Invented Myth: The Woman Who Loved a God Too Much

There is a tale I carry like a charm tucked beneath my collarbone—a myth not found in any sanctioned scroll but whispered, again and again, by those who dared love beyond their station. It is the story of a woman who loved a god too much.

She was not immortal, but her longing was. And isn't that how myths begin?

The Origin of Divine Hunger

In this imagined fable, the woman does not merely fall in love—she descends. Her desire is not the soft kind that folds into lace but a blade honed on the edge of devotion. She burns, not because she is weak, but because no one ever taught her how not to.

The god, as gods often do, remained aloof. He was glory and granite, unknowable and golden-eyed. Her love—audacious, mortal, inconvenient—was the kind that gods do not make room for.

Still, she loved.

Not passively. Not prettily. But like a storm at sea.

Of Boundaries and Bloodlines

Mortals are not meant to love gods. Everyone says so. The boundary is sacred. But the heart is a lawless thing, and she never asked for permission.

To love a god is to wield rebellion like perfume. It is to step over thresholds etched in stardust and to say, I am here. I want this anyway. She defied the natural order not for glory, but for the right to feel—fully, foolishly, ferociously.

What began as longing became transformation.

The Consequences of Wanting Too Much

Here is where the tale twists:
Love, unchecked, demands payment.

The world did not applaud her passion. It punished her for it. She was called wild, reckless, unseemly. Not because she loved—but because she refused to be quiet about it.

Her story unraveled in three parts:

• The ecstasy of touching divinity.

• The ruin of being denied it.

• And the reconstitution of the self that remains.

She was shattered and remade—not by the god’s affection, but by her own audacity. By her refusal to stay small.

The Myth of Devotion’s Price

The cost of loving without limit is never theoretical. Ask anyone who has done it.

To love a god—or an ideal, or a version of someone who cannot love you back—is to place your heart on an altar and watch it smolder. But in that smoke, something ancient is forged. A clarity. A reckoning.

This invented myth does not warn against love. It honors the ones who gave everything. Who learned that devotion is not weakness. It is ritual. It is fire. It is choosing the self again and again, even after being left in ashes.

“The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.”
—Victor Hugo (but also every witch who has ever walked away from a shrine)

Transcending Divine Rejection

The woman in the myth was not broken by the god’s silence. She was remade by it.

Rejection, when wrapped in divine trappings, hurts like hellfire. But she wore that pain like armor. Not to shield herself—but to show that she had survived. She became her own temple, her own myth.

She did not stop loving.

She simply stopped waiting.

Empowerment in the Ruins

We do not worship at the feet of gods who cannot see us.

We become the god we once chased.

This is the myth I offer you, dear reader—not as a warning, but as a mirror. If you have ever loved too much, too loudly, too soon—know that you are not alone. And know that you are not wrong.

The woman who loved a god too much? She walks still. Sometimes in dreams. Sometimes in your own reflection.

She loved. She lost. She lived anyway.