"PRETTY WOMAN"

This week, in celebration of the 2026 Olympics, I’m making a small exception to my usual schedule and publishing three essays inspired by Greek mythology (Monday, Wednesday and Friday).

If myths aren’t your thing, no worries—feel free to skip these and check back next week, when I return to my once-a-week editorial calendar beginning Tuesday, February 9, 2026.

02.02.2026

About a year ago, I started bingeing The Greek Myths on one of the streaming services. Since then, I’ve become obsessed with diving deeper into these stories that have so dramatically (pun intended) influenced Western culture. After watching, rewatching, and digging through several books on the topic, I’ve come away with some very specific thoughts about our ancestral storytellers.

Mostly, I have a massive bone to pick with whoever first decided to record epic myths. If I could track them down, I’d have words—preferably in an ancient dialect, just so there would be no mistaking my intent.

If you’re even casually interested in Greek mythology, you can’t help but notice that while the gods are immortal, they are not necessarily good. Far from it. With eternity on their hands and nothing to do besides meddle in the business of humans, they are petty, jealous, and impulsive—think reality TV stars with superpowers. And far too often, it’s a mortal—usually a woman—who pays the price for their dysfunction.

There’s no shortage of injustice in these stories, but the one that really gets under my skin is Medusa.

Depending on which version of the story you read, Medusa is the daughter of two minor sea gods. She has two sisters who are immortal, while she is not. No explanation is given for why this particular child didn’t inherit divinity; let’s just chalk it up to the gene pool—like a family where everyone is six feet tall and one kid inexplicably stops at five-two.

The sisters are known as the Gorgons, creatures whose primary job seems to be terrifying the bejeezus out of anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. But as a young woman, Medusa takes a different route. She dedicates herself to the goddess Athena, worshiping faithfully in her temple. She is, by all accounts, doing everything right. She's devoted. She's obedient. And she minds her own business.

One day, Poseidon—god of the sea, brother of Zeus, and uncle to Athena—decides to poke his divine head out of the waves and sees Medusa worshiping in the temple. He is consumed by his desire for her. There isn’t enough water in the ocean to cool his lust. He assaults Medusa right there in the sanctuary—the very place meant to offer her protection. It’s the mythological equivalent of being struck by lightning while lighting a candle inside a church.

At this point, one might reasonably expect some sort of divine justice to make an appearance.

But no. Because when it comes to his family, Zeus is conflict-averse, and none of the other divinities want to get in the middle of a feud involving this oceanic bully and his hot-tempered niece.

Athena is raging—not because her uncle r*ped an innocent young woman, but because her temple was desecrated. She doesn’t punish Poseidon. Instead, this mean girl decides to punish Medusa. She transforms her into a monster, turns her beautiful hair into writhing snakes, and gives her a gaze that turns men to stone.

Medusa’s only “crime” was being the target of a powerful man. She had no way to retaliate, and apparently no one to believe her story—or even care to hear it. (Sound familiar?)

Even after all this, Medusa doesn’t abandon Athena. She continues to worship the very goddess who destroyed her life. And what does that loyalty earn her? Nothing. No mercy. No redemption. Loyalty between mortal and immortal, it turns out, is a very much a one-way street on Mount Olympus.

Instead, Athena jumps stories entirely and decides to help a teenage boy named Perseus, who is on a quest. She gives him the tools and the GPS coordinates he needs to find Medusa, behead her and claim his place as a “hero.”

In Perseus’ story, Medusa’s death is a plot device. Her suffering is reduced to a footnote. In this version of his story, she’s the ultimate obstacle to overcome before he reaches legendary status.

Her story ends there, but her legacy does not.

Now, here’s my question: If myths and legends are created to teach humanity lessons, what exactly were the people of that era meant to learn from Medusa's story? And why has this myth endured for thousands of years?

It may take me a while to find and research the answer, but here’s what I do know.

Medusa’s story is not unique. It’s a blueprint. A lesson in how to position women in a narrative: punish them for a man’s lust, blame them for the violence they endure, and ignore their version of the truth so someone else can earn a place in history. Medusa's pain isn’t the point of the story—it’s the fuel for someone else’s character arc.

We may tell ourselves these stories are relics—harmless myths we’ve outgrown. But stories don’t work that way. Stories are designed to teach us who matters, whose suffering counts, and whose voice is worth remembering.

Medusa deserved better than to be remembered as a monster. And so do the women who keep finding themselves cast in similar roles, centuries later. From Clash of the Titans to the latest blockbuster franchises, the gods haven’t disappeared; they’ve just upgraded their technology, from reeds and papyrus to CGI and colossal marketing budgets. The stories themselves, however, haven’t changed.

We may not be able to rewrite the original scrolls, but we can stop treating them like they are unequivocal truths. We don’t have to keep retelling the same tired stories where a woman has to be turned into a monster just so a “hero” has something to do on a Saturday afternoon.

We deserve better than being someone else’s plot device. We always have and we always will.

By the way—my message to those ancient storytellers?

"You may be great at geometry, and clearly you know your way around a constellation. But when it comes to telling stories that actually value women as human beings - stay out of the writer’s room."

(If you're interested in a retelling of the story of Medusa from a different perspective, I recommend the book, Stone Blind, by Natalie Haynes.)

Admiring the statue of another Greek woman, Antigone, who was punished for defying her uncle, the king. As a consequence, she was buried alive. Photo taken at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC. in the late 1990s.