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.