Medusa at the Threshold

Lessons in Boundaries and Self‑Protection

Medusa is a symbol of strength. She was punished for the unwanted acts of two mythical gods and turned into a monster. Yet Medusa holds the power to destroy malicious aggressors and becomes a guardian—a protector at the threshold, warding off danger. For me, Medusa is a symbol of the inner strength and resilience it takes to set boundaries and remember my own worth when others try to strip it away.

My Early Medusa

I don’t wish to relive my 20s. It was a hard decade, even though women my age benefitted from the hard‑earned rights won by women in the 1970s. The hotel business was male‑dominated. My mother told me I would have to work harder than any of my male peers and that acceptance and recognition would be hard earned.

Got it. Keep my focus and work hard.

Medusa Verses My "Mentor"

I only wish my inner Medusa was more than a weak pulse beating through my veins in those early years. I was pretty naïve at 24, in 1983. I thought I had a mentor—the person who hired me. He would come to my food and beverage cost‑control office, and I would tutor him in a “brand‑new” technology: the personal computer and spreadsheet program. We talked about my goals and my next move. I had applied for a position and another candidate was chosen. As any concerned mentor might, he stopped by my office at the end of the day to discuss the situation.  I thought, “Wow, such concern. I’m pretty lucky to have him as a mentor.”

My “mentor” suggested we continue the discussion in the lounge at the top of the hotel. I thought, that’s a little strange, but he seems concerned and he’s in charge of the place. That drink led to the suggestion of moving across the street for another cocktail. Medusa was starting to wake up a little. But I trusted this mentor.

Then came another suggestion: how about a bite to eat at a place within walking distance? I did not know how to say no. “Speaking truth to power” was not in my 24‑year‑old vocabulary. My trust meter had dropped to 50%.  We arrived at a fancy place with live music and an expensive menu. He asked me to dance.  Oh, shit. Trust meter: 20%.

Medusa was helping me ask some big questions: “How do I get out of here and still be able to face my married ‘mentor’ every day? Don’t freak out—just make it through dinner.” Although slightly better than no advice, Medusa was not yet helping me extricate myself.

After dinner, he drove me to my car in the hotel employee parking lot, bent across the seats, and kissed me. I did not kiss back. Then he invited me to lunch on Saturday.  Trust meter: 0%.

I drove home and called the real Medusa in my life—my mother. She told me, “If you do anything, your whole career will be jaded by this. If you don’t do anything, you are “up the creek”. This mentor has the power to make your life miserable. Start looking for another job.”

Lunch at a Lake Hotel

For the next two days, I prepared for the “lunch conversation” with the mentor. I was going for the “don’t do anything” option. He picked me up; I was prepared for an hour‑long lunch somewhere close by. Instead, he drove me to a restaurant 45 minutes away at a lake hotel.

During the 45-minute drive, I talked about all the reasons this change in our mentor–mentee relationship would not work for me. We ate lunch in silence, and he drove me home. Forty‑odd years later, I am still upset about his choice of location and what that said about his plans.

Was My mother‑Medusa correct?

To my former mentor’s credit, he did not pursue any obvious retribution. Our PC tutoring ended, as did my belief that he was my mentor. I did not search for another job as I did not recognize any retribution, until...

Two years later, at a leadership holiday party, he posed the suggestion once again. My answer had not changed. But mother‑Medusa was correct this time: my professional life was about to turn into one of the most challenging periods in my career.

Quiet Retribution of Cruelties

Over the next five months, I suffered so many small and petty actions—quiet cruelties designed to make me feel defeated—piled into an 80‑hour work week. I was worn down and tired. I met with two senior leaders who suggested I meet with the division director and ask for help and advice. I did not voice what Medusa was telling me about retribution. I had never experienced true mentorship, guidance or support structures related to retribution. The culture at this hotel, required leaders to sink or swim. No life jackets.

To my shock, my division head told me he was tired of taking grief about me. Within days, I was informed I would be moved from being a department head back to an analyst position reporting to the Director of Finance. I was told I had failed to demonstrate leadership skills. (I had performed successfully in three other leadership positions.)

That same month, I received my five‑year anniversary pin at the annual employee banquet. As I walked on stage to receive the honorary pin from my former mentor, the teams I had led from the two restaurants and front desk cheered loudly and enthusiastically for me. I took that pin in defiance. It was obvious my former teammates did not view me as a failure.

Release from the Penalty Box

Fifteen months later, I was asked to return to the front office as the department manager. Apparently, my time in the penalty box was at an end. I was directed to work at the desk two weeks before my official start date to ensure a smooth operation during the 1988 Democratic Convention.

At my 12th hour of the convention checkout day, I watched as the two male leaders (above me on the org chart) had congratulatory cocktails in the lobby bar, while I completed two more hours behind the desk. My inner Medusa understood at that moment: before I had even officially started my position, I had made a mistake in returning to operations. My value would never be recognized in that hotel’s male‑dominated politics and leadership structure.

So, I worked the position for eight months and made the decision to return to the Finance / Accounting area to sharpen my analytical skills. I knew this signaled a huge change in my professional trajectory. But this time, it was my decision—not a penalty, but a positive strategic move. Within 18 months, I was promoted to the Westin corporate office because of my analytical skills, positive attitude, and dogged relentlessness.

This is what it means to turn your gaze back toward yourself and refuse to be made small.

What Medusa Teaches Us Now

Medusa asks us to stop blaming ourselves for other people’s choices and to start honoring the quiet voice that says, “This is not okay.” She reminds us that boundaries are not overreactions; they are acts of self‑protection and self‑respect.

If any part of this story feels familiar—if you’ve ever felt your trust meter dropping, or your inner Medusa whispering that something is off—I invite you to pause and listen.

Ask yourself:

• Where am I shrinking to keep someone else comfortable?

• What boundary needs to be named, even if my voice shakes?

• Who are the “mother‑Medusas” in my life who can help me see clearly?

Your Turn: Strength at the Threshold

Medusa stands at the threshold, guarding the line between harm and safety. So do we.

If this story resonates with you:

• Spend a moment with the Medusa piece in the Knot Gallery and notice what it stirs in you.

• Share this post with someone who might need a reminder that their “no” is powerful.

• Or, if you feel called, share your own “inner Medusa” story—how you learned to protect your worth—so others know they’re not alone.

This is how we turn our gaze back toward ourselves, together, and refuse to be made small.