The Theseus Myth–Part I: The Wannabe Hero's Road to Readiness
An In-Depth Exploration of the Theseus Myth
Welcome
Hello, and welcome to The Inward Sea.
This is an expanded transcript for the third episode of my podcast, and the first in a series in which I’m going to take you on a deep exploration of a hero in Greek mythology.
Today we’re going to be looking at The Wannabe Hero’s Road to Readiness—because whether or not you or I wannabe a hero, there are times in all of our lives when we need to step up and be a bit heroic, anyway.
Before we launch into our myth, let’s sit for a moment with a powerful question:
What does it really mean to come of age—not just in years, but in soul?
No matter your age, this story and the symbols it offers is for you. Because it’s not just we who come of age. You see, at some point every new beginning—whether it’s at a new job, in a new relationship, or undertaking a new creative project—will lead us down a path of initiation.
Across cultures, our ancestors marked the passage from one stage of life to another with initiation rites and rituals. Some traditions still do. But in many places today, those deep rites of passage have been replaced by things like academic exams or a inner turmoil that no one sees.
Initiation rituals that marked the coming of age of an individual in ancient cultures were—and in some cases where they are still practiced, are—often quite a lot more traumatic than the modern sanitised practices that have taken their places in society. This is not to say that traumatic experiences do not occur.
Carl Jung likened the psychological function of these ancient rituals to the breaking of a weak bone so that it would grow back stronger as a result of the callouses or scarred tissue that results from the healing1.
The way that modern initiation ceremonies, although still meaningful, largely consist of pageantry and celebration, leave the real trauma of breaking and healing aspects of ourselves as we grow as something each of us have to face personally. And, that’s where stories like this one comes in.
Over the course of the next few episodes (as well as these expanded transcripts), we’ll walk alongside a young man who’s still in the process of becoming.
He’s not a hero…yet. Nor is he a king. He doesn’t even know who his father is. In English, his name is Theseus but in Greek it’s said Θησέας. In my podcast, wherever possible, I try to use the pronunciation of names as close to the way that they would be said in their home languages.
It’s my way of offering a nod of appreciation to the original cultures that have given us (loaned us?) these wonderful stories. If you have trouble with the names, or if, in my attempt to honour their cultural roots I end up butchering them entirely, there’ll be a list of the names of the characters in Greek and English at the end of this transcript for those of you who are curious or more fluent in Greek than I am.
In today’s story, there’s a stone that won’t move. A mother who knows more than she says. And a choice between two roads—one safe, the other littered with danger.
He is walking the path of initiation from youthful innocence and obscurity, to maturity and recognition.
Whether you’re entering something new or leaving something behind Theseus’s early path, and the characters he meets on it, offer us guidance and insight. It is a remarkably detailed map of what forces we have to face as we move into new spaces.
At the very least, it can help us look back and notice where we have gone through similar processes in our lives and become more able to recognise them when they inevitably come around again.
Quick Note Before We Begin…
Last time, we explored the myth of King Minos, the sea god, Poseidon, and a broken promise that birthed a manifestation of Minos’s shame: the Minotaur.
Originally, I planned to continue from there and follow Theseus as he enters the labyrinth, armed with a spool of borrowed thread and a sword.
But his confrontation with Πασιφάη (Pasiphaë)’s son—the fruit of Minos’s betrayal—only makes sense (both for him and for us) if we understand the path that shaped him. Theseus didn’t just appear one day, fully formed and ready to confront the Minotaur. In the process of becoming the hero we think of when we hear his name, he walked a path of initiation that positioned him as a model of ego consciousness that we can view in contrast to the model described in King Minos.
So, to understand that better, and hopefully learn a thing or two about ourselves in the process, we are going to walk his path with him.
That path doesn’t begin in darkness. It begins in Τροιζήνα (Troezen), with the questions surrounding his birth, and the weight of a stone that must wait years before it can be moved.
Our story today, starts not with Theseus, but with King Αιγέας (Aegeus)—ruler of Αθήνα (Athens).
The Story of Theseus - (Part I)
The retelling of this myth is based on the accounts by Apollodorus, Diodorus of Sicily Pausanias, and Plutarch.
Uncertainty wrapped itself around the palace in Αθήνα (Athens). It clung in heavy pleats and folds between the cornices and columns. It billowed through colonnades and courtyards like wind-caught linen, coiling through corridors and cloaking marble surfaces in silence. At the center of it all sat King Aegeus.
The problem, you see, was this: Aegeus had no heir. And power without succession is a slow march toward collapse.
He had already taken two wives, but both had remained childless. So Aegeus set off to seek the aid of the gods. He journeyed north to the oracle of Απόλλωνας (Apollo) at Delphi, hoping for clarity. But the god, as gods often do, replied in riddle.
“Loose not the bulging mouth of the wineskin, O best of men, until you reach the height of Athens.”
Confused and troubled by the words of the oracle, Aegeus left Delphi and made his way south again—this time to the city of Troezen, where his friend Πιτθέας (Pittheus) ruled.
Now, Pittheus, was a clever man. Too clever, perhaps. Over a meal, Aegeus recounted the riddle. Pittheus understood immediately. Wineskin? That was no wineskin. The god’s poetry was thinly veiled, and Pittheus read it for what it was: Aegeus was to… keep it in his pants until reaching Athens.
But Pittheus, ever the opportunist, had other ideas. Why wait on fate when a daughter and now a dynasty were both within easy reach?
Instead of explaining the prophecy, he told his friend that he had done well to visit him. It was, after all, safer to drink here in his home than out on the road. Then he poured Aegeus another drink, and another, and another. And then he introduced him to his beautiful daughter, Αίθρα (Aethra).
That night, led by wine—and, in no small part, by the gentle manipulations of his host—Aegeus lay with Aethra. The mouth of the king’s bulging wineskin, quite contrary the oracle’s warning, was very much loosed. Prophecy be damned.
Whether Aegeus remembered the oracle in that moment is anyone’s guess. But Pittheus certainly did. And somewhere, perhaps, Apollo was shaking his head.
After the deed was done, Aethra fell into a deep sleep. She dreamed. And in her dream, the goddess Αθηνά (Athena) appeared to her and told her to wake up and wade out to an island which lay close to Troezen’s shores.
Quietly, Aethra left the sleeping king and slipped out into the night.
On the island, Aethra visited a shrine, when Poseidon, too, appeared to her—his own intentions rather more clear than Apollo’s riddles. And by dawn, it seems, another far more divine wineskin had also been loosed.
None of the sources have anything to say about how Aethra felt about any of this, which reminds us that this is a myth, not a memoir: these characters are archetypal energies—forces of the unconscious—rather than people with inner monologues and private agency.
But back to the story…
When morning light—and sobriety—returned, King Aegeus began to worry. What if Aethra was pregnant? What would become of the child in the uncertain, and—one might suspect—Game-of-Thrones-like landscape of Athens, where his brothers’ children were likely already plotting their place in line?
So, Aegeus took his sandals and a sword and buried them beneath a great stone. Before he departed, he pulled Aethra aside and gave her instructions: if she was pregnant, if she bore a son, and if that boy grew strong enough to lift the rock, she was to secretly send him to Athens carrying the tokens hidden beneath it. Then—and only then—would Aegeus recognise the boy as his heir.
And with that, he left.
Aethra never told him about the island, or what happened after the king had fallen asleep.
As the weeks went by, it became abundantly evident that Aethra was, in fact pregnant, and ten months later she gave birth to a baby boy. She named him Theseus2.
She raised him quietly, letting him grow into himself. He had no father—at least, not one he could name—only his mother, Aethra, and his grandfather, the clever and politically minded Pittheus. The other boys had stories about their fathers—heroes, merchants, warriors—Theseus had only silence.
But the silence around his lineage didn’t mean Theseus had no role models. More than anything else, he admired Ηρακλής (Herakles). The young prince dreamed of the hero’s labors at night, and in daylight tried to emulate them in every way he could3. Once, when Herakles was visiting Pittheus, he set down his lion skin while resting at the palace. The children, mistaking the thing for a live beast, screamed and scattered—except for Theseus. He didn’t run. He grabbed the nearest axe and struck at it, undaunted4. (Apparently, no one thought to ask why a child had such easy access to an axe, but this is a myth, after all.)
Clearly, young Theseus was not like the other boys in the city. He ran faster. He fought harder. Was it because he was trying to prove something? Was he trying to fill in the missing shape of his father with strength and skill? We don’t know. The inner life of heroes is rarely recorded. They’re measured by what they do—not by what they feel. But time and time again he would return to his mother with the question of who his father was, but Aethra never let anything slip.
It may have been Pittheus—ever the opportunist—who spread the tale that the boy was a son of Poseidon. After all, the god of the sea was deeply honored in Troezen, and a divine pedigree could open doors. Whether Theseus himself believed it—or saw it as his mother and grandfather’s way of dodging the truth—is another question entirely. The story may have satisfied the people of Troezen, even earned him some status, but it doesn’t seem like it was enough of an answer for Theseus.
And so he grew. One day, Aethra looked at him and realised he was no longer the child she remembered. The softness in his face was being replaced by the beginnings of a beard and his hands bore the callouses from training with the sword and javelin. And so, one day, when the young man asked her again about his father, she led him to the rock and told him that his father—a great man, had left him an inheritance beneath it.
Now, we’re not told how many times he tried to move that boulder. Maybe it was once. Maybe it was many times. Maybe he returned to it in secret, when no one was watching, testing himself against it. Trying. Failing. Waiting. Growing. Trying again.
What we do know is that one day, when Theseus was all of sixteen years old and ready for it, the rock moved.
Beneath it, he found the sandals and the sword—tokens left by a man he had never met. A lineage he had never known. By picking them up and dusting them off, he stepped into a story that had been waiting for him all along.
Amplification
Amplification, in Jungian dreamwork and the interpretation of mythological material, is the process of deepening the meaning of an image, symbol, or motif by exploring its broader cultural, historical, and archetypal associations. Rather than reducing a dream or myth to a personal or purely psychological explanation, amplification situates it within the wider symbolic patterns found in religion, art, literature, and folklore. By drawing these parallels, the image is “amplified,” allowing layers of meaning to emerge and revealing its resonance both in the individual psyche and across the collective human experience.
There’s so much to unpack in this part of the story.
But I want to limit our discussion to the person and actions of Theseus because he offers a striking contrast to Minos, whose story we explored previously.
There are so many things that we could talk about concerning the archetypal heroic figure—for example the dual paternity thing— but we’re going to have to return to many of these images later anyway. Luckily, they appear so often that we will definitely get a chance to reflect on them through other myths in the future.
Before we move on, let me ask you this:
What’s resonating for you so far?
Is there an image that caught your attention? A moment that felt heavy, or strange, or magnetic?
If so, I really encourage you to make a note of it. These mythic moments—especially the ones that tug at us for no clear reason—tend to lead somewhere. And when we revisit them later, we often discover they were already whispering something meant just for us.
In a way, they’re like the rock in this myth—
Silent.
Waiting.
They call to us—to test our strength, our curiosity, our readiness.
And like the stone in our story, they may be hiding exactly what we need to begin the journey that’s waiting for us.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start by talking about Theseus himself—the hero.
The Archetype of the Hero
If I were to ask you to pull a lesson from this story, most people would instinctively focus on Theseus—what he does, what he learns—and then try to frame that in terms of their own lives.
And like I’ve said before, there isn’t really a right or wrong way to interpret a myth. But some ways yield more insight than others. Identifying directly with the hero character tends to give us less.
Marie-Louise von Franz, speaking about the hero archetype, once wrote:
It can therefore be said that the hero is an archetypal figure which presents a model of an ego functioning in accord with the Self. […] It is a model to be looked at, and it is demonstrating a rightly functioning ego—an ego that functions in accordance with the requirements of the Self.5
That’s a dense sentence, but here’s the key idea:
The hero in a myth isn’t a realistic human character. They’re not meant to reflect our personal psychology in all its complexity. They’re archetypal images—symbolic figures that act out essential psychic patterns.
Modern retellings often try to flesh these characters out. We get their inner thoughts, their traumas, their motivations. But the older stories rarely work that way. The mythic hero isn’t “relatable.” He—or she—is a moving pattern; a kind of inner choreography, part of a much larger psychic ecology of archetypes and complexes.
But we, the readers or listeners, are real people. We have messy, conflicting emotions. We are full of contradictions, dreams, wounds, and half-formed insights. When we approach these stories, we bring that whole inner world with us. But the figures in the myth are not whole personalities. They’re fragments—projections—parts of a much bigger psychic system.
So Theseus isn’t an avatar for you or me in the world of the story. He’s not a role model in the Instagram-influencer sense. He’s a model—as in a diagram, a map. Something we can observe and learn from, but not something we should try be.
You may remember from Episode 2 that we talked about King Minos of Crete. Minos is a character who makes obvious mistakes—big, ego-driven blunders that set off disastrous consequences. With him, we don’t usually feel tempted to see ourselves in his story.
But with a hero like Theseus, it’s different. There’s a strong pull to identify with him—to cast ourselves in the heroic role. That’s understandable. But it’s also a bit of a trap.
Back in the 90s, some Christian groups wore bracelets with the initials WWJD—“What Would Jesus Do?” It was a well-meaning gesture. But from a psychological perspective, it risks encouraging performance over transformation. It can lead people to imitate behaviours they feel would be perceived as “good” or “right” rather than paying attention to the interior causes of the conflicts they are trying to resolve through that “right” behaviour.
If we were to consider an alternative bracelet, WWTD? (What Would Theseus Do?), we might be tempted to simply mimic his behaviour. Try move the boulder, fail, go train and work out, come back, try again… There is, as I am sure you can tell, a fine line here.
This kind of imitation isn’t necessarily bad, but when it becomes something driven by external expectations of what is good, right, or moral, we often begin to try place those same expectations on others, too. What is intended for growth can end up becoming something like the white bull from episode 2 rather than an actual avenue of personal development.
This is all to say that Theseus—our hero—is not a character that we should try emulate in life. Rather, he is a representation of how we can modulate the attitude of our ego and reorient it in relation to other facets of psyche, inwardly. We’ll see an example of that we we follow him further along his road in just a moment.
We can learn from the hero’s pattern without needing to cosplay as one. Theseus shows us what the ego can be when it accepts the gifts and follows the paths set by something older, deeper, and wiser than itself.
So in this story, Theseus is not you or me.
He is an image of the ego in right relationship with the Self. This is one of the reasons that the image of a hero in stories is often one that has two fathers. One father represents the the known world of conscious awareness, while the other represents the deeper source—the archetypal Self of which we are mostly unconscious.
We are conscious beings. The point here is not to identify with the unconscious and try to give ourselves over to it. Instead, the task of the ego is to slowly, on a journey much like Theseus’, confront things that arise from the unconscious—in this myth, pictured by things that appear on the wilderness road outside the ordered confines of the city—and integrate them or transmute their energy to make them useful to us instead of being overwhelmed by the force of their raw power. We’ll talk about the image of the sword in a moment because the sword is a powerful depiction of what this process entails.
Anyway, back to Theseus: his ability to lift the stone, and claim the sandals and sword left by his father, marks the beginning of a journey that all of us must walk in one form or another: the path of initiation.
Now, remember: mythology doesn’t give us instructions.
It gives us images.
So let’s turn to the next set of images that concern Theseus—the sandals, the sword, and the rock that guarded them.
The Threshold of Initiation
Having finally succeeded in moving the rock that his father placed so intentionally, Theseus is now able to claim his inheritance from his dad: a pair of sandals, and a sword. These are obviously symbolic images—after all, neither a pair of sandals nor a sword left under a rock for sixteen years is likely to be very useful.
The Sandals
When Theseus moves the rock and uncovers the sandals, he isn’t just claiming a pair of old shoes that have been buried for some time—he is stepping into a new relationship with his world.
In folklore and myth, shoes often signal where we stand, both literally and symbolically. They’re more than just practical gear for the road ahead. They represent our standpoint—our footing in the world, and our connection to the ground beneath us. Psychologically, this means the sandals mark Theseus’s first act of grounding himself in the reality of who he is and who he is being called to become.
And it’s not a small gesture. Stepping into one’s father’s shoes is a metaphorical image with which most of us are familiar. We use it to talk about responsibility, power, inheritance, and legacy. While we usually mean this metaphorically, Theseus actually does it—quite literally.
By claiming his father’s sandals so far from Athens, the hero is signalling that he is ready to earn his place at the table, prepared to undertake the difficult journey toward becoming the kind of man who can wield that legacy with wisdom. The sandals give him traction. They mark the beginning of his authority—not yet as a king, but as someone willing to walk the road toward recognition.
What does that look like for you and me? Well, the image here is showing us the hero-model claiming something from the past from which it has been separated. The separation is through not fault of its own just like how we, in the process of growing up, fragment and compartmentalise ourselves. This is all perfectly natural, of course. None of us behave in the same way with our friends as we do with our parents. As we grow, we learn how to adopt different personas in different groups and and social settings. Some parts of ourselves that we don’t pay much attention to because they just don’t seem to fit into any particular setting, or perhaps because we are actively repressing them, remain under-developed.
These under-developed parts of ourselves, though we pretend they do not exist, are still a part of us. As we grow, they do not, but they gather to themselves more and more psychic energy and occasionally manifest just as Theseus returns time and time again to Aethra to ask who his father is. He knows he has an earthly father, but as long as both Aethra and the rock remain immovable, he has no chance of reestablishing a connection with him.
For you and me, the act of claiming the sandals might look like a willingness to walk into those underdeveloped parts of ourselves—to explore parts of ourselves that we have buried either as a natural result of growing, or perhaps as a result of fear and shame.
It’s important to remember that it’s not just scary stuff that is buried beneath our metaphorical rocks. How many people go through life claiming things like “I’m not creative,” or “I’m bad at mathematics,”… these statements are rocks. Rolling them away and being willing to engage with those things that we think we are not—the things that we just don’t see as part of our identity—that’s one way of claiming the sandals.
By doing that, by being willing to explore and engage with the variables we stick into statements of, “Well, I’m not X,” or, “I can’t do Y,”, we come to another common saying about shoes—one that calls for compassion.
To “walk in someone else’s shoes” means to see the world from their point of view. It often means confronting the parts of them that we experience as them having walked away from us—just like Aegeus did from Theseus. It calls us to view the world from a point of view that is different from the way we see it.
Theseus doesn’t step into his father’s sandals out of blind loyalty to or angsty teenage rebellion against the authority that a father figure represents, he does it with a readiness to face a relationship what has been left unfinished. He is about to walk a path not to repeat the past, nor to deny it—but to redefine it through his own actions, and begin something new. And, as we shall see, on his own terms.
How might our own lives—and the lives of those around us—change if we approach those underdeveloped parts of ourselves in the same way?
They may be his father’s sandals—but the road he is about to walk is his alone.
The shoe is a symbol of power, for which reason we speak of being ’under someone's heel' or 'stepping into one's father's shoes.' Clothing may represent either the persona, our outer attitude, or an inner attitude, and the changing of clothes in the mysteries stood for transformation into an enlightened understanding. Shoes are the lowest part of our clothing and represent our standpoint in relation to reality—how solidly our feet are planted on the ground; how solidly the earth supports us gives the measure of our power.6
The Sword
Now, if the sandals show that Theseus is ready to walk the path, then the sword reveals that he is ready to shape it.
But what does it mean to shape a path? After all, we don’t usually think of paths as things we shape—they’re things we follow. Yet if we pause for a moment and consider how our choices carve the routes we walk each day, a deeper truth begins to surface: we determine where a path begins, where it ends, and—crucially—what shape it takes between those two points.
We shape a path the moment we declare, “This is where I begin.” The moment we say, “That is where I’m going.” And despite the stories we often tell ourselves, those declarations are choices—even if we make them unconsciously.
To shape the path, then, is not to control the world, but to refine the lens through which we see it. The sword symbolises a newly forged faculty of the psyche: the power to cut through illusion, to separate what is real from what is merely projected. It marks the capacity to discern what is truly ours from what we’ve inherited, absorbed, or adapted for survival.
In Jungian terms, it is the focused application of libido—not as raw drive or compulsive desire, but as living energy directed toward clarity, truth, and meaningful action. When we carry that sword, we begin to move with a different kind of agency. We no longer just react—we choose. We edit. We discriminate. And with each choice, we chisel a path not only through the world, but through our own psychic wilderness.
And if myth has taught us anything, it’s this: swords don’t just appear in our hands by accident. They arrive when we are ready to meet them. They are heralds of destiny, yes—but also reminders of responsibility.
Think of Luke Skywalker receiving his father’s lightsaber—not at the beginning of his life, but when he’s ready to confront the legacy that shaped him. Or the young Arthur pulling the sword from the stone, and later receiving that most wonderful of all swords, Excalibur, from the Lady of the Lake—not as the proof of his birthright, but as a sign of his worthiness. In samurai tradition, the sword (うちがたな, uchigatana) was seen as the soul of the warrior—not merely a weapon, but an embodiment of discipline, clarity, and moral code. Always sharpened. Always sheathed unless necessary.
Psychologically, the sword represents the focused application of libido. The term libido can sound confusing if you’re not familiar with Jungian terminology. In the early days of psychoanalysis, libido was understood to something like the driving force of desire, and naturally, it was strongly associated with sexual urges. But later, especially in the works of Carl Jung, it took on a more universal meaning something more akin to a deep reservoir of living psychic energy within each of us7.
And the sword? Well, a sword is not a primitive weapon like a club or sharpened stone. It is metal, mined, smelted, and forged for a purpose. It is beyond the base forces that drive us to act on impulse or out of blind obedience to instinctual urges. The sword represents libido that has been tempered, forged and sharpened to achieve a specific result. It is will with an edge.
In alchemical traditions, the sword is also the tool that divides and clarifies. It cuts through confusion, separates the base from the refined. Just as the alchemist divides the prima materia to reveal hidden essence, so the hero must learn to wield discernment—within and without. The blade doesn’t just strike; it transforms8.
When Theseus finally succeeds in moving the stone, that effort is already the first use of the sword. The act of moving the rock is not purely physical—it’s the culmination of waiting, of growth, of restraint. The sword doesn’t make him powerful. He gains the sword in recognition of the fact that he already is.
In many myths, the sword appears at the threshold of transformation. It cuts away the old. It’s blade is a symbol of the dividing line between innocence and experience, unconscious potential and conscious responsibility. It is the tool of the one who has learned how—and when—to act.
But it’s also dangerous. The sword divides, wounds, and—if misused—corrupts. That’s why it’s hidden. That’s why it can’t be given too early. To carry the sword is to carry the burden of one’s own agency. To know that power is not just the ability to act, but the responsibility to act well.
So as Theseus takes up the blade, he is stepping into a new stage of his own growth armed with the tools he has gained to that point.
The Rock and the Threshold of Initiation
But before Theseus can claim either of these items—the sandals that ground our authority and enable free movement over difficult terrain, and the sword, representing the intentionally shaped use of mental energy that enables us to divide and dissolve what we once perceived as singular (experiences, projections, identities)—he must reach an age and level of strength that will allow him to move the rock that covers them.
Stones and rocks are everywhere. We step over them, build on them, clear them away. Rarely do they carry meaning until they are altered in some way, perhaps by being moved, painted, or carved. Then, they begin to hum with mythic charge.
Think of the rocks of Stonehenge. Or the standing stone in Stenness, Scotland. Physically, those rocks are no different from the gravel we kick aside or the rocks we blast through to build roads. Yet placed with intention, these stones begin to resonate with numinous energy. We know they are huge, heavy, and must have taken vast effort to place so deliberately, but who put them there? When? And why?
In this way, these rocks, ordinary though their geological material may be, take on the role of threshold symbols. In a wonderfully physical way, mark the meeting point between the known and the unknown.
Now, we may never know who placed those stones or why. But all of us feel the the mythical weight of the numinous in what we perceive as wonder. They seem to vibrate with threshold energy and immediately engage the imagination.
Luckily in our story today, we do know exactly who placed the rock—and why. And that gives us something precious: the ability to name the threshold it marks.
This rock is the first gate of Theseus’ initiation. It was placed by King Aegeus, Theseus’ earthly father. Remember: like so many heroes, Theseus has two fathers—King Aegeus from the known world, and the sea god, Poseidon, from the Otherworld.
Theseus cannot simply take the sword and sandals whenever he wants. He must move the rock. He must prove something—not just to his father, but to the world, and most importantly, to himself.
The rock is a test of strength, yes, but more than that, it is a test of readiness. The first threshold of maturity. The symbolic beginning of his journey. It is the first step in his initiation.
The Meaning of Initiation
Now, initiation might feel like an uncomfortable word to us today.
It might call up images of fraternity hazing or military rituals. But these are modern distortions of something far older. Initiation, in its original sense, is universal—a ritual common to all human cultures since time immemorial.
And yet, here’s something we rarely talk about: Initiation isn’t a one-time event. It’s not just a bat mitzvah, a quinceañera, or a graduation.
Psychologically, initiation is cyclical. Sandals are not made for just a single step or even a single journey and a sword is not made to strike just once. We undergo initiations every time we cross into new terrain, every time we begin a creative project, step into a new role, start a relationship, or leave something behind. Throughout our lives, we go through many initiations whether we are aware of them or not.
Each of these moments demands something of us and they all follow a similar pattern9:
Preparation, in which we leave our old paradigm.
Confrontation, in which we come face to face with the “forces” governing that new space we are entering.
And finally—if we survive—emergence, in which we return to the world with the personal agency to wield the forces we have faced and overcome.
Initiation, in that sense, is both mythic and personal. It’s not just something we go through. It’s something we grow through10.
In societies, coming-of-age initiation rites exist so that the young person can confront the forces they once thought absolute—even divine—and come out transformed, ready to accept the responsibilities of adulthood.
Our modern discomfort with the brutality of these confrontations misses their deeper purpose. These rituals were designed to be believable, to the psyche. And that often meant they were terrifying.
But on the other side of terror is transformation. The initiate emerges marked, often physically changed, and spiritually realigned. Ready to hold the very powers that once held them.
And here’s the catch: the moment of initiation for each of us is not under our personal control. It arrives with time—age, loss, challenge, or crisis. None of us get to choose when the rock is ready to be moved.
Despite his longing to be a hero like Heracles, Theseus had to wait. First, until he was old enough to try. And then, until he was strong enough to actually move the rock. Only after that period of waiting and trying—what may have felt like false starts or disappointing failures—could he claim the sandals and sword, and make his way to Athens, his father’s city.
But, let’s go back to the story, shall we, back to the time of oracles and gods, to a young man who has just uncovered symbols of his destiny.
The Story of Theseus - (Part II)
The gentle light of the fading day painted the world in amber and gold. Long blue shadows, like the fingers of the young night, reached across the tiled courtyard where Theseus stood beside his mother. A soft breeze rustled the olive trees nearby, their gilt-edged leaves whispering like old women at a well. Across from them sat his grandfather, King Pittheus—aged, sharp-eyed, and wrapped in a light robe of pale wool, the colour of distant storms.
Pittheus had always known who the boy’s earthly father was. But he had not known about the rock. Or the sandals. Or the sword.
Now, as Theseus held the tokens in his hands, the weight of the moment settled over the three of them.
Aethra spoke.
She told her father everything—how King Aegeus had placed the items beneath the stone and left instructions should his son be born to her. She went on to explain, possibly more for Theseus’ benefit than his grandfather’s, the need for the secrecy, and Aegeus’ fear that his brothers’ children in Athens would kill the boy before he could be recognised.
And when she finished, she fell silent.
Pittheus nodded gravely. He looked out toward the bay, where the sunlight shimmered on the water like coins spilled from a hole in Helios’ purse as he had passed overhead.
Athens was not far. The sea journey would be swift and safe, cutting across the blue waters in a matter of hours. Pittheus, ever pragmatic, immediately offered a vessel—a fast galley, fully manned. It could deliver Theseus directly to the shores of the Attic peninsula, where the palace lay only a short walk inland.
But the boy—no, the man—did not answer immediately. He looked inland. Toward the dry hills and winding paths. The wilderness between Troezen and Athens was the road that Heracles would have chosen.
The safe route was not the one that called to him.
And so, despite his mother’s worries and grandfather’s insistence, Theseus refused the offer of the boat and safe passage, and chose to go by land. After all, his father, the king of Athens, hadn’t left him oars but sandals.
This choice to go willingly along the difficult path is one that Theseus will make again later in life. Although at that point, it will be a long and winding road into darkness—into the shadowed turns of the winding labyrinth.
But for now, as the late afternoon gave way to evening, and shades of amber deepened to the purples and blues of night, Theseus began making his plans to leave the following morning.
The Longissima Via
The Alchemical Road
The road between Troezen and Athens skirts the Saronic Gulf. It traces a path connecting six mythological gates to the underworld, each guarded by a monstrous chtonic figure. Of course, there are many ways to frame this journey. And if I let myself, I could fall down a dozen rabbit holes here.
We could talk about the rock Theseus moved as the philosopher’s stone—a catalyst for the alchemical transformation that occurs on the long road to Athens. In this framing, the sword and sandals become the tools for division and discernment, to separate the elements within while the path describes stages of dissolution, reintegration, and emergence—from the materia prima of Theseus’ childhood self into the into golden hero we think of when we hear his name.
But for today, I’ll keep it simple. Since Theseus walks this road, we’ll walk it with him. Step by step. Encounter by encounter.
I hope that by following this hero on his long road, you’ll also gain the courage to approach the road before you a little differently.
Jung described the path to wholeness as a longissima via—a snakelike journey, full of detours and terrors, but one that unites opposites and leads to integration, much like the alchemists’ magnum opus. That phrase gave me a meaningful name for Theseus’s road: not a shortcut, but a longissima via—where each confrontation on the road isn’t a detour, but a necessary turn.
In talking about this same path in his book, The Hero With A Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell says “The passage of the mythological hero may be over-ground, incidentally; fundamentally it is inward—into depths where obscure resistances are overcome, and long lost, forgotten powers are revivified, to be made available for the transfiguration of the world.” (Campbell, 2004, p. 27)
Theseus doesn’t know it yet, but each of the six figures he’ll meet will mirror distorted aspects of human nature—forces that twist, tempt, or overpower us when left unchecked. They are challenges not just of body, but of psyche.
Reflection
So… what moments or images stood out to you from today’s story?
Was it the rock—that massive boulder Theseus had to wait years before he was strong enough to move?
Was it the sandals and the sword?
Or was it the moment he chose the long road, the dangerous one, when the safer path lay glittering right there across the sea?
Maybe you’ve faced a choice like that in your own life. The choice between the easy way—the route with fewer obstacles—and the longer path, the one that asks something deeper of you. The one where you know you’ll have to face real resistance. The one that will change you.
Let’s pause here for a moment.
Remember those six bandits I mentioned? They’re threshold figures—guardians of the in-between. Theseus isn’t descending into Άδης (Hades)—the world of the dead. He’s walking from one city to another—from Troezen to Athens. The journey from a smaller town, to the burgeoning and flourishing city he is to inherit; a picture of growth and the kind of move we all must make as we move into bigger psychological and emotional spaces over and over throughout our lives. But the journey itself is initiatory. For each of us, making that move is a rite of passage.
And in a symbolic sense, those bandits mark gates to the underworld—not because he’s literally going underground, but because he’s entering psychological terrain shaped by the unconscious.
These gates show up whenever we’re on the brink of change. When we’re leaving behind an old version of ourselves, but not yet sure who we’re becoming. And that kind of transformation doesn’t just arrive out of nowhere. It begins with an act of strength—of readiness.
It begins, in this story, when the stone is finally lifted.
Because under that stone lies something crucial—not just the sandals and the sword, but a truth about who Theseus really is. A truth that was hidden, unknown, even to him. Until he was ready.
And the same is often true for us. Our next chapter often waits under some metaphorical stone—something we haven’t been strong enough to face or see clearly… until now.
Whenever I reflect on this story, I’m reminded of a line from the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius. He wrote:
The impediment to action advances action.
What stands in the way becomes the way.11
That’s what the stone in this myth represents. The sandals and the sword hidden beneath it? They aren’t just gifts from a father who is unable to be around while his child is growing up. They’re proof of readiness. They’re the evidence that Theseus has crossed some invisible line. He’s no longer just someone with potential. He’s someone who has chosen and who is equipped by everything he has been through to step forward onto the longissima via of initiation.
In order to get to that point, Theseus had to have the courage and tenacity to try as well as the faith to trust that the rock was worth moving without knowing what was beneath it.
And in closing, I want to leave you with a few questions to ponder. As always, there are not right answers here, only territory for you to explore on your own terms.
Are there stories—told by others or by your own mind—that have shaped who you think you are?
Are any of those stories ready to be questioned, outgrown, or rewritten?What is the “stone” in your life right now?
Is there something heavy, unmoving, that you feel you are growing toward being able to lift? What might be waiting for you underneath it?Finally: What does it mean, for you, to choose the path that will change you rather than just get you from A to B?
What are you afraid of having to face along the way?
Epilogue
Next time, we will journey with Theseus from Troezen, to the nearby town of Επίδαυρος (Epidauros) where he will come face to face with his first real test on the road—a bandit named Περιφήτης (Periphetes) who some say is a misshapen son of a god.
Through this encounter, Theseus will demonstrate the real power of the sword he has received, and we’ll discover what a bronze club has in common with the pelt of a lion.
But for now, thank you so much for spending your time with me.
If you enjoyed this introduction to Theseus’ myth (there is a lot more to come!) or if something leapt out at you and want to chat about it, please leave a comment on the episode or reach out to me through my website at www.theinwardsea.com or drop me a comment here!
As always, I would really appreciate it if you’d subscribe to this page and my podcast, rate the episodes and leave a review or a comment. Of course, I’d be super grateful if you’d share it with anyone you think might find it interesting. I really enjoy researching and preparing these episodes and I’d love to know how they land with you.
So once again, thank you, and until next time, keep pushing on those rocks—they will move, one day, and then, who knows what you’ll find beneath them!
Bibliography:
Apollodorus. (1921). The Library (J. G. Frazer, Trans.). Loeb Classical Library. Harvard University Press. https://www.theoi.com/Text/Apollodorus1.html
Aurelius, M. (2003). Meditations (G. Hays, Trans.). Modern Library.
Campbell, J. (2004). The Hero with a Thousand Faces (commemorative edition). Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1949)
Diodorus Siculus. (n.d.). Library of History (C. H. Oldfather, Trans.). Book 4, Sections 59–85. Theoi Greek Mythology. Retrieved July 18, 2025, from https://www.theoi.com/Text/DiodorusSiculus4D.html
Jung, C. G. (2023). The Collected Works of C. G. Jung. Princeton University Press.
Jung, C. G., & Douglas, C. (1997). Visions : notes of the seminar given in 1930-1934. Vol. 1. Princeton University Press.
Neumann, E. (1954). The origins and history of consciousness (R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Princeton University Press.
Pausanias. (1918). Description of Greece (W. H. S. Jones & H. A. Ormerod, Trans.). Loeb Classical Library. Harvard University Press. https://www.theoi.com/Text/Pausanias1C.html
Plutarch. (1914). Theseus (B. Perrin, Trans.). In Plutarch’s Lives (Vol. 1). Harvard University Press. Perseus Digital Library. http://data.perseus.org/citations/urn:cts:greekLit:tlg0007.tlg001.perseus-eng2:1.1
Ronnberg, A. (2021). The Book of Symbols. Taschen
von Franz, M.-L. (1971). An Introduction to the Interpretation of Fairytales (J. Hillman, Ed.) Spring Publications. (Original work published 1970)
Names and Locations for the Curious
Characters
The characters are listed in order of appearance in the episode:
Θησέας (Theseus) thi-SEH-as – Our young hero.
Μίνως (Minos) MEE-nos – The King of Crete (part of his story is dealt with in the episode entitled The Bull and the Burnout).
Ποσειδών (Poseidón) Po-see-THON – God of the sea; father of Theseus by Aethra, according to myth.
Πασιφάη (Pasiphaë) pah-si-FAH-ee – The wife of King Minos and a powerful enchantress.
Αιγέας (Aegeas) eh-YEH-as – King of Athens; leaves a sword and sandals under the stone.
Απόλλωνας (Apollo) a-PO-lo-nas – God of music, prophecy, healing, and the arts; later associated with the sun and with order and harmony in Greek mythology.
Πιτθέας/Πιτθέως (Pittheas) Peet-THEH-as – King of Troezen; wise interpreter of oracles.
Αίθρα (Aethra) EH-thra – Daughter of Pittheus; sleeps with both Aegeas and Poseidon.
Αθηνά (Athiná) Ah-thee-NAH – According to some sources (e.g., Plutarch), it is Athena who visits Aethra in a dream and tells her to go to the shore to offer sacrifice — where she meets Poseidon.
Ηρακλής (Iraklís) Ee-ra-KLEES – Hercules; cousin and role model for Theseus
Περιφήτης (Periphetes) Pe-ree-FEE-tees – Crippled bandit with a bronze club; possibly a chthonic cyclopean figure and the son of Hephaestos.
Locations
Τροιζήνα (Troezen) Tri-ZEE-na – Theseus’ birthplace and childhood home; coastal city in the Peloponnese.
Αθήνα (Athens) Ah-THEE-na – Seat of Aegeus’ throne and Theseus’ eventual home.
Ἐπίδαυρος (Epidauros) EPI-tha-vros – Region famous for the theatre and sanctuary of Asclepius.
Jung & Douglas (1997), pp. 425-426
Although sources differ on this point. Some claim that he only received this name on being officially recognised by Aegeus in Athens (http://data.perseus.org/citations/urn:cts:greekLit:tlg0007.tlg001.perseus-eng2:4.1)
See Plutarch, Theseus (1914), sec. 6.7, in the Perseus Digital Library: http://data.perseus.org/citations/urn:cts:greekLit:tlg0007.tlg001.perseus-eng2:6.7
Pausanias (1918) 1.27.7
von Franz (1971) p. 13
von Franz (1971) p. 58
Jung writes an excellent introduction to this idea in Volume 4 of his collected works, §251–255.
Jung’s writings on alchemy are as extensive as they are dense. They are, perhaps only slightly easier to digest than the original alchemical manuscripts themselves. CW 13, §109-110 discuss the sword and its significance in both alchemy and psychology in detail. Mind you, the blade is sharp. Try not to hurt yourself.
Joseph Campbell writes extensively on initiation in The Hero With a Thousand Faces and The Power of Myth. Other authors who explore this theme with great depth and insight include Marion Woodman, Robert Bly, Robert Johnson, and James Hillman. If this topic interests you, you can’t go wrong with any of their work.
Oh dear. If you’ve read this far, you really didn’t deserve that pun. I apologise.
Aurelius (2003), 5.20
Great analysis. As always I learned something new about both Greek myth and Jung. Oddly enough, just last night I was discussing with a friend the horror of initiation rituals, and trying to square the often traumatic effects with the sense of purpose they seem to instill. Having never been an initiate in anything, I've only read about it or seen it from a distance. I wonder in what ways though the contemporary ritual of the secret society, the frat, or the military diverge from the ancient ritual of the mystery cult. In some way, each side of the premodern/modern coin has a group that is recapitulating power over bodies through trauma.
Nice work—I loved how you unfolded the images of the rock, sandals and sword, and the snaky road Theo chose. You gave us lots to think about! Thanks