Category: Greek Legends

Paris, the city of love. What an intriguing name and an even more intriguing designation. I can’t quite say whether it was Paris itself, which we visited two years ago during the Olympics, my daughter, born on 2016-06-24, or my own birth chart that first drew my attention to the Lovers card in the Tarot de Marseille, VI – LAMOVREVX.

Suffice it to say, my true journey into this card began on September 27, 2025, and culminated on October 2, 2025. It feels fitting that after the card lived with me so intensely for six days – the very number of the card itself – it is now on the seventh that I am finally ready to tell its story. During the time I contemplated the card and its surrounding myth, new ideas solidified and the fog lifted in different ways. I wrote as ideas came to mind. I considered rewriting the entire piece to integrate these later revelations, but I ultimately decided to leave the writing as it is, for better or worse. I believe the journey of discovery is just as exciting as the discovery itself, and that bringing you along through all the twists and turns is perhaps the truest way to tell this story: a story about truth, fear, and love.

This card has been the quiet focal point of my life, shaping my path even when I was not aware of it. So let me begin at the beginning.

First, I have to draw your attention to another card in the Tarot de Marseille deck. Number 9, VIIII L’HERMITE. My mother once told me, or perhaps I read it in her book (https://carteamagului.ro/tarot/initiere-in-mistere/), words that lingered in my mind. They may not be exact, but the message was clear: “When L’HERMITE comes into your life, listen to what he has to say.”

I had been expecting him, even searching for him, only to realize that he was right under my nose all along. This revealed another lesson I have come to understand in the past little while: the most important things in life are often hidden in plain sight. They wait quietly until we are ready, and all it takes is the courage to shine a light.

This leads me into the mysterious world of the number nine itself: L’Hermite, Cronos, the keeper of time, the old man with the lantern showing us the way.

I have always felt the number nine to be special, but I had never looked too closely. For the past couple of years, I have been on a learning path, determined to leave no stone unturned. I find teachers in the most peculiar of places, but I have to recognize that my most important guides are my two daughters, currently seven and nine. They have been showing me a new way of life since the day they were born; I have just been too blind to see it and too dumb to listen to them. So it comes as no surprise that even in interpreting this card, my little teachers are once again showing me the way. Children are a repository of knowledge; we only have to open ourselves and listen to them. They see the world with a wonder and excitement most of us have forgotten, like the simple idea of having a favourite number.

When my daughters ask me what mine is, my answer has always been nine. They know this about me. Perhaps it was their asking that first made me pause and truly notice the number, long before my journey with the Tarot de Marseille. Only in the last few days have I begun to understand just how special it really is. Nine has been present in my life in ways I did not even recognize. I will not go into detail here, as that deserves its own spotlight, but in a nutshell, it has become a catalyst for change – a shining light, a lantern, or perhaps even a laser pointer.

So here we are in 2025 (2+0+2+5), a year marked by nine, in the ninth month, on the 27th day. A portal of sorts – 9-9-9 – calling me toward the lantern of L’Hermite, almost as if the number itself summoned me on its own day. I did not even realize the significance of that particular day, or of the events that unfolded then, until today, September 29, 2025. I did not know it at the time, but it felt like another beginning, as though more pieces of the puzzle were quietly falling into place.

One clue that pointed me toward LAMOVREVX was my elder daughter, who happens to be nine this year, a year of nine. She was born on 2016-06-24. Her birth year, 2016 (2+0+1+6), also reduces to nine, echoing the lantern of L’Hermite as it shines into hidden places. In her case, that light illuminates the numbers six and twenty-four, both energies of the Lovers that form the next part of her birthday. She is the Lover born in the month of the Lover shining the L’Hermite light on the next step in my journey of discovery.

And it is not only my daughter who carries this influence. My own birth chart is threaded with the same pattern. My Ascendant and Descendant axis, Sagittarius and Gemini, lies at 24°48′. My MC and IC line, Libra and Aries, rests at 24°24′, with Pluto poised at 24° on the Midheaven. Even White Moon Selena is placed at 24° Taurus. But perhaps the most striking placement of all is my True Node in Cancer, an astrological sign I associate with the LAMOVREVX card. This point, which represents my soul’s very destiny, is found at 14°29’11”- placing it right in the heart of the card.

So with all this in mind, here I stand, flashlight in hand, face to face with 6/24, LAMOVREVX, the Lover, a pattern woven through my life and carrying its own luminous symmetry. What secrets might it reveal, and what does it have to do with Paris?

Love, I suppose, is the first answer. The lover, as the card says. Singular, masculine. Choice in the hands of masculine energy, but is it really choice at all? When I think of the city of Paris, romance is the image that rises first. Yet my analogy runs deeper. It reaches into Greek mythology, another thread I owe to my mother.

But before I dive into that story, let me tell you about my wonderful nine-year-old daughter, the lover and the hater, the black and the white, the yin and the yang.

Clara has been a difficult energy to navigate as parents. She can be the sweetest presence or the most challenging. She is governed by two simple rules: I like it and I do not like it. There is no in-between for her. This energy is so overpowering that it shapes everything in her life. When she likes something, she loves it with all her being and life is heaven. When she does not, she rejects it with all her being and life becomes hell.

This colors every detail of her world, from the shade of her ice cream spoon to the food arrangement on her plate, from the design on her underwear to a stone she picks up on the sidewalk. She must love it all.

We all experience this to some extent, but most of us learn to soften it. We tell ourselves: you cannot love everything, some things in life must simply be done, you take the good with the bad, and so on. For years we have tried to teach Clara these lessons, pressing our worldviews and wisdom onto her, yet all the while she has been the one teaching us.

An interesting thing about wisdom and discernment: I do not think it is a coincidence that in the order of the Tarot de Marseille the Lover, card number VI comes right after card number V, LE PAPE, the teacher of wisdom and discernment. Even the number hierarchy seems to tell us that matters of the heart overpower matters of wisdom and discernment, or perhaps that the greater wisdom lives in the heart.

Another thing my mother once said comes to mind. She told me that the Lovers card shows the fall from heaven, the moment we become mortal, even finding a hint of death itself built into the name La Movrevx. It’s a powerful and somber idea. And while the linguistic echo between Movrevx and Mort (death) is compelling, I am no longer sure I can fully agree. To me, this card may just as well point the way into heaven. After all, when is true love ever the wrong choice? That is another lesson these last couple of weeks have taught me well.

Let us first look at the name itself: LAMOVREVX. At the beginning we find LAMO, echoing the Latin amo, “I love.” This is love in its simplest and purest form, a declaration of the heart. Clara’s first rule of being. Her only calling. Her most treasured state. The thing she chases from the moment she opens her eyes in the morning until the moment we tuck her into bed at night. And yet it is the very thing we have been fighting against for years. Even as I write this, it sounds absurd, fighting against love, all the while thinking we are helping her. But I digress.

In the middle stands the letter V, the number five – the Pope of the Tarot de Marseille. He is the mediator, the messenger, and the teacher; the hinge or perhaps the very mirror between higher and lower forces.

On the other side of the mirror we encounter REVX, an old spelling that carries the sense of “fullness” or “completeness.” Perhaps this is the wisdom the world offers: the lessons we pass to our children, the driving force of society. Learn to be rich, to be self-sufficient, to amass wealth, to amass knowledge so that you can monetize it. Yet hidden within that fullness is its own shadow, for the last letters, VX, mirror XV, the Devil card. I have not yet studied it in detail and so I reserve the right to change my mind, but as I understand it now it represents bondage, temptation, and compulsion.

Thus the very structure of the word suggests a choice. On one side is love, unencumbered and true. On the other is fullness, which promises abundance but conceals the chains of the Devil. The Pope at the center calls for discernment, yet the deeper wisdom of the tarot may be that love alone is the true and liberating path, the way into heaven itself.

This is a truth I have been waking up to in what we teach our daughters. I realized that we teach them to be rich when we should be teaching them to be happy. In doing so, we end up teaching one another to be miserable. Perhaps this is because we ourselves have forgotten how to be happy, caught in a mad race to enrich our material world. I am only beginning this journey, unsure of where it will lead, but already I sense that the heart knows more than we let it.

And so I turn back to the card itself, VI – LAMOVREVX. Looking at the image, four figures occupy the scene: a young man stands between two women, as if torn between paths, while above him hovers Eros with bow drawn, ready to strike. This is not a simple image of romance; it is the drama of choice, of surrender, of stepping into destiny. The arrow reminds us that love is not always reasoned, and that discernment alone cannot shield us from its pull. The card suggests that the heart’s decision carries consequences that shape the course of a life. To me, this is where the mystery deepens – choice and fate entwined, wisdom and desire in dialogue, all illuminated by that ancient lantern of L’Hermite.

The Lover stands with bare legs, his red shoes of action planted on a patch of yellow. This patch of yellow at his feet represents wisdom and discernment, showing that he already carries all he needs to choose. Yet the question remains: which will prevail, the mind or the heart?

To explore this, I turn to the story that mirrors this card most closely: the Greek tale of Paris of Troy, a story I once read to Clara. We spoke of it again tonight, and to my surprise she remembered the details more vividly than I did, as if the tale had rooted itself more firmly in her heart than in mine.

Paris was the man who stood between goddesses, forced to choose. Or perhaps it was Eros’s arrow that chose for him, tilting the scales toward love and setting in motion a war. So too Paris the city, forever bound to love, temptation, unrest, and destiny. In both man and city, the same pattern repeats. The circle closes where it began.

But Paris’s story begins long before his fateful judgment. At his birth, an oracle warned his mother, Queen Hecuba of Troy, that her son would bring about the destruction of the city. In fear, she and King Priam abandoned the infant on Mount Ida. Yet fate, unyielding, had shepherds raise him in secret. Paris grew into a prince of both pasture and palace, his life already shaped by prophecy. From the very start, love and destiny were bound together – what is foreordained cannot be escaped, only delayed until the appointed hour.

That hour arrived at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, a celebration of divine union. All the gods were invited – except Eris, goddess of discord. Enraged at her exclusion, she flung into the banquet a golden apple inscribed “To the fairest.” Instantly, Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite each laid claim to it. Unable to choose between them, Zeus refused judgment and instead appointed Paris, the mortal prince whose life was already under the shadow of fate.

So Paris, like the Lover of the Tarot, found himself at the center of competing forces. Each goddess promised him a gift: Hera, the throne of sovereignty and kingship; Athena, wisdom and glory in battle; Aphrodite, the love of the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen of Sparta. Before him lay three paths: power, wisdom, or desire. Above them all loomed the golden apple, not a warm sun but a burning star of discord, forcing the choice into being.

Eros hovered doing Aphrodite’s bidding, bow drawn, arrow aimed at Paris’s heart. For in such moments, reason cannot decide. It is not logic that bends the scales, but love itself, piercing the soul. Paris chose Aphrodite, and with that choice set in motion the Trojan War. Desire, or perhaps fate, carried him, as his very name foretells: Paris, “to carry off.” For he would soon carry Helen—whose name means “torch”—from Sparta to Troy, bringing upon his city’s destruction and closing the prophetic circle that began with Queen Hecuba’s dream; a dream that could have been interpreted through love and prosperity, rather than through the vision of fear.

This brings us to the next piece of the puzzle, the duality embedded in the man himself. Paris is also known as Alexandros, “defender of men.” In this duality, he mirrors his own father, carrying the same purity that was once corrupted by fear. His two names represent his two possible paths: Paris, “to carry off,” the agent of a fate sealed by fear; and Alexandros, “defender of men,” the potential champion of a destiny guided by love. The myth shows us that love is the only true defense. The prophecy declared Troy would fall, and so, in their fear, his parents cast away Alexandros. But in trying to flee fate, they only ensured it. The son who returned to them was now Paris, ready to carry off a destiny of fear and bring about the destruction of Troy.

Perhaps fear itself was the seed that gave rise to the prophecy. It was the same fear that once made the Titans cast away their own kin, and in doing so, sealed their own downfall. It is fear, not love, that we should avoid at all costs. These same patterns are found in our own lives, again and again. We start off pure, only to lose ourselves and corrupt our own true names.

So again, I think The Lover card may be telling us that fear is the enemy of love. Fate is inescapable, but love is the thread that redeems our passage through it – liberation through love, even salvation through love. Love must be pure, unencumbered, and free of expectation.

Clara knows this instinctively, and nobody taught her. She feels it in her being. Yet the world is cruel and tries to tell her, at every turn, that love is not possible, that compromises must be made, that we must learn to endure what we do not love rather than change it.

So in conclusion, here we see the full mirror of the Lover card. The mortal stands in a triangle of choice: two women before him and Eros above, each drawing him toward a promise. The golden apple glows like the sun of destiny, while the arrow of love ensures the decision will not be reasoned, but fated. The choice is his, yet it is not his alone. Through him, fate moves, and through love, history itself is rewritten. Even the name of the card hints at this, ending in the letter X – LA ROVE DE FORTVNE – the cross of decision, the stitch of fate, the mark of the Moirai, the weavers of destiny. In the end, it is always the Moirai who have the final word. And perhaps that is why Clara, in her all-or-nothing way, reminds me so much of the Lover card itself – a little girl standing at the center of choice, guided not by fear, but by love – love that endures even in spite of fear.

Fearless love is our ticket into heaven. So love fearlessly!

Chronicles of Fear

Like many creative endeavors, the true revelations often begin only after the writing is seemingly finished. So it was with this article. It was on the morning of October 1, 2025, that the deeper layers of the story truly clicked into place. How fitting that this clarity arrived on a day marked by the number one – LE BATELEUR, the Magician’s number of creation – and in the tenth month, evoking the Moirai themselves through the Tarot’s tenth major arcana card, X – LA ROUE DE FORTUNE, the Wheel of Fortune. The wheel turns, a cycle ends, and a new understanding begins.

The story of Paris, I now realize, does not begin with a choice between three goddesses, but with a dream and the fear it inspired. Before Paris was born, his mother, Queen Hecuba of Troy, dreamt that she did not give birth to a child, but to a blazing torch that set the entire city of Troy aflame. Disturbed by this premonition, King Priam sought the counsel of seers, who confirmed that the child would be the city’s ruin.

Here, at the very inception of the tale, fear becomes the guiding hand of fate. Let us look closer at the parents. Priam was not always known by that name; in his youth, he was called Podarces, “the swift-footed one.” This name evokes the heroic ideal of strength, speed, and agility in battle. His name was changed to Priam, meaning “the ransomed one,” after his life was spared in a bargain. This changed Priam from a heroic archetype into a weak, compromised shadow of his former self. From then on, his very identity was forged by compromises made under duress, setting him on a path marked by misfortune and fraught negotiations.

When his wife Hecuba, whose name can be traced to the Greek for “far-off strike,” brought him this dream of misfortune—a vision that was itself a far-off strike from the truth—Priam’s first instinct was fear. It was fear that led him to the seers, and it was fear that dictated the decision to abandon his son. This leads me to a new conclusion: Troy itself was already compromised, just like Priam. The seeds of its destruction were not sown by Paris’s choice of love, but by his parents’ choice of fear. A kingdom built on fear has no place in our collective evolution and, perhaps, had to fall.

This dynamic is also etched into the very design of the Lovers card itself. The title, LAMOVREVX, is framed by vertical lines: five lines (|||||) stand before the word, and six lines (||||||) follow it. This is a visual metaphor for the choice at hand. The five lines evoke the preceding card, V – LE PAPE, representing the wisdom we carry into the moment. The six lines represent the new reality of the Lover (VI) that is born from the choice. The scales are already tilted towards the six, suggesting the heart’s decision is the intended path forward.

But another more chilling detail confirms that the true downfall is fear. Above the figures, Eros hovers within a radiant sun. If you look closely, the negative space created by the divine light framing the archer forms the unmistakable image of a skull. When Priam and Hecuba looked upon their prophecy, their terror acted as a filter; they saw only the skull of their city’s demise. The card presents the same choice: will the Lover see the divine impulse of Eros, or be paralyzed by the specter of the skull? Fear will always find the face of death, even in the heart of the most brilliant light.

This reframes the entire concept of fate. There is a saying, “You will not escape what you fear,” because all prophecies are projections born from a place of fear. Priam and Hecuba, in trying to save Troy, set in motion the very events that would ensure its fall. The core lesson is not that love is destructive, but that fear is.

This brings the lesson back to my daughter, Clara, who embodies this card. She has had one amazing day after another, in love with life and succeeding at everything she sets her mind to. Though she can be naturally selfish, when she is truly in love with herself, she becomes the most caring, helpful, and kind human. She is showing us that the key to being good to others is to first love ourselves so completely that the kindness naturally overflows.

It pains me to think that we constantly fight against this. I am guilty as charged. We tell our children they are selfish, that they only think of themselves and should think of others. We teach them to do things they don’t like just to please people. We tell ourselves that this is preparing them for life, that the world is cruel and they must be made ready. We see it as our duty, but we fail to see how damaging these words are. They make our children start to hate themselves. They begin to believe they are terrible, unworthy, that their own needs cause harm and hardship to others. Of course, this is the last thing they want. Slowly, bit by bit, a program of self-negation gets installed. The damage is done, and to reverse it is nearly impossible. I only hope it is not too late for my girls.

Some might say this argument is against educating our kids. How do you get them to brush their teeth, to do their homework, to tidy up their rooms and form good habits? The honest answer is that I am not sure yet, but I am going to try to do it all and more. I do know one thing, however: when they are truly happy and in love with themselves, they live to please and are on a quest to do things to make us proud.

And so, this is the final, deepest secret. We see the Lover standing between two figures and assume his choice is external. But what if the first choice is internal? To beat fate, we must free ourselves from fear – and I mean all of it. We must write every fear down on paper. We must visit and revisit that list and, like a surgeon removing a tumour, carve each one out of our soul. Fearless love is the only alternative, but it must begin with the self. The Lover, singular, must first choose to love himself or herself. Only then is he or she truly free to love another. This is the only true liberation from a destiny forged in terror.

True and fearless love.

My fear builds a wall of night,
And steals away my inner light.
It whispers lies of what’s to come,
And leaves my heart completely numb.
With fearless love, my rising sun,
I will declare: The WAR is won!

Not the Villain in Your Lore

I am the poison and the cure,
The wound you struggle to endure.
My gaze turns living flesh to stone,
Yet from my death, new life is born.
From horror, beauty takes its flight,
And wisdom learns to rule the night.

Real Life Struggles

Pythagoras once said, “Know yourself, and you will know the universe and all the gods.” I have often wondered what knowledge or insight led him to make such a profound claim. After the past couple of weeks, his words have become a focal point of my life. I think he was onto something and I have caught a glimpse of it.

Let me provide some context. Between September 10th and September 20th, 2025, I experienced a profound spiritual awakening. It unfolded not on a retreat, but in the midst of my ordinary life. Against a backdrop of ten idyllic days of sunshine and warmth, I continued to go to work, care for my children, and navigate our usual weekend activities. Life went on as normal; the only wildcard was me. This experience was an awakening to what is truly important in life. I will describe it in greater detail elsewhere; for now, I will be brief, as this story’s focus is on something else entirely. It is also worth noting that all my revelations during this period occurred in the light of day. I recall no dreams and slept very little. Throughout this journey, I was guided by music, conversations, people, and what I can only describe as divine communication. Suddenly, everything spoke to me: people having idle chats in the elevator, the music on the radio, numbers, and more.

It is now September 23rd, three full days since the awakening subsided and silence returned. On September 20th, it all stopped, abruptly. The quiet has left me feeling lonely, sad, and longing for understanding.

In these past three days, the clouds have returned, and so have my dreams. It feels as though the front lines of this inner battle have moved, shifting from my waking consciousness to the subconscious depths of sleep. The weather itself seems to mirror this change, turning stormy, especially at night. Although I cannot remember the specifics of my dreams, I wake up feeling as if I have been dreaming the entire night. I also wake with a powerful sense of understanding, but when I try to grasp what I know, the feeling vanishes.

Despite the sadness and confusion, one thing remains fixed in my mind: an unrelenting need to understand what happened and, more importantly, where to go from here. My experience left me with a final clue to guide that next step, the story of Medusa. The awakening felt like navigating an escape room, and the very last piece of the puzzle or perhaps the beginning of a new puzzle was a song about Medusa that ended with the verse, “I am Medusa… I am not the villain in your lore; I am what comes NEXT.” That final word resonated with my own urgent question, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that her story held the key.

So here I am, revisiting the myth and trying to make sense of it. And I think I finally understand.

First, let’s summarize the story as it is commonly known. While there are several versions, the summary below aligns with the most widely accepted narratives.

The Myth of Medusa – a short but comprehensive summary

From the depths of the sea came three sisters, born of ancient gods: Stheno (“Strength”), Euryale (“Far-Roaming”), and Medusa (“the Guardian”). They were called the Gorgons (“the Grim Ones”).

While they were all immensely powerful, they were not alike. Stheno and Euryale were immortal, unyielding, and terrifying forces of nature. Medusa alone was mortal, which made her uniquely vulnerable and capable of being corrupted. Her story, however, begins not with a monster, but with a Guardian.

Unlike her sisters, who were primal forces beyond good and evil, Medusa was born pure and innocent. She devoted herself to Athena, the goddess of wisdom and purity, and served as a priestess in her temple. She was a beacon of light in that sacred space, a dedicated protector.

One day, Poseidon, lord of the sea and fury, desired her beauty and assaulted her within that sacred space. Outraged at the desecration of her temple, Athena punished Medusa instead of Poseidon. Her hair was transformed into hissing serpents, her skin hardened into scales, and her gaze was cursed to turn any living thing that met her eyes to stone.

Cast out, Medusa could no longer serve Athena or fulfill her mission as a guardian. In a final, tragic act of that very guardianship, she exiled herself from the world of mortals. She was driven to the edge of the world to rejoin her sisters, as they alone were immune to her deadly gaze. There, the three Gorgons dwelled together, but Medusa remained the only one who was mortal. For years, her exile was a static tragedy, where warriors journeyed to her shores only to meet their end as stone statues.

This concludes Medusa’s coming-of-age story. For the myth to continue, a hero must enter the stage.

His tale begins on the island of Seriphos, where Perseus (“the Destroyer”) and his mother Danae (“Parched, Dry”) had been given refuge in the court of King Polydectes (“Receiver of Many”). The king lusted after Danae and, seeing her son as an obstacle, devised a treacherous plan to eliminate him. He demanded the head of Medusa as a tribute, a seemingly heroic quest designed to send the young hero to his certain death.

The gods aided Perseus in his quest. Athena offered him counsel, and Hermes (“the Guide at the Crossroads”) showed him the way. They first sent him to the Graeae (“the Old Women”), the ancient sisters of the Gorgons.

The Graeae—Deino (Dread), Enyo (Horror), and Pemphredo (Alarm)—shared a single eye and a single tooth. This suggests that these fears are crippled; they can nibble at life but never consume it. By sharing one eye, they possess only a limited perspective and can never see the whole picture.

Perseus stole their eye, forcing them to reveal the path to the Stygian Nymphs.

The Nymphs gave him three sacred gifts:

The Kibisis (a pouch) to safely hold the head.

The Helm of Hades (the Unseen One) to make him invisible.

The location of the Gorgons’ lair.

Hermes gave him the Harpe (a curved sword) and the Talaria (winged sandals), while Athena provided her shining shield with a critical piece of instruction: he must use it as a mirror and never look at Medusa directly.

Armed with these tools and this knowledge, he set out on his quest.

At the edge of the world, Perseus found the Gorgons asleep. Looking only at Medusa’s reflection in the shield, he severed her head with the Harpe.

From her blood sprang her two children:

Pegasus (Spring, Fountain), the winged horse.

Chrysaor (Golden Sword), a warrior or giant.

Stheno and Euryale awoke in a fury, but Perseus, wearing the Helm of Hades, vanished and fled.

With Medusa’s head secured in the Kibisis, Perseus began his return, discovering that the Gorgon’s stare had lost none of its power, even in death. He was no longer just a hero; he was the wielder of a terrible and profound force, and he would learn to use it in many ways.

Flying over Africa, he encountered the Titan Atlas, who was condemned to bear the weight of the heavens. When the inhospitable Titan refused him rest, Perseus unveiled the head and turned the suffering giant into the stone Atlas Mountains, granting him a permanent, unthinking rest from his eternal burden.

Next, he found Princess Andromeda (“Ruler of Men”) chained to a rock as a sacrifice to Cetus (“a fearsome sea monster”), a monster of the sea. He used the head to turn the beast to stone, saving her from the chaos of the deep and winning her hand in marriage. At their wedding, however, they were attacked by her uncle Phineus (“dark/mottled”), a figure from a past she had left behind. Outnumbered, Perseus used the head again to petrify the aggressors, turning the unjust claims of the past into powerless statues.

In a quiet moment by the sea, he carefully set the head upon a bed of seaweed, which absorbed its power and hardened into the world’s first coral, showing that this force, when handled with care, could create beauty.

His final act was to return to Seriphos. There, he confronted the treacherous King Polydectes and his court, petrifying them all and freeing his mother, Danae, from the tyrant’s grasp.

Finally, he gave the head to Athena, who placed it upon her Aegis (a shield of goatskin). In this final act, Medusa was transformed from a cursed monster into an eternal protector, the true meaning of her name: the Guardian.

Back to reality

Now that I have summarized the story, I want to explore its deeper meaning. For this, I have drawn upon conversations with my mother and my two daughters. I have found that learning from both the experienced and the inexperienced provides a more balanced perspective on reality.

I turned the story over and over in my mind, unable to reconcile the cruelty of the gods towards Medusa. Although the gods are often portrayed as capricious, Medusa’s story felt uniquely unjust: a pure and innocent girl punished for the crime of her perpetrator. To find the answer, I read many interpretations, but none resonated.

Today, in a conversation with my mother, she suggested that nothing in the Greek legends is quite what it seems and that they can be interpreted in many ways. They are lessons, she said, and some battles are fought entirely within our minds. This insight clicked. It brought back memories of my own life and observations of my daughters, who are nine and seven.

Consider a young child, around seven years old. What mechanism governs their conflicts, especially with parents? It often begins with a catalyst, something that upsets them. This leads them to act out, becoming angry or defiant. The behavior escalates until the original trigger is forgotten. At that point, their anger is no longer directed at the initial cause but has turned inward, aimed at themselves for causing their parent grief. Though they may not be conscious of it, the message they tell themselves is: “I am a terrible human.” They read this accusation clearly, as if in a mirror, on the parent’s face.

At this stage, they want to stop but cannot. They know they have been hurtful, which traps them in a deepening cycle of shame. They begin to feel they deserve punishment and that there is no way out without it. If the parent provides a consequence the child deems sufficient, their world can return to a state of balance. If the parent resists, however, the conflict intensifies and turns inward, resulting in self-punishment or even self-harm. This internal conflict is often a far more traumatic experience than any punishment a parent could provide. The child lacks the tools to stop on their own. They need our help.

My Interpretation

Now, let’s view Medusa’s story through a psychological lens, starting with her coming-of-age.

Imagine the entire drama unfolds within the landscape of a single human mind, for in this inner world, we each have a Medusa of our own. Picture this mind as a vast ocean. In the center is the main island where your daily, conscious life occurs. Nearby are smaller islands for secondary thoughts and feelings. And far away, at the distant edges of awareness, lie the remote islands where we banish what we cannot handle or understand, the realm where our subconscious dwells.

At the start, the mind is a temple, pure and innocent. Within this temple live the Gorgons, forces of the psyche. Stheno, Strength, is our raw power. Euryale, Far-Reaching, is the tendency for our emotions to spread far beyond their origin. They are primal, not good or evil and beyond our control. Medusa, the Guardian, is different. She is mortal, vulnerable, and therefore capable of being corrupted. She watches over the temple, protecting its order and balance. She is our shield to the world, our first line of defense.

One day, a violent force of fury and rage (Poseidon) invades the temple and assaults our Guardian, Medusa. Or perhaps it is a series of smaller misfortunes, a succession of Poseidons, that slowly test her. This is an enemy she is unprepared for; she is wounded, and the battle is lost. When we are violated or hurt, a primal part of us puts the guardian who failed us on trial. Our own limited wisdom (Athena) acts as the prosecutor, blaming her for the misfortune: “You were meant to protect us, and you failed.” Just as in the example with the child, this external wound stirs an internal fury directed at the self. In this act of self-directed revenge, we punish our own guardian. Our thoughts can turn venomous like hissing serpents, and our gaze begins to turn the good things in our life to stone. Through this process, the guardian also gathers an immense, unfocused power, becoming a raw force like her immortal sisters.

Our once gentle guardian becomes an uncontrollable monster, a deadly weapon that now threatens our very existence. She grows so toxic that our conscious mind can no longer bear her presence, knowing it would lead to total self-destruction. And so, our wisdom (Athena) makes a final, desperate judgment: she banishes the guardian to the far edges of the mind. But she does not vanish there. Instead, she recedes into the subconscious, feeding on all that is hidden. At times, we may try to regain control, but any conscious effort we send her way is instantly turned to stone by her icy stare.

The result is a psyche left angry, vulnerable, and deeply damaged. We often fail to see just how deep these wounds truly are.

We struggle to protect ourselves from this fate, and so we fail to give our own children the tools to prevent it in themselves. Or perhaps this is not a failure at all. Perhaps we are not meant to prevent it. Perhaps the creation of Medusa is an inevitable, even necessary, part of our journey.

Now that we talked about the creation of the monster let’s explore what comes next. The legend does not end in this darkness. It also provides a complete guide on how to confront and overcome this inner demon. This is the moment the hero is born.

This moment often comes later in life, when we realize we must face our demons. By this time, another monster has taken shape in the mind and rules the island: King Polydectes, the Receiver of Many. He represents the insatiable part of us, the inner tyrant who hoards our time, energy, and attention. He always demands more.

Polydectes works through trickery, subtle demands, false promises, and endless distractions. This is the tyranny of the Receiver of Many: the weight of expectations, the hunger of the ego, the chains of fear.

It is in this moment of crisis, the hero stirs. He emerges from the same inner sea as Poseidon, yet where Poseidon brought rage, our hero is driven by love. His love is for Danae (“dry and parched”), our dry and parched soul, the purest part of us that remains. This hero is Perseus, (“the Destroyer”), the part of us that has been growing quietly through many trials, willing to risk everything to save what is most precious. He is finally spurred into action when the inner tyrant, Polydectes, tries to claim Danae for his own.

He is not reckless. He is guided by a more mature wisdom (Athena), one that now remembers the tragic fate of Medusa, and by the quiet messages of our intuition (Hermes). Together, they arm him with clarity, cunning, and courage.

His first mission is to seek out the Graeae: Dread, Horror, and Alarm. These are the ancient fears that haunt the edges of the mind, and he must come face to face with them. He must see them not as great monsters, but as they truly are: weak, limited, and feeble. He observes how they struggle to even perceive the world or to feed themselves, pathetic figures born old, sharing a single eye and a single tooth. He sees with sudden clarity how such limited senses can lead one down dark corridors and realizes how easily these crippled emotions can be overcome. By stealing their single eye, he masters their limited vision and forces them to reveal the path forward.

This path leads not to a physical place, but to the very edge of the conscious mind: the border of the subconscious. In Greek mythology, this border is the River Styx, the border between the realm of the living and the underworld. There, at this great threshold, he meets the Stygian Nymphs (Stygean because they live next to the Styx, like Athenians live in Athens). They are not the ferrymen of the dead, but something more primal: the guardians of hidden knowledge, the keepers of the sacred tools needed for the journey into the unknown.

From the Stygian Nymphs, guardians of the psyche’s deepest truths, Perseus receives the three sacred tools required for a safe journey and return. They do not offer advice, but the very archetypal powers needed to navigate the subconscious and bring back real power:

• The Kibisis (The Pouch): The Power of Containment. This is the essential tool for handling the power brought back from the subconscious. The Nymphs know that Medusa’s power cannot be destroyed, only contained. The Kibisis is a safe psychic space, the ability to hold the terrifying energy of this weapon without it running wild and destroying the rest of the mind.
• The Helm of Hades: The Dissolution of Ego. To approach a primal trauma, the conscious self, or ego, must step aside. The Helm of Invisibility allows the hero to become a neutral witness, to observe the source of his pain without his identity getting in the way. If “he” were to confront Medusa, he would be turned to stone. As an unseen presence, he can act without being paralyzed by the horror.
• The Location of the Lair: The Naming of the Wound. The Nymphs give him the one piece of hidden knowledge he cannot find on his own: where the monster lives. This symbolizes the moment of clarity when we are finally able to locate and name the specific source of our deepest pain. I am still pondering this aspect of my journey.

Next, the divine messengers of the conscious mind, Hermes and Athena, provide the tools for action and engagement:

• Hermes, the Guide, offers two gifts for the journey. As the god who can travel freely between the upper and lower worlds, he bestows his Talaria (Winged Sandals). These represent psychological agility and transcendence, the ability to navigate the treacherous inner landscape, to rise above being stuck, and to make a swift escape. He also provides the Harpe (The Curved Sword). This is not a weapon for direct combat, but a tool of discernment. Its curved blade is designed for a precise, indirect cut, symbolizing the ability to carefully sever the toxic, corrupted part of the psyche without destroying the whole.
• Finally, Athena provides the ultimate secret weapon: her polished shield. She gives it to him not as a shield for defense, but as a mirror for reflection. This is the master tool of consciousness. Athena knows that to look directly at the raw face of one’s trauma is to be paralyzed by it. The shield allows the hero to see the monster indirectly, through reflection, granting him the one thing necessary to overcome it: the ability to face a terrible truth without being destroyed by the sight of it.

Armed with these tools and knowledge, Perseus ventures into the far reaches of the subconscious, where the monstrous guardian waits in darkness. Using the shield of reflection, he avoids her deadly gaze, seeing not a monster to be slain, but a wound to be healed. With the Harpe, he makes a single, precise strike, not an act of murder, but of psychological surgery. He severs the corrupted, monstrous identity from the pure, primal energy it had imprisoned.

The moment the head is severed, that trapped energy is liberated. From the wound itself, the children of her trauma are born, not as monsters, but as magnificent powers. First springs Pegasus, the winged horse, representing the soaring flight of a spirit and creativity finally freed from paralysis. He is followed by his brother Chrysaor, the warrior with the Golden Sword, embodying the birth of a sovereign will and the authentic power to act in the world.

Having released this long-captive potential, Perseus carefully places the monstrous head into the Kibisis, containing its destructive power so it can now be wielded with wisdom.

The liberation of Medusa’s power and the birth of her children is a seismic event in the psyche. Such a profound shift inevitably triggers a powerful, primal backlash from the mind’s most ancient forces: Medusa’s immortal sisters, Stheno (raw Strength) and Euryale (Far-Roaming consequence).

They awaken in a fury. These are not monsters to be fought in the same way as Medusa. They are immortal, meaning they are fundamental, unchangeable aspects of our psyche. Stheno is the overwhelming, brute-force strength of an emotional surge, the raw power of grief, rage, or shock that follows a breakthrough. Euryale is the tendency for that emotion to spread, to echo, and to have far-reaching consequences across the entire mind.

The hero’s wisdom here lies in knowing he cannot fight them. To engage with this primal backlash directly would be to be torn apart. Instead, he uses the Helm of Hades. He becomes invisible. Psychologically, this is the crucial act of detaching the ego. He doesn’t identify with the overwhelming emotional surge. He becomes a neutral witness, allowing the raw strength and its far-reaching echoes to wash past him without engaging. He wins not by fighting, but by wisely retreating and allowing the initial, uncontrollable storm to pass.

Having survived the immediate backlash, Perseus begins his journey back from the edge of the world to the main island of his conscious life. This is a critical and difficult process of integration. He is flying with his new winged sandals, representing a newfound psychological agility and a higher perspective, but he is also carrying the terrible head of Medusa.

This journey symbolizes bringing the profound lessons and dangerous power of the subconscious back into the light of day. He is no longer just a hero on a quest; he is now the responsible wielder of a paradoxical force. The Guardian, once a banished source of terror, is now a tool he must learn to control. The trauma is no longer running wild in the shadows, but its contained power is now part of his conscious toolkit, a burden and a gift.

His return to the conscious realm sets the stage for a new series of trials. The first half of the myth was about the internal journey to confront and reclaim a lost power. The second half is about the external journey of learning to apply that power wisely to solve the problems of his everyday conscious world.

His first challenge is the Titan Atlas, whose name means “to bear,” the very embodiment of a chronic, internal burden. By turning the suffering Titan into the unfeeling Atlas Mountains, Perseus performs an act of radical acceptance. He uses the Guardian’s power not to destroy a foe, but to end the suffering of a struggle, petrifying it into a fixed part of his inner landscape.

Next, he confronts an overwhelming external threat in the form of Cetus, a sea monster of pure chaos. In saving Princess Andromeda, whose name means “Ruler of Men,” he is saving his own ability to rule his life. This is the moment the hero learns that his deepest wound can become his greatest strength, a shield against the destructive forces of the world.

He continues to use this power to protect his hard-won peace from Phineus, a figure representing the entitled, toxic past. Petrifying him is the act of setting a final, non-negotiable boundary, turning the ghosts of old contracts into powerless statues.

He also understands that the Guardian’s power is not purely destructive. In a quiet, reflective moment, Perseus carefully places the head on a bed of seaweed, which hardens into beautiful coral. This reveals a profound alchemy: when a trauma is handled with care and reverence, its terrifying energy can be transformed into an act of creation.

His final act brings the journey full circle. He returns to confront the inner tyrant, King Polydectes, the “Receiver of Many,” whose greed threatens his mother Danae, the “Parched” soul. By petrifying the king, Perseus uses the strength gained from his deepest trauma to permanently silence the very part of himself that created the trauma in the first place. This ultimate act of self-liberation frees his soul and restores true balance to his inner kingdom.

At last, Perseus gives the head back to Athena, his wisdom. The monster that once threatened to destroy him now becomes the shield that protects him. The corrupted guardian is restored to her true purpose, and the temple of the mind is finally defended not by fear, but by wisdom itself.

And so, the story circles back to where it began. In my own awakening, I heard the voice of Medusa, not as a villain but as a teacher. She is not the end of the story, but the beginning of transformation. To face her is to face the part of myself that has been wounded, corrupted, and banished. To master her is to reclaim the Guardian who protects what is most precious within.

This, I believe, is what the myth has been trying to tell us all along. The gods may appear cruel, but perhaps their cruelty is only the mask of a deeper wisdom. What seems like punishment can become instruction. What feels like destruction can give birth to strength and flight.

“I am Medusa; I am not the villain in your lore. I am what comes next.” These words still echo within me. What comes next is not fear but courage, not paralysis but movement, not exile but restoration. To meet Medusa is to meet myself, and to find, beyond the monster, the Guardian who was always there.

Perhaps we are the gods, and the gods are us.