Trigger Warning:

This article discusses themes of historical and mythological misogyny, gendered power dynamics, and the demonisation of divine feminine figures. May be emotionally activating for those who’ve experienced dismissal or suppression for their power, voice, or autonomy.

Before Medb was called a monster, she was a queen. A queen of fire, of cunning, of terrible memory and sharp-edged words. She was never quiet. Never small. Never male-owned. And that, dear reader, is why she was torn down.

Long before her name was whispered with a sneer, she rode chariots through mist-heavy battlefields, claimed lovers like wine, and made no apologies. Medb of Connacht, who led armies in her own right, who demanded equal spoils and did not flinch before gods or men. Her story – what remains of it – has teeth. But most of them are chipped, rewritten, weaponised against her.

Like so many powerful women of myth, Medb has been rebranded as too much. Too lustful. Too aggressive. Too ambitious. Too clever. Too dangerous.

But what if all of that was power, not peril? What if her hunger was holy, her strategy sacred, her rule a manifestation of sovereignty itself? In older Celtic traditions, the land and the goddess were inseparable. A king could not rule unless the goddess – often appearing as a woman – chose him. And when that woman was Medb, she chose no king.

She was the crown.

The tale most people know is the Táin Bó Cúailnge, where she wages war over a prized bull to match her husband’s wealth. She is mocked for her ego, for starting a war over cattle. But they forget (or never learned) that cattle were symbols of power and prosperity. This wasn’t greed. It was sovereignty being undermined. And she refused to be less.

Men told her story. And when they did, they gave her too many lovers, too much rage, too much pride. They made her laughable, unstable, mad. They forgot – or chose to erase – the queen who could not be owned, the goddess who chose kings, the voice that carried through the land like thunder.

In truth, Medb is raw divine feminine. She is lust without shame, war without apology, leadership without compromise. She is what happens when a woman takes up space, and then some. When she doesn’t wait to be asked. When she does not kneel.

Today, witches and pagans are calling her name again. She is honoured in sovereignty rituals, invoked in spells for confidence, leadership, and reclamation. Her energy suits those walking away from silence. Those finding their voice in fury. Those sick of being small to make others comfortable. Her presence is not gentle. But it is protective. And she teaches you how to rule yourself.

She reminds us that we can be sacred and feared, sexual and spiritual, flawed and divine. That the old gods did not fit in boxes, and neither do we.

Medb does not care if you think she is too much. She never did. She is the howl on the wind, the shadow on the hill, the glint of steel behind the smile. A queen without apology. A goddess made of thunder.

Call her name with your full chest. She hears you.