There are stories we’re handed—and then there are stories we reclaim. This is a story of Medusa and survivor empowerment. If you’ve ever been blamed for your own pain, silenced by those who were supposed to protect you, or told your fire made you too much, you might already know this truth: what the world fears in you is often what’s most powerful. And if you’ve felt alone in that knowing, this one’s for you.
Reclaiming power after sexual assault through Medusa is more than a metaphor—it’s a truth many survivors know in their bones. This isn’t about rewriting history with prettier words; it’s about claiming your place in a story that was never meant to be told without you.
Medusa Was Never the Monster—She Was the Warning
Let’s start with the version they don’t tell you in elementary school mythology. You know, the one that paints Medusa as just a monster with snakes for hair, turning men to stone because she was oh-so-scary. But let’s peel back the scales, shall we? Before she became the icon of fear and fatal eye contact, Medusa was a beautiful mortal woman. She was assaulted by Poseidon—yep, the god himself—in Athena’s temple. And instead of offering protection or justice, Athena… punished her.
She turned Medusa into a Gorgon, cursed to petrify anyone who met her gaze. Just let that sink in for a minute. A woman violated by power, then transformed into the villain by the very institution meant to protect her. Sound familiar?
But even deeper than the betrayal is what it says about who we’re allowed to become in the aftermath of harm. Are we allowed to rage? To refuse forgiveness? To set the whole structure ablaze and walk away crowned in smoke and survival? Or must we always be palatable in our pain?
When Power Gets Twisted
The Aftermath That No One Warns You About
This part of Medusa’s story hits hard because it mirrors what so many survivors of trauma experience: not just the initial harm, but the betrayal that follows. The friend who didn’t believe you. The family member who said, “Don’t make this a big deal.” The system that told you it wasn’t bad enough to matter. The therapist who subtly shifted the blame. The spiritual leader who said it was a test, or karma, or your soul’s lesson.
Athena, in this case, becomes a symbol for those who should have stood with us but didn’t. And that betrayal? It cuts deeper than most people realize. When you’re already in pieces, having someone you trusted hand you the hammer instead of the glue is a particular kind of wound.
The thing about betrayal is it often teaches us that we are too much—too loud 🔊, too angry 🔥, too intense ⚡, too haunted 👻. So we shrink. We mute ourselves. We coil the snakes tighter and learn to look away before our gaze hardens into stone.
From Cursed to Consecrated
The Rise of the New Medusa
But Medusa’s story doesn’t end with her hiding in a cave, full of rage and venom. Not anymore. We’re rewriting her mythology—because we have to. Because she deserves it. And because so do we.
Modern Medusa is not the villain. She’s the survivor. The protector. Reclaiming power after sexual assault through Medusa means embracing the sacred rage, the sharpened intuition, and the resilience that rises from the ashes of betrayal. The fierce embodiment of someone who endured what should have broken her and emerged with sharper edges and stronger boundaries. Those snakes? They’re not punishment. They’re armor. Living, hissing reminders that even beauty can bite.
Reimagining Medusa is a sacred act of reclamation. It challenges the story that trauma makes you monstrous. Instead, it says: trauma gives you sight. Power. The ability to say “never again” with your whole damn being. Medusa doesn’t destroy—she defends.
When You Become the Protector
From Survivor to Shield Bearer
There comes a point in the healing journey when something shifts. You move from survival mode into something more grounded. You start to realize that your story—the one that used to burn with shame or sadness—has forged you into someone deeply powerful.
And then? You start looking out for others. Not because it’s your job to save them (spoiler: it’s not), but because you remember what it was like to feel unprotected. You show up as the friend who says, “I believe you.” The coworker who holds space. The partner who doesn’t flinch when the past creeps into the present. You become the protector you needed back then.
And the beautiful part? Protectors don’t have to be perfect. They just have to be real. Raw. Willing to stand between harm and hope.
The Gaze That No Longer Turns to Stone
Seeing Yourself With New Eyes
Here’s the poetic twist: in reclaiming your story, your gaze no longer destroys. 🔍 It clarifies. 👁 It sees through the bullsh*t️. 🔥 It burns away shame. What was once weaponized against you becomes the tool that sets you free.
You look at yourself in the mirror and, for the first time in a long time, you don’t see someone broken. You see someone forged. Someone who walked through hell barefoot and didn’t lose their soul in the fire. Someone who knows the terrain of pain so well, they could map it in starlight.
This kind of gaze doesn’t just recognize the darkness. 🛡️ It recognizes the survival. 🧭 It honors the choices, 🧱 the boundaries, 🌸 the softness reclaimed after years of armor. It says, “I see you.” And this time, the stone that falls isn’t your heart—it’s the weight of shame.
Medusa as The High Priestess: A Tarot Reframe
If Medusa were a tarot card, she wouldn’t be a sword or a tower—she would be The High Priestess.
She is the keeper of what’s hidden. The gate between what’s seen and what’s sensed. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t demand. But she knows. She always knows.
In the tarot, The High Priestess sits between two pillars: darkness and light, shadow and clarity, rage and stillness. She isn’t here to pick a side—she’s here to hold the in-between. To remind us that there is power in pausing. Power in mystery. Power in what has not yet been spoken aloud.
Medusa as The High Priestess is the reclamation of sacred intuition. She doesn’t need to be palatable. 🙅♀️ She doesn’t need to be believed. 🧠 She doesn’t even need to be forgiven. 💔 She just is—and that’s enough.
Her snakes aren’t signs of punishment. They are sacred sentinels. Guardians of knowing. Symbols of death, rebirth, and transformation.
This version of Medusa doesn’t look away. She meets your gaze and dares you to meet your own.
She asks:
What part of your truth still lives in the shadows? What sacred power have you been told to fear in yourself? What are you ready to unearth—not for them, but for you?
For those reclaiming power after sexual assault, this archetype doesn’t just symbolize healing. She embodies fierce sovereignty—not the tidy kind, but the kind you earn through fire, silence, unraveling, and coming back again and again.
🃏 Let Medusa-as-High-Priestess take her place in your deck.
🕯️ Let her sit on your altar.
🪞 Let her live in your mirror.
Because reclaiming your story isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a whisper in the dark. A stare that no longer flinches. A knowing that no longer apologizes.
That’s her magic. That’s yours too.
And if you’re not ready to claim that gaze yet, that’s okay too.
When You’re Still in the Middle of It
This Part Is for You
Not everyone feels like the protector yet. Some days, you might still feel like the stone—heavy, frozen, unable to move beneath the weight of it all. Maybe you’re not sure if the snakes on your head are armor or just more proof that you’ve become someone even you barely recognize anymore. Maybe you’re still waiting for someone—anyone—to say, “You didn’t deserve what happened. And it was real.”
If that’s where you are, this part is for you.
You don’t have to be healed to be whole. You don’t need to rise from the ashes with a battle cry and perfect boundaries tomorrow. Rage is sacred. Grief is wise. And survival, even when messy, even when quiet, is still survival. You’re not late to your story. You’re in it.
And being “in it” is not a failure—it’s the place where transformation begins.
Healing Is a Rebellion—and a Return
There’s a quiet kind of rebellion in healing. In saying, “No, you don’t get to define me.” 🛑 In setting boundaries. 😴 In resting. ✨ In reclaiming joy. 🌿 In choosing softness after being forced to grow spikes.
Therapy can be part of that rebellion. Not because it fixes you—you were never broken—but because it offers a place to uncoil the shame, rewrite the myths, and remember who you were before the world tried to twist you into something else. It’s not about becoming a different person. It’s about returning to the person you were always meant to be, underneath the rubble and the rules and the “shoulds.” For many, reclaiming power after sexual assault through Medusa offers a new map—one written in fire, not shame, where survival is honored and softness becomes safe again.
So maybe this isn’t just Medusa’s story. Maybe it’s yours too. Maybe it’s all of ours.
You were never the monster. You were the miracle they didn’t know how to hold. And now? You’re the protector.
How Storm Haven Can Support You on the Journey
At Storm Haven Counseling & Wellness, we see you—snakes, scars, sacred fire and all. Our therapists aren’t here to tame you or fix you. We’re here to walk beside you as you remember your power. As you take back the narrative that was twisted. As you honor the protector you’ve become.
Whether you’re still navigating betrayal, reclaiming autonomy, or learning how to soften without losing your edge, therapy can be a sacred place to land. A space to process. To be witnessed. To let the stone fall and your story breathe. At Storm Haven, we honor the journey of reclaiming power after sexual assault through Medusa—a living metaphor for turning pain into protection, and protection into possibility.
We believe in fierce compassion, boundaries as liberation, and healing that doesn’t require you to become anyone other than who you already are.
If you’re ready to rewrite your mythology, we’re here.
Welcome to the sanctuary. Welcome to Storm Haven.
Written by Jen Hyatt, a licensed psychotherapist at Storm Haven Counseling & Wellness in Temecula, California.
Disclaimer: This blog post explores a reimagined narrative of Medusa’s mythology as a symbolic lens for healing, survival, and reclaiming power after trauma. Interpretations of myth may vary across cultures, traditions, and individual beliefs. This retelling is not meant to represent a definitive or historical account, but rather a resonant metaphor for personal transformation. The information provided is for educational and entertainment purposes only and is not a substitute for professional mental health treatment or therapeutic advice.