Lilith - A Myth reclaimed

Lilith is often imagined as dark and dangerous, but her story is far more complicated than the image we’ve inherited.

From Medieval Satire to Modern Goddess

When I first heard about Lilith, I assumed she was ancient.

Not just old in the casual way we use the word, but biblical-old. Primeval. One of those stories that felt like it had been carried forward through centuries of whispered fear and reverence. I was told she was Adam’s first wife, created from the same earth, who refused to lie beneath him and fled Eden rather than submit. A woman who chose herself and was punished for it. A demonized rebel. A warning.

Like many people, I accepted that story as something inherited from deep history.

It wasn’t until I casually told a friend about Lilith that the ground shifted. He had spent years studying ancient religions, mythologies, and sacred texts. He listened, paused, and said something simple and unsettling:

“I don’t recognize her from any ancient sources.”

That moment stuck with me.

Not because I wanted him to be wrong, but because it cracked something open. If Lilith wasn’t ancient in the way I assumed, then where did she come from? And why did her story feel so powerful, so alive, especially to women now?

So I went looking.

What I found surprised me and, honestly, made me love Lilith even more.

Lilith, as most of us know her today, does not originate in the earliest biblical texts. Her most recognizable story emerges later, in the Middle Ages, most notably in a work called The Alphabet of Ben Sira. And that text isn’t scripture. It’s satire. Old, yes, but that isn’t the point.

The Lilith story was written as a cautionary tale. A sharp-edged one.

The message was clear: this is what happens to women who refuse obedience. This is what happens when a woman claims equality, autonomy, desire, voice. She becomes monstrous. Dangerous. Exiled. She must be feared.

Lilith wasn’t created to inspire women. She was created to scare them.

And yet here we are.

Somewhere along the way, the story failed to do what it was supposed to do.

Instead of shrinking women into submission, Lilith became a mirror. A symbol. A figure of recognition for those who had already felt, deep in their bodies, that obedience was not the same thing as integrity. That silence was not safety. Equality should never require permission.

The same story meant to frighten women into compliance has been reclaimed as a banner of refusal.

That reversal is significant.

Lilith didn’t become a modern goddess because she was ancient. She became one because her story was needed.

She represents the woman who says no without apology. The woman who leaves what harms her, even when the cost is exile. The woman who refuses to contort herself into someone else’s comfort. She is independence without softness being stripped away. Rage without apology. Desire without shame.

And importantly, she is not perfect.

She’s not gentle. She’s not safe. She’s not interested in being palatable.

That, too, is part of why she resonates.

There’s something profoundly human about the way Lilith’s story evolved. She was written into existence as a warning, then rewritten through lived experience. Through art and storytelling. Through women recognizing themselves in a figure that was never meant to comfort them.

Her sacredness was not bestowed by antiquity. It was earned through resonance.

This is where I think we need to rethink what we mean when we call something “sacred.”

We’re taught that sacred stories are ancient. That legitimacy comes from age, lineage, and institutional blessing. That if a myth isn’t thousands of years old, it can’t hold spiritual weight.

But that simply isn’t true.

What makes a story sacred isn’t how old it is. It’s how deeply it is embraced. How it speaks to the human condition. How it gives language to experiences that were previously unnamed. How it helps people understand themselves and their place in the world.

Lilith’s story became sacred because a subset of humanity claimed it as such.

Women carried it forward not because it was imposed on them, but because it reflected something real. Something embodied. Something unresolved and powerful. She became a modern goddess of inspiration not by decree, but by collective recognition.

That matters in a world where so many people feel disconnected from inherited traditions.

Lilith reminds us that myth is not frozen. It is alive. Stories evolve because we evolve. Meaning emerges through choice and belief.

There is something deeply liberating in realizing that you don’t need ancient permission to claim what inspires you. You don’t need a story to be old for it to be holy. You don’t need validation from institutions that never had you in mind.

Lilith exists because we chose her.

And that choice is sacred.