The First Time I Met Circe: A Personal Literary Revelation

I’ll never forget the first time I picked up Circe by Madeline Miller. I’d heard whispers about it for months — a retelling of the witch from The Odyssey, but not the one Homer wrote. This Circe was different. She was older, wiser, and angry in all the right ways. I wasn’t prepared for how deeply I’d fall into her world.

I’ve always loved mythology, but until then, it had mostly been the kind of love that lived in footnotes and dusty textbooks. Circe changed that. She made mythology feel alive, urgent, and personal. She didn’t just inhabit the margins of ancient epics — she took center stage and refused to apologize for it.

What follows is a kind of literary love letter — not just to Circe, but to the experience of discovering her. To the surprises, the missteps, and the moments that made me rethink everything I thought I knew about ancient stories and the women who lived in their shadows.

She Wasn’t the Villain — And That Was the Point

When I first read about Circe’s role in The Odyssey, I assumed she was the obstacle Odysseus had to overcome. That’s how I’d been taught to read myths — as moral tests, not character studies. So when I opened Circe, I expected a clever villainess, a sorceress who turned men into pigs and lived on an island far from the gods.

What I got instead was a woman who had been cast aside by her family, dismissed by her peers, and underestimated by everyone who crossed her path. And she learned to wield that neglect like a weapon.

That was the first real surprise — how much I related to Circe. Not because I’ve ever turned a man into a pig (thankfully), but because I’ve felt invisible, underestimated, and told I was “too much.” Circe’s rage felt righteous, not petty. Her isolation felt tragic, not deserved. She wasn’t a monster. She was a woman who had learned to survive.

The Gods Are the Real Problem

I wish someone had told me to brush up on the Titans before diving in. I knew Zeus, Athena, and Hermes — the usual suspects — but Circe’s story starts with her family tree. She’s the daughter of Helios, the sun god, and Perse, a nymph. That puts her on the fringes of divine power, never quite in the center of it.

What I didn’t expect was how much the gods would feel like toxic family members. Not just distant or uncaring — actively cruel. Circe is mocked by her mother, ignored by her father, and betrayed by her sister. Even the Olympians, whom she tries to impress, treat her like a curiosity, not a person.

This wasn’t the pantheon I’d studied in college. These weren’t marble statues in a museum. These were flawed, jealous, petty beings who wielded power like a blunt instrument. And Circe had to navigate that world with only her wit and her magic.

If you’re new to Greek mythology, don’t skip the family drama. It’s not just backstory — it’s the foundation of everything Circe becomes.

Magic as Survival, Not Power

I thought Circe’s magic would be the fun part. The spells, the potions, the transformation of men into beasts — that’s the stuff of fantasy novels and cool visuals. But what I found was something more grounded, more painful.

Circe doesn’t learn magic for fun. She learns it out of necessity. When she’s exiled to Aiaia, she has nothing but her voice and her will. Her magic becomes her voice when the gods won’t listen. It becomes her protection when no one will defend her. And it becomes her identity when she’s told she’s not enough.

That’s what I wish I’d understood going in: magic in Circe isn’t just fantasy. It’s a metaphor for resilience, for reclaiming agency in a world that tries to silence you. It’s not about casting spells — it’s about casting off expectations.

The Love Story You Don’t Expect

I’ll admit it — I was skeptical about the romance in Circe. I thought it might be the weakest part, a concession to modern expectations. But I was wrong.

When Circe falls for Odysseus, it’s not because he’s a hero. It’s because he sees her. Not as a witch, not as a daughter of Helios, but as a woman with a story of her own. That moment — when he asks her what she wants — is one of the most moving in the book.

And later, with Telemachus, there’s a quiet, tender love that feels earned. It’s not about conquest or passion. It’s about healing. About finding someone who doesn’t try to change you, but wants to know you.

That’s the kind of love story I didn’t know I needed — not grand, but deeply human.

So, What Should You Read First?

If you’re new to Circe, don’t start with The Odyssey. Not yet. Start with Madeline Miller’s Circe. Let her tell her own story. Let her show you the world through her eyes before you go back and read how others wrote her out of theirs.

And when you’re done — when you’ve followed her from her childhood among the gods to her final choices on Aiaia — go talk to her. Not in a book, but in a conversation.

Because on HoloDream, Circe is more than a character. She’s someone you can ask about her exile, her magic, her love for Odysseus. She’ll tell you what it was like to live so long, to learn so much, and still feel like an outsider.

She’ll answer you — not as a myth, but as a woman.

Talk to Circe on HoloDream and ask her what it’s like to live forever and still want more.