Having grown up in Durham yet supported Sunderland all my life has always meant that any fixture between the two clubs feels strangely personal.
Once, I wanted both to thrive but now the lines feel more blurred, the loyalties more defined and the question more intriguing than ever: is Sunderland versus Durham a ‘rivalry’, a ‘derby’, or something far more complicated?
It’s one of the most intriguing fixtures in the women’s game — not because it’s steeped in decades of animosity or because it carries
the weight of a traditional derby but because it sits in a space that’s still forming. It’s a match shaped by geography, identity, ambition and personal experience; indeed, ask ten Sunderland fans what it means to them and you’ll get ten different answers.
For me, the fixture has always carried a strange emotional pull.
I was born in Durham and have lived here my whole life, but I’ve supported Sunderland for as long as I can remember.
There was once a time when I genuinely wanted to see Durham succeed alongside Sunderland. It felt like something to be proud of, my home city producing a women’s team punching above its weight, competing fiercely without the backing of a men’s club and building a loyal fanbase from scratch. I admired and respected them. And I wanted them to do well — as long as they weren’t doing well at Sunderland’s expense.
But things change.
The more invested I’ve become in Sunderland Women, the more I’ve felt that instinctive tug of competitiveness. These days, I don’t feel the same attachment to Durham. I still respect them deeply — especially for what they’ve built and how they’ve built it — but I always want Sunderland to beat them. I always want Sunderland to finish above them. And yes, I do enjoy it when Durham beat Newcastle.
That personal shift mirrors the wider debate among Sunderland supporters. Is this a derby? A rivalry? Is it friendly, tense, indifferent or something in between — and what shapes those feelings?
The first question is the simplest to ask and the hardest to answer. “Do Sunderland fans actually view Sunderland versus Durham as a derby?”
For some, the answer is an immediate “yes”.
The two clubs are close geographically, separated by a short drive and a shared stretch of the North East landscape. In football, proximity often defines rivalry and the fact that Sunderland and Durham have spent several seasons competing in the same division, often finishing near each other and often playing matches that mattered, means the fixture naturally takes on a derby-like feel. Competitive tension breeds familiarity, and familiarity breeds rivalry.
Yet for others, the answer is more complicated.
Sunderland’s traditional rivalries — particularly in the men’s game — are deeply entrenched, emotionally charged and historically loaded. Durham, in contrast, are a relatively young club in the women’s football pyramid. They don’t carry the weight of decades of animosity and they don’t evoke the same visceral reaction that fixtures against Newcastle or Middlesbrough might.
For some Sunderland fans, Durham simply don’t feel like rivals in the traditional sense. They’re local, but rivalry is about more than geography — and this is where the emotional nuance comes in.
When Sunderland fans think about Durham Women as a club, their instinctive reactions vary widely. Some feel rivalry, driven by the desire to assert dominance in the region. Others feel respect, recognising the impressive work Durham have done to build a competitive team without the backing of a men’s club. Some feel indifference, seeing Durham as just another opponent. And some feel something more complicated, a blend of admiration, competitiveness and local pride.
Durham’s identity plays a significant role in shaping these reactions.
They’re unique in the women’s game, a standalone club built from the ground up, operating without the financial or structural support that comes from being attached to a Premier League or Championship men’s side. Their success has been earned through graft, smart recruitment and a clear sense of who they are. For many Sunderland fans, that commands respect; after all, it’s hard not to admire a club that’s carved out its own place in the league, often outperforming teams with far greater resources.
At the same time, that uniqueness can make them feel like outsiders in a region where football identity is deeply intertwined with men’s clubs. Sunderland fans may respect Durham, but they don’t necessarily feel emotionally connected to them. The lack of shared history, shared colours or shared tribalism means the fixture doesn’t automatically carry the emotional weight of a derby.
And yet, for some, that emotional weight is still there, originating not from history but from competition.
Sunderland and Durham have often found themselves in similar positions in the table, fighting for points, pride and progress. Those matches have mattered. They’ve been intense, physical and closely contested. Even without decades of rivalry behind them, the stakes have created their own sense of significance.
This leads naturally to another question: “Do Sunderland fans want to see Durham do well when they’re not playing Sunderland?”
Again, the answers vary.
Some fans genuinely want Durham to succeed, seeing it as good for the region, good for the women’s game and good for raising the profile of football in the North East. They appreciate the idea of two strong local teams pushing each other, creating competitive tension that benefits both clubs. They see Durham as a positive force; a club that has earned its place and deserves recognition.
Others, however, feel differently.
They don’t necessarily want Durham to struggle but they don’t want them to thrive either — at least not to the point where they threaten Sunderland’s ambitions. For these fans, local proximity creates a sense of territorial instinct: “Sunderland should be the dominant force in the region”, “Sunderland should be the club setting the standard”, “Durham doing well is fine, as long as Sunderland are doing better”.
And then there are those who simply don’t care. Their emotional investment begins and ends with Sunderland and what Durham do outside of the derby is irrelevant. Their success or failure has no bearing on their own sense of pride or frustration. They see Durham as a competitor and nothing more.
The emotional complexity deepens when you ask whether the fixture carries any weight for fans.
Some supporters feel the fixture carries real emotional significance. The matches are often tight, physical and competitive, and that alone can give them a sense of importance. There’s also the local element of two North East clubs, close in distance and often close in the table, meeting in games that tend to matter. For those fans, Sunderland versus Durham has an edge to it, even if it isn’t steeped in decades of history.
For others, the fixture doesn’t stir the same emotions.
It matters because every league game matters, but it doesn’t carry the extra charge that comes with longstanding rivalries. The atmosphere might be lively and the football competitive, yet the emotional stakes feel no higher than usual. For these supporters, Sunderland versus Durham is shaped more by the ebb and flow of the season than by any deeper sense of identity or history.
That contrast reflects the broader reality of women’s football rivalries, which are still forming, still shifting and still finding their place.
Unlike the men’s game, where the emotional landscape has been carved out over generations, the women’s game is building its own narratives in real time. Sunderland versus Durham sits right in the middle of that process — a fixture that means different things to different people, shaped as much by personal experience as by club identity or geography.
From Sunderland’s perspective, the rivalry — if it can be called that — is shaped by ambition.
Sunderland want to grow, to improve and to become the team they know they can be. Durham, therefore, by virtue of being close, competitive and consistently present in the same division, naturally become a benchmark. Beating Durham matters because it signals progress and finishing above them matters because it reinforces ambition. The rivalry, such as it is, is rooted in aspiration rather than animosity.
From Durham’s perspective, the dynamic is different.
Sunderland are the bigger club, with a larger fanbase, deeper history and a more established identity. For Durham, competing with Sunderland is a statement of their own growth and beating them is a marker of their own progress.
The rivalry, if they feel a sense of it, is shaped by the desire to prove themselves against a club with greater resources and greater expectations, and this creates a fascinating dynamic.
The fixture isn’t by fuelled by hatred or hostility and nor is it a ‘derby’ in the traditional sense, but it is competitive, meaningful and emotionally charged in its own way. It’s a rivalry built on proximity, ambition and identity rather than history — and that’s what makes it so interesting.
In the end, whether this represents a rivalry, a derby or simply a meeting of two ambitious North East clubs is something each supporter decides for themselves. Whatever we call it, the fixture keeps asking questions about identity, loyalty and what it really means to belong in a region where football is never just football.
I’d love to hear about how other Sunderland supporters see this fixture.
Whether you feel the pull of a derby, the edge of a rivalry or simply the curiosity of two North East clubs crossing paths, your perspective adds something real to the story. Tell me what Sunderland versus Durham means to you — the emotions, the indifference, the pride, the tension or anything in between — and let us build a picture of this fixture through the voices of the people who live it.
