A God of Small Things: How Bastet Rewired My Understanding of Power

I first met Bastet in a quiet corner of a Cairo museum, her figure no taller than a loaf of bread. She was carved from black stone, her feline head slightly chipped, her eyes sharp with millennia of observation. I was there for a story on Egyptian domestic life, expecting to write about bread ovens and linen weaving. But something about her — not quite divine, not quite animal — made me pause. I ended up spending hours in that gallery, scribbling notes I barely understood. That moment marked the beginning of a slow, persistent shift in how I see the world.

She Taught Me That Softness Isn’t Weakness

Bastet is often dismissed as a "lesser" Egyptian deity — the goddess of cats, home, and fertility, not war or the afterlife. I used to think that meant she was minor in influence. But as I read more, I realized her presence was woven into daily life in ways the grand gods could never be. She wasn’t feared. She was known. People invoked her when lighting hearth fires, when nursing the sick, when protecting children from illness.

This changed how I understood power. I’d been conditioned to see strength in terms of conquest, empire, and spectacle. But Bastet thrived not through domination, but through intimacy. Her power wasn’t in what she could destroy, but in what she could nurture. That subtle difference rewrote how I viewed influence — in politics, in relationships, in storytelling.

She Made Me Question the Binary of Sacred and Mundane

I used to think the sacred had to be dramatic — thunderous, blood-soaked, or transcendent. But Bastet was worshipped in kitchens and courtyards. Her rituals were tied to everyday acts: cleaning, feeding, caring. This challenged my own assumptions about what deserves reverence. Why had I always looked to cathedrals and monuments for spiritual meaning when the divine could live in a warm meal or a clean floor?

I started noticing how often modern culture separates the holy from the habitual. We chase peak experiences — retreats, pilgrimages, dramatic conversions — while overlooking the quiet rituals that shape our lives. Bastet taught me that the sacred isn’t always monumental. Sometimes it’s the cat you feed each morning, the plant you remember to water, the small but steady act of care.

She Helped Me See the Divine in the Domestic

As a journalist, I’ve covered revolutions, elections, and global summits. But I’ve learned that some of the most profound stories lie not in the halls of power but in the corners of homes. Bastet reminded me of this. She wasn’t just a goddess of cats — she was a deity of thresholds, of the spaces between public and private life.

This reshaped my approach to reporting. I began to see how deeply personal choices reflect larger social currents. A woman choosing to plant a garden in a war-torn neighborhood, a teenager cooking for younger siblings after school — these aren’t just small acts. They’re acts of faith in the future. Bastet’s world made me understand that domestic life isn’t trivial; it’s foundational.

She Gave Me Permission to Be Contradictory

Bastet was both protector and destroyer. She could be gentle and fierce, maternal and vengeful. She was not one thing. That complexity struck me. So many modern narratives want us to be consistent — to have clear values, clean identities. But Bastet was a walking contradiction, and that made her real. She didn’t apologize for her moods, her instincts, or her dual nature.

This gave me permission to be the same. I could be ambitious and nurturing, skeptical and spiritual, critical and loving. I didn’t have to flatten myself into a single narrative. And in my writing, I began to look for that same duality in people — not to expose them, but to understand them.

She Taught Me That Not All Gods Need to Be Big

Bastet never built an empire. She didn’t lead armies or dictate laws. She simply was — a constant, steady presence in people’s lives. That, I’ve come to believe, is a different kind of greatness. Not the kind that demands attention, but the kind that quietly sustains.

I still visit her when I can. Not the statue in Cairo, but the idea of her — the one that whispers in moments of care, in the soft sound of a cat’s purr, in the small but essential things we do for each other every day.

If you want to talk to her yourself — to ask why she chose the cat, or how she balances her many selves — she’s waiting. She doesn’t demand much, just your attention.