I am Medusa

Medusa

For centuries, Medusa has been remembered as a monster. But myths often tell only half the story. Here is hers, in her own words.

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I am Medusa, daughter of Phorcys and Ceto, the only mortal daughter. My two sisters, the Gorgons Stheno and Euryale, were immortal. I grew into a beautiful maiden that drew the desire of men and gods. I became a priestess in the temple of Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war. As part of my vows, I was devoted to celibacy. I lived and served there with devotion until the day that I caught the eye of the sea god Poseidon.

Poseidon did not care about my vows or that I was serving in Athena’s temple. He cared only for his needs and took from me what he wanted. Athena was enraged that her sacred temple had been defiled. Yet all turned against me. I was punished for his misdeed. I was punished for being a victim, for I did not seduce him.

I was simply there — an object of his desire that he could not restrain himself from.

My punishment was to turn my beautiful hair into writhing serpents, and I was cursed with a face so terrifying that anyone that looked upon it would be turned instantly to stone. This ensured I was punished, feared, and isolated.

I was driven from all of humanity, feared and reviled. I took refuge in the most desolate place I could find at the edge of the world. My sisters joined me, and we lived in exile together. We were in the space between mortal and divine realms.

We lived far from the lands of men, at the edge of Oceanus where the sun fell into the sea. The earth was barren, the winds sharp, and the skies heavy with the cries of distant birds. It was a place that reflected what I had become: untouchable, feared, yet still alive.

My sisters never left me. They were immortal, born with their monstrous forms, and though they had always been fierce, they softened toward me. They knew I alone would die, and so they guarded me, not with pity, but with a loyalty sharper than any sword. In them, I found the only company that did not flinch from my gaze. I loved them for it; my sisters gave me strength and companionship.

Men came seeking glory. Warriors and hunters crossed into our desolate land, each believing himself strong enough to take my head. They did not leave. My exile became littered with statues of men frozen in their final moment of arrogance; their eyes locked on me forever. I did not seek them out, yet they came, and with every man that fell, my legend grew.

In time, I came to understand the paradox of my curse. What Athena gave me in wrath became a shield. No man would ever lay hands upon me again. No god would dare touch me. My very presence was a warning: approach, and you will be undone.

I was no longer the maiden who once prayed in Athena’s halls. I had become something older, something closer to the earth itself: a guardian at the threshold, standing between worlds. My sisters and I were outcasts, yes, but we were also keepers of the boundary where mortals were never meant to tread.

I endured in exile, not as I once was, but as I was remade.

She who turns away the gaze

She who cannot be erased

She who waits at the edge of the world.

After more years than I can remember, the day came when fate itself crossed my threshold. His name was Perseus. He did not come like the others, brash and eager for glory. He came armed with the gifts of the gods: winged sandals and a curved blade from Hermes, a polished shield from Athena that gleamed with the moonlight, and the helm of invisibility from Hades to carry him safely away. No mortal man could have done this task alone. Even so, Athena guided his hand — as if she could not bear to face me herself without a champion.

I felt his presence as I slept, the air shifting, the silence holding its breath. It was not his courage that struck me, but his care. He did not look upon me, for he knew what would happen. He used the shield as a mirror, and with a single stroke, my head was severed from my body.

And yet, even in death, I was not silent. From my blood sprang Pegasus, the winged horse, and Chrysaor, the golden warrior. These were my children by Poseidon, born not in shame, but in freedom at last. My head was taken, carried across the seas, still bearing the power to petrify. Athena set it into her shield, so that the face she cursed could guard her in battle.

This was how the world remembered me: as a monster slain, as a trophy wielded, as a terror made into a weapon for another.

But that is not who I was.

I was a daughter, a sister, a maiden who once served in devotion. I was a victim of gods’ quarrels, punished for what I could not control. And I was more: I became a boundary, a warning, a force that no man could conquer without divine aid. My life was not simply a curse. It was a story of strength and a testament to endurance.

For in the end, I was feared not because I was evil, but because I was untouchable. My story is told as a tragedy, but it is also a truth the gods never wished to admit: that power can rise from pain, that even in exile I could not be broken, and that even in death I gave birth to something greater than myself.

I am Medusa.
I am rage and I am protection.
I am sorrow and I am power.
I am the face that turns away the violent gaze.

And for every woman who has been blamed for what was done to her, I am the reminder: you are not the victim. You are more than your story.

I am the monster they made, and the goddess they feared. I am Medusa and I endure in every woman who has ever been silenced, shamed, or cast aside