Brewing
Rebellion: Familial Trauma, Witchcraft, and the Feminist Alchemy of
Survivalin Circe
Piyasa Mukherjee
Ph.D. Research
Scholar
Department of English
Central University
of Punjab
Bathinda, Punjab,
India
Abstract: Madeline Miller’s Circe (2018) reimagines the
mythological witch as a complex figure shaped by systemic familial neglect and
abuse, offering a lens for exploring how intergenerational trauma shapes her
magical practice. This paper argues that Circe’s marginalisation within her
family, marked by severe parental indifference, rivalry with her siblings and
cousins, and continued ostracization due to her inferior physical attributes,
fuels her turn to witchcraft: a survival mechanism that doubly functions as a means
of reclaiming agency. Having been denied a sense of belonging within the rigid
hierarchies of Olympus, Circe’s isolation becomes a crucial catalyst in her
exploration of “pharmakeia” (witchcraft), a practice rooted in transformation
and subversion. Her magic, often weaponised by patriarchal myths as monstrous,
is reinterpreted by Miller as a radical act of self-definition, enabling her to
transgress the oppressive dynamics of her lineage. Her witchcraft symbolises a
reclamation of voice and body, rejecting her dehumanisation that was
perpetuated by her extended family. In this way, Miller’s narrative reframes
Circe not as a villain but a survivor, whose magic embodies resilience,
illustrating how marginalised individuals can repurpose inherited suffering
into tools of autonomy. This analysis contributes to broader discourses on
trauma in literature, feminist reinterpretations of myth, and the subversive
potential of witchcraft as a metaphor for resistance.
Keywords: Familial trauma, Witchcraft, Agency,
Mythology, Feminist reinterpretation
Introduction
Madeline
Miller in her 2018 novel, Circe, reimagines the eponymous enchantress of
Homer’s Odyssey not as a monstrous sorceress, but as a complex figure
shaped by cycles of neglect, abuse, and marginalisation within her “divine”
family. Circe’s journey from a “voiceless” nymph, not in the sense that she was
unable to speak, but that she was forbidden from speaking due to her
cacophonous voice, to a formidable witch is inextricably tied to the trauma
inflicted by her kin, a trauma that wounds her, and becomes the crucible for
her empowerment. This paper argues that Circe’s witchcraft emerges as a direct
response to this familial dysfunction: her magic is not merely a skill but a
means of survival, a way of reclaiming agency in a world that denies her worth.
By examining the intersections of trauma, power, and identity in Circe’s
relationships with her parents, siblings, and the overall patriarchal structure
of Mount Olympus, this analysis reveals how her “monstrous” acts of sorcery
are, in fact, radical acts of self-creation.
History and Consequences of Circe’s Familial
Trauma
Circe’s
origin story is steeped in relational violence. Born to the sun god Helios and
the ocean nymph Perse, she is dismissed as unworthy in a family that prizes
power and beauty: “Her eyes are yellow as piss. Her voice is screechy as an
owl. She is called Hawk, but she should be called Goat for her ugliness
(Miller 6). Helios, a tyrannical patriarch, embodies the cold indifference of
the divine order: “My father’s halls were dark and silent… [he] has never been
able to imagine the world without himself in it” (Miller 4), while Perse’s
narcissism and favouritism towards Circe’s siblings, Pasiphaë and Perses: “My
mother’s laughter… “Stupid Circe.”” (Miller 9), compound her alienation. This
dynamic establishes familial trauma as being foundational to Circe’s identity.
Unlike mortal families, the gods’ immortality magnifies their cruelty; there is
no escape from their scorn, no aging to dilute their hierarchies: “the grudges
of gods are as deathless as their flesh” (Miller 12). Circe’s early life is
marked by emotional neglect and gaslighting, a divine family’s refusal to see
her humanity, which Miller frames as a form of violence.
Miller’s
portrayal of Helios’ court reflects the toxic dynamics of narcissistic family
systems, where one’s worth is contingent on conformity. Circe’s siblings,
Pasiphaë and Perses, internalise this hierarchy, weaponizing their parents’
approval to bolster their own status. Circe, denied a place in this system,
becomes a repository for the family’s self-loathing. The height of her
un-belongingness is highlighted by the very first sentence of the novel: “When
I was born, the name for what I was did not exist” (Miller 1). Her invisibility
is not passive but enforced; when she dares to speak, she is mocked, “You’re
clever to keep yours in a braid… The brown streaking does not look so bad then.
It is a shame you cannot hide your voice the same way.” (Miller 7). This erasure
is a form of “soul murder”, a term coined by psychoanalyst Leonard Shengold to
describe the annihilation of a child’s identity through chronic neglect or
abuse: “Soul murder… is a dramatic term for circumstances that eventuate in
crime - the deliberate attempt to eradicate or compromise the separate identity
of another person” (Shengold 2).
When
Circe witnesses Zeus’s brutal punishment of the Titan Prometheus for showing
compassion to mortals, her empathy for Prometheus becomes a quiet rebellion,
planting the seeds of her divergence from her family’s values. Her first act of
witchcraft, transforming the mortal Glaucos into a god, stems from a desperate
bid for connection and validation, “I wished I were a real goddess… he would
never let me go” (Miller 37). Yet when Glaucos abandons her, echoing her
family’s rejection, and Circe’s pain erupts into transformative magic: she
turns him into a monster. This act is not merely vengeful, but symbolic as
well. By wielding pharmaka (a term for both poison and remedy), Circe
begins to subvert the patriarchal logic of her lineage. Witchcraft becomes her
voice, a way to reshape a world that has silenced her.
Exile
to Aiaia, framed as a shameful punishment, paradoxically liberates Circe.
Isolated on her island, she cultivates her craft through trial and error, her
magic evolving from reactive bursts of emotion to a disciplined art. Miller
links this process to Circe’s psychological journey: her potions and spells are
metaphors for processing grief and rage. For instance, her infamous
transformation of sailors into pigs, an act often read as monstrous; can be
reinterpreted as a defence mechanism against masculine predation, a
literalisation of her trauma. Here, Miller engages with the feminist
reclamation of the witch archetype. Historically, accusations of witchcraft
targeted women who defied patriarchal norms, and Circe’s narrative echoes this
legacy. Her magic, rooted in herbalism and intuition, aligns with the “wise
woman” tradition marginalised by institutionalised religion and myth. Yet
Miller complicates this trope: Circe’s power is not innate but earned through
suffering. Her spells are not just tools of resistance but “embodied memories”
of her trauma. When she transforms men into pigs, she is not merely punishing
them but externalising her own dehumanisation, a ritual of catharsis that
mirrors the somatic therapies described by Bessel van der Kolk in The Body
Keeps the Score.
The man threw me back against the wall. My
head hit the uneven stone and the room sparked… With his right hand, he tore my
clothes… I had said there was no one on the island… I don’t know what his men
did. Watched maybe… She better not be dead, it’s my turn… I drew breath, and
spoke my word… His rib cage cracked and began to bulge. I heard the sound of
flesh rupturing wetly, the pops of breaking bone. His nose ballooned from his
face, and his legs shrivelled like a fly sucked by a spider. He fell to all
fours. He screamed, and his men screamed with him. It went on for a long time.
As it turned out, I did kill pigs that night after all. (Miller 164-5)
This aligns with van der Kolk’s assertion
that trauma survivors often seek to “reclaim their bodies” through physical
acts that “renegotiate [their] relationship with the past” (van der Kolk 103).
But
Circe’s trauma does not vanish; it is metabolised, exemplified through her
relationship with her son, Telegonus. Fearing that she will replicate her
parents’ failures, Circe grapples with cycles of abandonment and protection.
Her magic, once a weapon, becomes a tool of nurturing: she uses herbs to heal,
not harm, and risks everything to defy the gods for her child’s sake. Her
constant pampering of him is a rejection of intergenerational trauma, a
commitment to breaking the cycle of emotional withholding that defined her
childhood: “I made a list of all the things I would do for him. Scald off my
skin. Tear out my eyes. Walk my feet to bones, if only he would be happy and
well” (Miller 213).
Circe’s
choice to relinquish her divinity is the culmination of her journey. It should
be remembered that Circe was brought up in an environment where mortals were
seen with the highest disgust: “Once when I was young I asked what mortals
looked like. My father said, “You may say they are shaped like us, but only as
the worm is shaped like the whale.” My mother had been simpler: like savage
bags of rotten flesh” (Miller 3).Therefore, her final decision to become
mortal, surrendering immortality for a life of meaning, is the ultimate
rejection of her family’s legacy: “All my life I have been moving forward, and
now I am here. I have a mortal’s voice, let me have the rest. I lift the
brimming bowl to my lips and drink” (Miller 333). Immortality, in Miller’s
mythos, is synonymous with stagnation; the gods are frozen in their toxic
patterns, incapable of growth. By embracing mortality, Circe accepts the
ephemeral beauty of human connection, a stark contrast to her family’s cold
eternity. This decision is framed not as a loss but as an act of liberation,
echoing Judith Herman’s assertion in Trauma and Recovery that healing
requires “the restoration of agency and community” (Herman 133). Circe’s
mortality allows her to fully inhabit her identity, free from the shadows of
Helios and Olympus.
Miller
further underscores this transformation through Circe’s relationship with
craftsmanship. Where her divine family disdains mortal labour, Circe finds
solace in the tactile work of weaving, gardening, and brewing potions.
Let me say what sorcery is not: it is not
divine power, which comes with a thought and a blink. It must be made and
worked, planned and searched out, dug up, dried, chopped and ground, cooked,
spoken over, and sung. Even after all that, it can fail, as gods do not… Gods
hate all toil… Witchcraft is nothing but such drudgery… So why did I not
mind?... For a hundred generations, I had walked the world drowsy and dull,
idle and at my ease. I left no prints, I did no deeds. Even those who had loved
me a little did not care to stay. Then I learned that I could bend the world to
my will, as a bow is bent for an arrow. I would have done that toil a thousand
times to keep such power in my hands. I thought: this is how Zeus felt when he
first lifted the thunderbolt (Miller 72-3).
These acts of creation, rooted in patience
and care, counteract the destructive legacy of her lineage. Her witchcraft, now
aligned with the rhythms of the natural world, becomes a metaphor for
ecological and emotional balance. In this way, Miller positions Circe not just
as a survivor of familial trauma but as a harbinger of intersectional healing,
bridging the personal and the cosmic.
Reclaiming Agency through Judith Herman’s
Framework
The
character arc of Miller’s reimagined Circe embodies a profound exploration of
familial trauma, resonating with Judith Herman’s framework of trauma theory,
rooted in stages of safety, remembrance/mourning, and reconnection, which
outlines how prolonged interpersonal harm disrupts individual identity and
interpersonal relationships.
Circe
exists in a familial hierarchy marked by neglect and scorn; a dynamic which
reflects Herman’s concept of complex trauma: ongoing relational harm that
erodes self-worth and trust.“Complex psychological trauma… [is] the result of
exposure to severe stressors that (1) are repetitive or prolonged; (2) involve
harm or abandonment by caregivers or other ostensibly responsible adults; and
(3) occur during childhood or adolescence” (Herman 119). Without a foundation
of safety (Herman’s first stage), Circe internalises rejection, interpreting
her marginality as a form of inherent inadequacy. Her early attempts to seek
connection, such as her love for her brother Aeëtes, or the mortal Glaucus, end
in betrayal and destructive retaliation (turning Scylla into a monster),
illustrating trauma’s cyclicality: the abused risks becoming the abuser. As
explained by Herman, “The core experiences of psychological trauma are
disempowerment and disconnection from others. Survivors feel unsafe in their
bodies, in their relationships, and in their environments. Traumatic events
destroy the sustaining bonds between individual and community, and the breach
often carries a steep psychological price… the expectation of further harm”
(56).
Exiled
to Aeaea by her father for her transgressions, which was simply some damage
done to Helios’ unchallenged ego, Circe’s isolation compounds her trauma,
thereby initiating Herman’s second stage, remembrance and mourning. In
solitude, Circe cultivates witchcraft, a metaphor for reclaiming agency. Her
transformative magic, turning men into beasts, mirrors her own dehumanisation
by her family, suggesting a distorted processing of pain. Here, power becomes a
shield as well as a prison; she controls others to compensate for her
voicelessness, yet remains trapped in patterns of distrust, which, in her
defence, are not completely misplaced.
Circe’s
encounter with Odysseus marks a tentative step towards Herman’s third stage,
reconnection. Initially, she repeats cycles of domination, using her magic to
subdue his crew. However, Odysseus’s resistance, via the sharpness of wit and
the softness of love, forces a shift. Their relationship, albeit transactional,
introduces reciprocity; Odysseus acknowledges her autonomy, and she assists his
journey.
Familial Wounds and Somatic Survival in
Bessel van der Kolk’s Theory
To
use the lens of a different theory, Circe embodies the acute familial trauma
spoken of by Bessel van der Kolk, which posits that trauma disrupts one’s sense
of safety, distorts self-perception, and ultimately manifests somatically. He
writes, “Trauma in childhood disrupts the development of a secure sense of self
and the capacity for attuned relationships” (112). As has been duly shown
above, Circe’s upbringing was marked by neglect and emotional abandonment. He
emphasises that childhood relational trauma, such as rejection or indifference,
corrodes secure attachment, fostering shame and hyper vigilance. He further notes
that such trauma ensures “the body keeps the score,” as children’s bodies
respond to abandonment with somatic distress (112), mirroring Circe’s use of
magic to externalise her pain.
Van der
Kolk notes that trauma survivors often internalise helplessness, leading to
maladaptive coping mechanisms. Circe’s exile to Aeaea symbolises both literal
and psychological isolation, exacerbating her trauma. Her transformation of
sailors into beasts reflects a somatic reenactment of her inner turmoil, a
literalisation of his idea that trauma is stored in the body. By exerting
control over others, she inverts her childhood powerlessness, yet this
repetition compulsion traps her in cycles of mistrust and relational
dysfunction. Her encounter with Odysseus, whom she initially dominates but
later loves, mirrors van der Kolk’s observation that trauma survivors oscillate
between craving connection and fearing vulnerability, as they struggle to
“befriend the sensations in their bodies” and escape the “tyranny of the past” (100).
Circe’s
immortality, while granting a sense of callous permanence, encapsulates van der
Kolk’s concept of trauma’s timelessness, the past haunting the present: “Trauma
is not just an event that took place sometime in the past; it is also the
imprint left by that experience on the mind, brain, and body. This imprint has
ongoing consequences for how the human organism manages to survive in the
present” (21). Her magic, a metaphor for dissociation, allows her to reshape
reality, yet it perpetuates her isolation. Van der Kolk argues that healing
requires integration through safe relationships and bodily awareness, but
Circe’s divine stagnation suggests unresolved trauma. Her eventual peace in
some narratives, crafting a solitary, self-reliant existence, hints not at full
healing, but adaptation, reflecting van der Kolk’s view that trauma reshapes
identity irrevocably.
Narcissistic Familial Dynamics and
Self-Reclamation in Alice Miller’s Framework
Circe
further embodies familial trauma that resonates with Alice Miller’s theories in
The Drama of the Gifted Child. Miller’s theory examines how narcissistic
parental expectations force children to suppress their authentic selves,
creating lasting psychological wounds. Circe’s narrative reflects this dynamic:
her familial rejection and exile stem from failing to meet her parents’ ideals,
catalysing a trauma that shapes her identity.
In
Miller’s framework, the “gifted child” adapts to parental demands, often at the
cost of self-erasure: “The child’s own feelings and needs are repressed, and a
false self is constructed to meet the needs of the parent. This pseudo-self
becomes the caretaker of the parent’s narcissistic demands, while the child’s
true self remains hidden, even from themselves” (Miller 8). Circe, unlike her
radiant father or siblings, is described as “weak-voiced” and drawn to mortal
realms, marking her as an outsider. Her fascination with pharmakeia
(witchcraft), a power deemed transgressive, symbolises her repressed
authenticity. Miller posits that such rejection forces the child to internalise
guilt, manifesting in destructive behaviours. When Circe transforms her rival
Scylla into a monster and is exiled by Helios, this act reflects rebellion, but
one that is tinged with internalised shame. Her exile to Aeaea becomes a
metaphor for emotional isolation, where she wields control over others, or at
least, tries to, as compensation for childhood powerlessness.
Miller
argues that unprocessed trauma leads to repetitive cycles of dysfunction. She
writes, repression of childhood trauma “leads to a compulsive repetition of
[traumatic experiences]” (34). Circe’s interactions with Odysseus,
initially controlling, then nurturing, mirror this repetition compulsion. Her
attempt to dominate him echoes her father’s authoritarianism, but her eventual
empathy (guiding his journey) suggests nascent healing, a tentative step
towards confronting the “truth stored up in [her] body” (Miller 34). This
duality reflects Miller’s assertion that acknowledging trauma can foster recovery.
Circe’s witchcraft, while a coping mechanism, also becomes a reclamation of
agency, her “true self,” long suppressed by familial disdain.
However,
Miller cautions that such empowerment remains fragile without confronting core
wounds. As she warns, repressed truths of childhood “stored up in [the] body”
will inevitably resurface, demanding acknowledgment (Miller 34). Circe’s myth,
particularly in modern retellings such as the one under discussion, illustrates
her journey towards self-acceptance, aligning with Miller’s emphasis on
therapeutic self-discovery. By embracing her marginality and forging autonomy
beyond divine dictates, Circe transcends her trauma, embodying Miller’s ideal
of integrating fractured selves through introspection.
Comparative Analysis of Trauma Theories in
Circe’s Myth: Herman, van der Kolk, and Miller
Explored
through three distinct theoretical lenses, the myth of Circe serves as an apt
allegory for familial trauma: Judith Herman’s stages of recovery, Bessel van
der Kolk’s somatic trauma theory, and Alice Miller’s framework of narcissistic
family dynamics. Each theorist illuminates different facets of Circe’s
suffering and resilience, offering complementary yet contrasting insights into
how trauma shapes identity, agency, and healing.
All
three theorists locate Circe’s trauma in her toxic familial environment. Judith
Herman’s concept of complex trauma, which is a subtle form ofprolonged
relational harm, aligns with Circe’s upbringing under parental indifference and
passivity. Her marginalisation as a literal “lesser” goddess metaphorically
reiterates Herman’s assertion that trauma disrupts self-worth and trust.
Similarly, van der Kolk’s emphasis on the disruption of attachment, arguing
that childhood neglect fosters hyper vigilance and shame, is evident in Circe’s
internalised inadequacy. Alice Miller’s focus on narcissistic parental
expectations refines this analysis: Circe’s “weak voice” and fascination with
mortals signify her failure to meet divine ideals, forcing her to initially suppress
her authentic self. Thus, while all three theorists identify familial neglect
as the trauma source, Miller specifically frames it as a rejection of
authenticity, whereas Herman and van der Kolk emphasise systemic relational
harm.
Circe’s
witchcraft then becomes a prism for these competing theories. Through Herman’s
model, her magic reflects a fractured attempt to reclaim agency during the
“remembrance/mourning” stage, a distorted empowerment compensating for
voicelessness. Conversely, her transformation of sailors into beasts resonates
with van der Kolk’s somatic trauma theory: this literal inversion of power
mirrors her childhood helplessness, a bodily reenactment of vulnerability.
Miller’s framework, however, tries to see Circe’s magic as rebellion, an act of
reclaiming her repressed self, however maladaptive. Here, the theorists
diverge. Where Herman and van der Kolk might interpret her actions as
trauma-driven cycles (control masking insecurity), Miller’s emphasis on
authenticity reframes them as steps toward self-liberation, however
fraught.
It is
in mapping Circe’s journey toward recovery that these theories diverge further.
Herman’s stages structure her exile (fractured safety), her witchcraft
(mourning), and her relationship with Odysseus (tentative reconnection). Yet
her healing remains fragmented, also echoing Herman’s nonlinear model. Applying
van der Kolk’s focus on timeless trauma, one might argue that Circe’s
immortality itself complicates recovery: her magic becomes a dissociative loop,
trapping her in somatic repetition without integration. True healing, as per
van der Kolk, requires bodily safety and relational trust, conditions her
divine isolation denies. Miller, however, offers a counterpoint. Circe’s
gradual self-acceptance, particularly in modern retellings, mirrors Miller’s
therapeutic ideal: embracing marginality to reclaim authenticity. Yet even
Miller’s framework acknowledges that this requires confronting core wounds, a
process Circe begins but, arguably, abandons.
In this
way, Circe’s trauma resists singular interpretation. It is multifaceted.
Herman’s stages provide narrative structure, van der Kolk’s somatic focus
explains her compulsive reenactments, and Miller deciphers her struggle for
authenticity. Their tensions, however, expose critical questions: Is healing
staged (Herman), somatic (van der Kolk), or existential (Miller)? Circe’s myth,
in my view, suggests all three. Her exile initiates Herman’s remembrance, her
magical transformations embody van der Kolk’s somatic fixation, and her
witchcraft brewed in solitude reflects Miller’s self-reclamation. Yet her
immortality, a narrative paradox, complicates closure. Unlike mortal survivors,
she cannot “move on”, symbolizing the enduring grip of trauma.
Ultimately,
Circe’s story, as interpreted through these frameworks, becomes a testament to
trauma’s duality: limiting and transformative. Her partial healing, choosing
solitude yet nurturing agency, reflects the interplay of these theories: trauma
is not destiny, but its scars persist, shaping identity in ways that are
simultaneously limiting and transformative. It is a fractured lens through
which identity is painfully, imperfectly remade. In Circe, we see the
confluence of inherited harm and tenuous hope, a testament to the complexity of
trauma, and the enduring human capacity to forge meaning from pain.
Conclusion: From Divine Scars to Mortal
Spells
In Circe,
the subversion of the archetypal “wicked witch” emerges not merely as a
narrative twist but as a profound interrogation of power itself. Circe’s magic,
rooted in vulnerability, rather than malevolence, dismantles the binary of good
and evil that often confines mythological figures. Familial trauma is not
erased or romanticized; instead, it is rendered as the raw material from which
Circe forges her identity. Her witchcraft, born of isolation and defiance,
transcends mere spell casting, it becomes a language of resistance, a way to
reclaim narrative control in a world determined to silence her. The gods’
condemnation of Circe’s “unnatural” power reflects their fear of what they
cannot dominate, a woman who transforms pain into sovereignty. By situating her
magic within cycles of intergenerational dysfunction, the novel challenges the
very notion of monstrosity, suggesting that it is often a label imposed on
those who refuse to conform to oppressive systems. Circe’s evolution
underscores how trauma, when met with unflinching self-awareness, can become a
site of metamorphosis. Her story, a magical twist on the stereotypical “femme
fatale” trope, thus transcends myth, offering a timeless commentary on how
marginalized identities navigate, resist, and ultimately redefine the
structures that seek to contain them.
Works
Cited
Herman,
Judith Lewis. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence, From
Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. Basic Books, 1992.
Miller, Alice. The Drama of the Gifted
Child: The Search for the True Self. Translated by Ruth Ward, Basic Books,
1981.
Miller,
Madeline. Circe. Bloomsbury Publishing, 2018.
Shengold,
Leonard. Soul Murder: The Effects of Childhood Abuse and Deprivation.
Yale University Press, 1989.
Van
der Kolk, Bessel. The Body Keeps the
Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Viking, 2014.