and masculinity. Advertisers spent decades pairing red meat with horsepower, football, and father-son cookouts. When someone at the table swaps ribs for jackfruit sliders, it undermines a story billions of ad dollars have stitched into our collective psyche.

Identity is suddenly up for renegotiation. Better to poke fun at the vegan than rewrite the script.

Gender norms amplify the tease.

Surveys show many men rate vegetarianism as “unmanly,” equating meat with strength and virility. When a male athlete opts for tofu, he implicitly challenges that equation. Rather than confront shaky notions of masculinity, some bystanders reassert their status with a joke: “Real men eat steak.” The quip props up a hierarchy they’re afraid might collapse.

Yet mockery often masks curiosity. I’ve noticed the loudest detractors privately harbor doubts about their own plates. A coworker who once sneered at my lentil soup now messages me for oat-milk recommendations because dairy upsets her stomach. A cousin who labeled veganism “extreme” recently forwarded an article on deforestation from cattle ranching, appending, “This is messed up.” Their sarcasm was a placeholder for eventual inquiry.

Media exposure accelerates that shift.

Seeing plant-powered success stories — elite athletes thriving on beans, Michelin chefs winning awards with vegetables — reduces negative stereotypes and raises willingness to try meatless meals. The narrative of the weak, joyless vegan falls apart when you watch a basketball star crush dunks after breakfast burritos stuffed with tofu.

Mockery also hints at deeper anxieties: health scares, climate headlines, the quiet dread that eating habits might need to change. It’s easier to snicker at a kale salad than to schedule a cholesterol check. But jokes have a half-life. As plant-based dishes become normcore—served in fast-food chains, school cafeterias, even steakhouses—the comedic edge dulls. Familiarity breeds acceptance. The punchline lands softer when everyone’s nephew drinks oat lattes.

So how should vegans respond?

I’ve road-tested strategies.

Sometimes humor works: “More carrots for me!” Other times I offer a taste—food curiosity can outrun prejudice faster than facts. If a joke feels aggressive, silence hands the discomfort back to the speaker; they often fill it with an awkward chuckle and move on.

Above all, I talk about personal wins—steady energy, new flavors—rather than moralizing. Sensory language invites, while sermons divide.

Empathy helps.

Most vegans were once meat eaters. Remembering our own journeys softens defensiveness. I used to tease my gluten-free cousin’s rice bread; now I bake her a zucchini loaf she can eat. People evolve when given delicious bridges, not verbal barricades.

Consistency chips away at mockery, too.

After years of quietly enjoying plant food, I’ve seen family pivot. My dad—who once joked he’d be “six feet under before ditching pork”—now sneaks oat creamer into his coffee because it “tastes good and sits lighter.” Colleagues who mocked protein sources now share tofu recipes. Change rarely springs from a single debate; it arises from repeated exposure, good meals and simple kindness.

Of course, some jabs will linger.

The cultural inertia behind meat is massive. But every quip is a mirror reflecting its author’s internal tension—about tradition, identity, or mortality. It’s not our job to fix that tension; it’s simply our opportunity to model a viable alternative. Over time, the mirror may turn inward. The joker might wonder why someone eating peas unsettles them more than, say, a heat wave threatening crops.

Meanwhile, the world is tilting. Plant-based retail sales keep rising, and climate models show diet shifts could slash food-system emissions by a third. As the mainstream absorbs these realities, mockery will fade — a footnote to a bygone era when giving up meat felt as radical as giving up leaded gasoline.

Until then, remember that the laughter isn’t about you. It’s the sound of cognitive dissonance meeting its match. Smile, savor your roasted miso eggplant, and let the joke age like dairy left in the sun.

Eventually, even the staunchest carnivore may ask for a bite—if only to discover what all the fuss tastes like.