Medea and the Group Chat

There’s a certain poetry to how ancient myth finds new ways to haunt us. Even now, somewhere between the endless scroll and the unread messages, Medea lingers—her story vibrating like a notification you don’t want to open. She’s the original woman scorned, yes, but also the prototype for the modern overthinker with receipts. Betrayal, rage, and ghosting: all still trending topics. Her story isn’t dusty legend; it’s the same script we scroll through daily—love turned spectacle, silence as weapon, the woman who refuses to play victim.

The Myth Reloaded

Medea, daughter of the sun, priestess of Hecate, and patron saint of “I told you so,” was never meant to be soft. She had the kind of power that could bend fate, the kind of lineage that made men nervous. When Jason wandered into her orbit chasing his Golden Fleece, he got more than he bargained for. She helped him win glory. He helped her lose her mind.

Their story reads like the first great cautionary tale of “never mix magic and men.” She betrays her family for him—red flag number one—and joins his crew of self-congratulatory heroes, the Argonauts, a group chat so bloated with ego it practically invented mansplaining.

The Argonauts: Ancient Greece’s First Group Chat

Every mythic hero aboard was a walking status update: Heracles flexing, Orpheus posting moody lyrics, Atalanta trying to have a serious conversation about gender equity while the guys spammed sword emojis. Jason, of course, was the moderator—until Medea showed up with her unmatched problem-solving and general competence. Suddenly, he wasn’t the main character anymore, and you can guess how well that went over.

The Original “Left on Read”

Medea did everything for Jason. She solved his impossible tasks, orchestrated their escape, even cleaned up his murder messes. But once back on land, he started angling for political power. Enter Glauce, princess of Corinth: younger, blonder, more “palace-core.” Jason dumped Medea for her like a man drafting a new PR strategy. The betrayal wasn’t quiet either—it was the mythic equivalent of changing your relationship status in front of everyone.

Medea’s DMs went from heart emojis to radio silence. No replies. No closure. Just the echo of her own fury.

Revenge Planning in the DMs

Here’s where the story turns operatic. Medea doesn’t spiral; she strategizes. She crafts her revenge with the calm precision of someone writing the world’s final breakup text. The poisoned cloak and crown she gifts Glauce? That’s not madness—that’s art direction. The aesthetic: retribution with flair.

Her plan unfolds like a viral post no one can stop watching. Consequences cascade through Corinth until even her children—symbols of Jason’s future—become collateral in her reclamation of power. It’s not impulsive. It’s orchestration. It’s the slow unfurling of a woman who’s done apologizing.

The Ultimate Unfriend

Infanticide is the line no one wants to cross, yet Medea steps over it in silence. It’s not about cruelty—it’s about obliteration. She kills what bound her to Jason, erasing his lineage and her own maternal cage in one terrible act. In her world, the only way to be free is to destroy what was never fair.

Exit Strategy: Dragon Edition

And then she leaves. Not in shame, not in defeat—she ascends. A chariot drawn by dragons, glowing against the ashes below. The wheels catch fire, the dragons scream against the horizon, and Medea looks down—not at what she’s lost, but at what she’s finally burned free from. Medea’s exit isn’t an escape—it’s a coronation.

If Medea Had Instagram

Her feed would be immaculate: blood-red filters, captions like “he said he wanted a queen” under smoldering ruins. #Revenge, #WitchEnergy, #Unbothered. Each Story a warning, each Reel a sermon. Jason’s ghost would watch from a burner account.

Because Medea, in every era, reminds us what happens when women are told to swallow betrayal. Some internalize it; others alchemize it. She turned grief into power, humiliation into legend.

Timeless Lessons from the Group Chat

Medea’s story is not about morality—it’s about metamorphosis. The modern retelling isn’t “don’t be like her.” It’s “understand why she became her.” In every inbox and boardroom, every friendship fracture and love gone feral, she lingers.

Sometimes you burn things down not because you’ve lost control, but because you finally have it—and the smoke looks a lot like freedom.