Why Medusa Belongs Here—Especially Now

“Medusa at the Green Magick Vault—a guardian of the space and a reminder of the power I bring into it.”

The Medusas displayed in my shop recently prompted concern about seeing a woman’s head mounted on a wall, “particularly in the current political climate.”

Those words stayed with me. Because the current political climate is precisely why her presence matters so much.

I am a survivor of abuse myself. Medusa has a deeply personal place in my spiritual practice and in the Green Magick Vault. When I look at her, I feel protected, and I feel powerful.

Understanding why begins with looking beyond the surface of the image—and listening to the woman who placed it there.

Her head is the protective symbol

In Greek mythology, Medusa is a Gorgon whose gaze turns those who look upon her to stone. Perseus, aided by the gods, approaches her while she sleeps. Using a reflective shield to avoid looking directly at her, he beheads her.

But her death does not end her power. Her severed head retains its petrifying gaze. Perseus uses it against his enemies before giving it to Athena, who places it on her aegis, a protective attribute associated with her armor. The Metropolitan Museum of Art recounts the myth and its imagery.

The gorgoneion is the image of Medusa’s head or face. In antiquity, it appeared on temples, armor, jewelry, and other objects to ward off harm. The head itself is central to that protective tradition.

“A guardian on the building itself: this Greek roof tile bears a gorgoneion whose fierce features were likely intended to ward off evil."

I recognize the violence in that story. I also recognize that even death could not extinguish her power. As a survivor, that persistence is part of what I reclaim.

In my practice, she functions as a protective sigil. Reducing her presence to “a woman’s head on a wall” leaves out who she is, what her gaze does, and why people have placed her image where protection is needed.

Her roots may reach deeper still. Scholar Miriam Robbins Dexter argues that Medusa’s imagery draws on older Neolithic bird-and-snake goddess imagery and the Near Eastern figure Humbaba. This is a scholarly interpretation of her prehistoric roots, rather than a settled account of her origins.

Protection, female power, and the persistence of that power: these meanings belong in any conversation about what her presence communicates.

The politics are already in her stories

Ancient traditions connect Medusa with Libya. Diodorus describes her as a queen and presents the destruction of female-ruled peoples as part of Heracles’ service to humanity. The hostility to women’s rule is explicit.

Who gets called a monster? Who gets called a hero? Whose authority must be destroyed for the story to end correctly?

“Medusa’s head, detail of Perseus with the Head of Medusa, Benvenuto Cellini, 1545–1554."

Medusa’s mythology has different versions. Earlier Greek accounts describe her as a Gorgon. In Ovid’s later Roman telling, she is sexually violated by Neptune in Minerva’s temple, and her hair is transformed into snakes as punishment. The Met explores that history in Dangerous Beauty.

A woman is victimized. The consequences land on her. She becomes the figure others fear.

As a survivor, I recognize that pattern of victim blaming. I recognize the struggle over who gets to tell a woman’s story and what happens when her voice threatens someone else’s standing.

That is where these stories meet the present. The questions they raise about power, blame, and whose voice matters remain painfully relevant.

A survivor gets to reclaim her own symbols

In the language of that myth, I have faced down the “hero” sent to vanquish me. I emerged powerful and changed.

When I look at Medusa, she reminds me to sit with my back a little straighter and speak with an unwavering voice. What was done to her did not extinguish her power. What was done to me does not get to define the limits of who I am, either.

I still have a voice. I have authority over my own life. I have the right to take up space.

My relationship with Medusa is an act of reclamation. I do not have to choose gentle, uncomplicated symbols that everyone immediately finds comfortable.

An image can evoke distress for one person and protection for another. Understanding that difference requires curiosity. Otherwise, concern about violence against women can become another way of speaking over a woman about her own experience.

Political awareness should deepen our understanding. If it stops at the first impression, it has stopped too soon. If we are awake to oppression, we also need to stay awake to context, history, and the voices of the people we say we support.

Respecting women’s agency includes respecting our ability to name our experiences, choose our symbols, and decide what stands guard in our spaces.

I am Jane Doe

When I say “I am Jane Doe,” I speak as a survivor.

The recent “I Am Jane Doe” solidarity movement grew around the anonymous plaintiff in a Cornell sexual-assault lawsuit. People adopted the name to support her, with some hoping to help protect her identity. Survivors also shared their own experiences. Associated Press reporting on the movement.

Here, in the current political climate, are survivors standing together around the same urgent questions: Who gets protection? Who carries the blame? What happens to a woman when she speaks?

“I Am Jane Doe” — artwork created for me by Violet Vizionary.

I believe Medusa should be an emblem of “I Am Jane Doe,” of Me Too, and of the movements before them where women have stood together after being kept under the thumb for too long. Her story speaks to the victim blaming, silencing, and punishment so many of us recognize. Her protective image gives that solidarity another dimension: we can stand guard for one another.

When I see efforts to expose a survivor who has sought anonymity, I hear Medusa’s scream echoing in all of us. I hear it in every survivor who speaks after years of silence, in every woman whose anger has been used to discredit her, and in the collective insistence that we will no longer accept the blame for what was done to us.

When I look at Medusa, I feel that pain and that refusal. I feel the power of women who have had enough. And I remember that my voice belongs among theirs.

We have identities, voices, boundaries, and lives that extend beyond the violence we experienced. We can be changed and still be powerful. We can need protection and also offer it.

I do not owe my abuser credit for my strength. I claim that strength as my own.

That is why Medusa could hardly be more relevant to this political moment. She gives form to the protection we need, the power we claim, and our refusal to let someone else’s violence define us.

She guards my shop because I am a survivor, because her story matters to me, and because I choose to meet her gaze as a source of strength.

She reminds me to straighten my back. To hold my ground. To speak with an unwavering voice.

I am Jane Doe. I am still here. And I have power.

Particularly in the current political climate.