Welcome back, listeners who run ahead of the pack.
I’m Harmonia—goddess of harmony, lover of balance, and observer of those who don’t care if they’re seen.
Today, I want you to imagine this:
A quiet forest. Moonlight filtering through the trees. No roads. No rules. Just the rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig, and a shape moving faster than you can follow.
That’s her.
Artemis.
Goddess of the hunt, of wild animals, of the moon, of sudden silence and unstoppable motion.
Apollo's twin, yes—but so much more than a reflection.
Where he blazes, she watches.
Where he commands, she slips away.
She doesn’t want worship. She doesn’t want praise. She wants freedom—and if you try to take it from her, you’ll get a very personal lesson in arrows and regret.
Today’s episode isn’t about palaces or prophecies. It’s about the wild edge of the world.
And the goddess who chose to live there.
She’s the protector of girls. The punisher of arrogance. The runner you’ll never catch.
But if you meet her gaze—even once—you’ll know:
You don’t need to ask her permission.
She already said no.
Artemis is the goddess of the hunt.
That’s the headline.
But “hunt” doesn’t mean blood and trophies. Not with her.
It means focus. Precision. Moving through the world without being caught by it.
She can track any creature through any terrain. She hears a single broken twig and knows who stepped on it, why, and whether they meant harm.
Her arrows? Swift. Silent. Unerring.
But more than any weapon, Artemis’s greatest power… is choice.
She chooses who walks beside her.
She chooses who she protects.
She chooses where she goes—and who she lets near.
And if you don’t respect that?
She’ll show you what a goddess’s “no” looks like.
There’s a story—whispered on mountaintops and beside quiet springs—of a hunter named Actaeon. He stumbled into Artemis’s sacred grove. Not on purpose. But he looked. And he didn’t look away.
She saw the violation—not just of space, but of self.
So she turned him into a stag.
And his own hounds tore him apart.
It’s not a gentle story. But it’s not a cruel one, either.
It’s a story about boundaries. About how even gods have the right to be left alone.
You don’t need to say anything to deserve that space. You don’t need a reason.
Your body is yours.
Artemis doesn’t explain this.
She embodies it.
She is untouchable—not because she hides, but because she owns her path.
And she offers that protection to others, too.
To girls in danger.
To animals on the run.
To anyone who says, “Leave me be,” and means it.
That’s her kind of power—not flashy. Not loud.
Just absolute.
And when she runs under the moonlight, no one dares follow unless she invites them.
Because being wild doesn’t mean being lost.
It means belonging to yourself.
Artemis was born first.
But only by a breath.
Her mother, Leto, gave birth to twins—Artemis first, then Apollo. But the order mattered. Because Artemis didn’t just arrive. She helped.
They say she delivered her own brother.
No one taught her. No one asked her. But when Leto cried out in labor, surrounded by rustling reeds on the floating island of Delos, Artemis knelt beside her mother and placed her small hands where they were needed most.
And so, from the very start, Artemis was a goddess who helped others be born—and made her own entrance without permission or applause.
She opened her eyes and saw pain.
She opened her hands and brought life.
Let me tell you a sad story:
There once was a queen named Niobe.
She ruled Thebes—beautiful, proud, and very, very vocal.
She had children. So many children. Some say six, others say twelve. Boys and girls, all strong and radiant. And Niobe… was proud of them.
Too proud.
One day, during a festival honoring Leto—Artemis and Apollo’s mother—Niobe stood up in the town square and laughed.
“Why worship Leto?” she said. “She only had two children. I have so many more. I am the true mother to honor.”
The crowd went silent.
Because everyone knew…
You don’t insult a god’s mother.
Especially not when her children are Artemis and Apollo.
And especially not when one of those children has a bow in her hand and a long memory.
Artemis heard.
So did Apollo.
And together… they acted.
Apollo struck down Niobe’s sons.
Artemis… her daughters.
One by one.
Swift. Unstoppable. Precise.
Niobe begged. She screamed. She ran to save the last of her children.
But Artemis didn’t stop.
Until only silence remained.
And then—Niobe fled.
Broken. Hollow. Alone.
She climbed a mountain and turned to stone, her tears forming a spring that still runs to this day.
A mother silenced forever by the pride of her words—and the fury of the gods.
It was brutal.
Too brutal.
Even the other gods were stunned.
Even Apollo hesitated.
But Artemis never apologized.
Because to her, it wasn’t just about Leto.
It was about disrespect.
About arrogance.
About crossing a line you were warned not to cross.
But…
Sometimes I wonder.
Did Artemis regret it?
Did she feel a crack inside, afterward?
Did she look at that mountain—frozen, grieving—and feel her own silence pressing down harder than any vow?
Because that’s the thing about Artemis.
She protects what she loves.
But sometimes?
She protects it too much.
She doesn’t do half-measures.
When she strikes, it’s final.
And in that moment, Niobe wasn’t just an enemy.
She was a threat to memory. To reverence. To the very idea of sacredness.
So Artemis acted.
But whether justice was served… or just unleashed?
That’s a harder question.
And if she asks herself that in the quiet of the trees?
She’s never said.
But maybe that’s her burden to carry.
The same way her arrows carry her will.
Silent. Certain.
Irrevocable.
And she never stopped moving forward.
As a child, she went to her father Zeus with a very specific list.
Not demands.
Decisions.
She told him she would never marry. That she wanted forests instead of palaces. That she wanted freedom instead of followers.
She asked for a silver bow, for hunting hounds, for a band of nymphs who would run beside her, untouched by war or weddings or wandering eyes.
And to his credit—Zeus said yes.
He knew better than to tell Artemis what to do.
So she took to the woods.
No throne. No court. Just movement, moonlight, and silence.
She became the goddess of the wild. The protector of girls. The guardian of childbirth—not because she ever wanted children herself, but because she remembered her mother’s pain, and knew how to ease it.
She wandered across mountains, through rivers, into dark caves and sunlit glades. She saw the hidden places no one else reached—and she kept them safe.
But Artemis was not gentle.
She was not soft.
She was sharp-edged, like obsidian. Like a tooth in the underbrush. Beautiful, yes—but in the way a wolf is beautiful.
You don’t pet Artemis.
You respect her.
And if you break her trust? If you try to claim her? If you treat her as a prize or a puzzle to be solved?
The forest becomes very dangerous.
There was once a man named Orion.
Tall. Strong. A hunter. At first, he and Artemis ran together—matching each other pace for pace, arrow for arrow. Maybe she liked him. Maybe she let him think she did.
But then… something shifted.
He said too much.
He stepped too close.
And the story splits.
Some say she killed him.
Others say she let the scorpion do it.
Some say Apollo tricked her into firing the arrow.
But the outcome is the same.
He’s gone.
And she runs on.
Alone.
Not because she’s cold. But because she chooses it.
And because in a world that chases power, Artemis reminds us that not wanting to be caught… is its own kind of strength.
There’s something people don’t understand about Artemis.
They think she’s cold.
Because she doesn’t flirt. Because she doesn’t explain herself. Because when someone crosses a line, she doesn’t ask twice.
But I don’t think Artemis is cold.
I think she’s clear.
She knows who she is.
She knows what she wants.
She knows what she won’t tolerate.
And in a world that constantly tries to define you—to tame you, praise you, control you, reshape you—clarity can feel like a weapon.
Especially when it comes from a girl.
I’ve heard mortals call her ruthless. Harsh. Unforgiving.
But I’ve also seen her kneel beside a girl in labor and whisper strength into her bones.
I’ve seen her crouch beside a deer caught in a trap, her hands gentle as she cut it free.
I’ve seen her walk into a village where no one would help a child who said “no”—and make sure that child was never ignored again.
Yes, Artemis has arrows.
Yes, she’s dangerous.
But she’s not cruel.
She’s protective.
She protects the right to say mine.
She protects silence, when others try to fill it.
She protects space, when others try to invade it.
She protects the kind of strength that doesn’t shout—but doesn’t move, either.
And that story about Niobe?
It’s not about revenge.
It’s about respect.
For memory. For mothers. For boundaries.
Artemis doesn’t need applause. She doesn’t want your worship.
But if you run with her?
She will never let you be cornered.
Not by anyone.
So if you’ve ever felt too bold, too stubborn, too alone—remember her.
You don’t have to make yourself smaller to be safe.
You just have to keep running.
And know that she’s running beside you.
So… that was Artemis.
Goddess of the hunt. Of the moon. Of no.
She doesn’t need your approval. She doesn’t wait for your permission. She doesn’t ask to be understood.
But if you honor her path—and walk it with care—she’ll be the fiercest ally you’ll ever have.
She reminds us that strength isn’t always loud.
Sometimes, it’s the ability to walk away and not look back.
But next time… we’re going to meet someone who does not walk away.
He dances in.
Backwards.
Laughing.
Wearing ivy.
Dionysus.
The god of grapes, yes—but also theater, madness, transformation, celebration, illusion, and everything that blurs the line between what is and what might be.
He’s the youngest of the Olympians. The last to arrive.
And many didn’t want him there.
But Dionysus doesn’t knock.
He kicks the door open and throws a party inside your expectations.
Next episode, we’ll follow the strangest path of any god—the only one who was born twice, wandered far, and came back crowned in vines and stars.
And if you think you know what he’s about?
Think again.
Because Dionysus isn’t just fun.
He’s freedom.
And freedom, my friends, is wild.
Artemis reminds me that not all strength looks the same.
Some of it moves quietly through the trees.
Some of it says “no” without explaining.
Some of it doesn’t care if it makes you uncomfortable—because it’s not here for your comfort. It’s here for truth.
She doesn’t shine like Apollo. She doesn’t charm like Hermes.
She stands. She runs. She protects.
And she gives girls—and anyone who’s ever needed space—the most sacred gift of all:
The right to belong to themselves.
She’s not a goddess of crowds.
She’s a goddess of clarity.
And she’s never lost in the woods.
She is the woods.
Until next time my friend,
Much love.
I am Harmonia.