A quick note: In a few days, I’m headed to Australia to visit my younger daughter. My family and I had the privilege of making this journey three years ago, but this time, I’m traveling on my own. For the two Wednesdays I’ll be away, I’m not yet sure whether I’ll be taking a full break here, sharing a couple of pieces from the archives, or penning something new. I’ll be paying attention to what’s coming up for me on that. No matter what, thanks for sticking with me—and for reading this one before I go.
If you’d rather listen to today’s essay, you’ll find an audio version here. ⬇️
All I remembered from the dream was Lilith. No people, no plot, just the certainty of that name as if whispered directly in my ear. I hadn’t been reading mythology, reviewing feminist manifestos, or lighting candles under the full moon (not that I wouldn’t). Lilith arrived unprovoked.
Back when my homeschooling friends and I were deep in the parenting trenches, it wasn’t uncommon for us to note the edgy kid names popular at the time: Rip, Nova, Lux. With Lilith, someone asked why anyone would name their child after a demon.
A she-devil in my subconscious? Given the shitty state of the world, that wouldn’t surprise me. But something was off. Nothing about the dream felt dark or demonic.
Who is Lilith? I needed to know more.
A quick web search turned up the basics, but it took some digging (and input from wise friends) to get to the heart of things.
According to some strands of Jewish mysticism and folklore (not canonical scripture), long before more people came along to royally screw things up around here, there was Lilith, Adam’s first wife, a woman who called it like she saw it.
“Look, Adam, my dude. We were both created out of the same dust, and I’m not really feeling this trad-wife arrangement. What say we do this marriage thing as equals?”
Rather than compromise, like an emotionally evolved creation of God, Adam threw a divine tantrum, and Lilith walked. No amount of celestial coaxing or holy threats could get her to return, so she was rebranded as the ultimate baby-snatching scapegoat, a cautionary tale in curls.
The story picks up with the more familiar Eve, who did a better job of playing by the rules (mostly). Of course, she was blamed for humanity’s eviction from Eden just for listening to a snake and wanting a snack. Her moment of curiosity became the eternal justification for control.
By the time we get to Exodus 22:18 — “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live” — the message is loud and clear: women who don’t stay in line are rewritten as monsters. The original Hebrew texts used a feminine word for sorcerer, and later translations, along with centuries of interpretation, cemented witches as women.
Lilith didn’t hex anyone. Her only crime was saying no—and standing her ground.
And yet our culture still treats male dominance as the natural order, as if patriarchy is inevitable, biologically sound, universal—as immutable as gravity. What if patriarchy itself is just another story?
Angela Saini, in a 2024 National Geographic piece, dismantles the myth of biological male dominance, concluding that “The most dangerous part of any form of human oppression is that it can make people believe that there are no alternatives. We see this in the old fallacies of race, caste, and class. The question for any theory of male domination is why this one form of inequality should be treated as the exception.”
Like the story of Lilith, the patriarchy is a narrative, told, retold, enforced. And like all narratives, it can be reimagined.
Matriarchal societies continue to exist. They’re not utopias, but they’re complex, functional, and challenge the belief that male dominance is wired into our DNA. In truth, our DNA might say something else entirely. It might bring messages from the ancestors, their voices, their trauma, their fire. We move them forward every time we dream, speak, resist, refuse.
This is Lilith.
She stands with all women who won’t be silenced.
In 1991, Anita Hill stood before the Senate Judiciary Committee to accuse then-Supreme Court nominee Clarence Thomas of sexual harassment, breaking a national silence around workplace abuse. In 2006, Tarana Burke founded the Me Too movement, creating a platform for survivors—especially women of color—long before it became a viral hashtag. And in 2018, Christine Blasey Ford testified before the Senate about being sexually assaulted by then–Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh, a decision that brought her fierce backlash and threats.
Last year, Gisèle Pelicot, who endured nearly a decade of being drugged and raped by her husband and dozens of his accomplices, chose to waive her anonymity and demanded a public trial, saying “Shame must change sides.” Her courage forced France to confront horrors long hidden. In July 2025, she was named knight of the Legion of Honour. Knight. A title once reserved for men who vowed to protect women’s virtue.
And just last week, Lilith’s spirit was there on the steps of the U.S. Capitol, in the voices of Epstein survivors—women who refused to be silenced, to settle, or disappear. Minor Victim 1, Marina Lacerda, spoke with conviction in her voice: “For the first time, I feel like I matter as an American.”
Chauntae Davies added: “This kind of trauma never leaves you. It breaks families apart. It shapes the way we see everyone around us. But one thing is certain: unless we learn from this history monsters like Epstein will rise again.”
Yesterday, E. Jean Carroll’s $83.3 million defamation verdict against Donald Trump was upheld by the Second Circuit Court of Appeals. On the very same day, a previously unseen birthday note he allegedly wrote to Jeffrey Epstein made headlines—complete with a cartoon caricature of a female body and the familiar Sharpie flourish.
But this story isn’t about an incriminating modern day doodle. It’s about how long women have had to shout to be believed.
It’s about the exhaustion of repeating the same truths across centuries, across cultures, across courtroom transcripts and hushed bathroom confessions. It's about the cost of being gaslit by history. About the way power hides behind myths—Lilith the demon, Eve the temptress, the women deemed too angry, too emotional, too sexual, too ambitious. It’s about how many lives have been shattered while the world shrugs and scrolls on.
And yes, it’s about rage—the kind that bubbles under your skin when you’re told to stay calm. The kind you inherit from mothers and grandmothers who were told to lower their voices and cross their legs. The kind that gives women like Lilith the courage to speak out rather than live a lie.
In 2022, right after Roe fell, I wrote Called to Rise. That was the last time the system reminded us, on a grand scale, how little our freedom has ever truly been our own. Lilith has always known this.
From Eden to witch trials, to courtrooms and the steps of the Capitol, she appears in every woman who refuses to accept a story she never agreed to—and writes her own instead.
~Elizabeth
If Lilith stirred something in you—rage, recognition, resistance—I’d love to hear what it was. What stories have you had to unlearn or reclaim?
Comments are the heart of Chicken Scratch, and your voice matters here. So drop a note below, and let’s talk.
If this piece resonated, I hope you’ll take an extra little moment to like or share it 💚 or restack it ♻️ — every gesture helps this community grow.
And thank you, as always, for being part of the Chicken Scratch flock. I’m so glad you’re here, and I look forward to seeing you again soon.
The Bible according to Beggins is a spiritual movement I can get behind. Thank you for mentioning the most recent women who act in the spirit of Lilith...E Jean, the Epstein survivors, an army of women who won't be silenced and are willing to make good trouble. As always you are sharp as a knife. Have an incredible journey down under. ❤️
Thank goodness for the strong men who don’t need or desire meek, submissive partners. Or I would be in big trouble and so would my mother. Have a great trip! Can’t wait to hear about it soon.