Seeing Myself Through Messia’s Eyes
"A reflection on the truths art reveals when we’re finally ready to see them."
I’ve been thinking a lot about how my mind has changed—how the lenses I look through have slowly cleared as I’ve done the work of becoming more self‑aware. Art has always been one of the ways I discover myself. It shows me truths I can’t always see on my own, especially when I’m tangled in my own disconnect.
Recently, I found myself reflecting on three women from Spartacus: House of Ashur: Messia, Hilara, and Cornelia. Each of them represents something different in that world—truth, fantasy, dominance. And what surprised me was how naturally my focus settled on Messia.
Looking at Messia made me realize how much of my life has been shaped by calculated choices, survival instincts, and the truths I wasn’t ready to face until now.
Ten years ago, I would’ve gravitated toward Hilara. I understood that fantasy she lived in—the hope that someone more powerful might lift you out of your station, that love could be the key to freedom. It’s a beautiful dream, but it’s also a delusion. I lived in that delusion once.
But now, I see Messia. And the only reason I can see her so clearly is because I’ve had to face devastating truths within myself. I’ve had to acknowledge the power dynamics I live under, the realities of my sexuality, and the survival strategies I’ve used without even realizing it. Messia moves through her world with an awareness I’ve only recently grown into.
There’s a moment in the final episode that stayed with me. Messia confronts Hilara after the opium theft—fear, danger, consequences all hanging in the air. And then Messia chooses to leave. It’s painful, but it’s the smartest move she can make. Cornelia’s favor gives her a sliver of safety, and in a world built on brutality, even a sliver matters.
That scene where Messia walks in wearing that questionable strap-on, leading the two women behind her, says everything. She’s gained a bit of power through Cornelia’s favor, but she never forgets the collar around her neck. She’s not romanticizing anything. She’s calculating. She’s surviving. She’s claiming whatever assurance she can get.
And yet, the final look she gives Hilara before stepping into the cart… it’s full of feeling. She still cares. She still hurts. But she leaves anyway, because survival demands it.
I recognize that. I’ve made those same kinds of decisions in my own life—quiet, strategic moves that kept me safe, even when they cost me something emotionally. I just didn’t have the language for it back then. I didn’t understand why I did what I did. Now I do. And with that understanding, the shame has fallen away.
Because the truth is, we still live in hierarchies. We still live in systems built on exploitation, power, and dehumanization. The Roman Empire may be gone, but its shadows linger—in patriarchy, in colorism, in the way labor is extracted from us while we’re told to be grateful for scraps. My own country still carries those echoes. My father’s culture still carries them. The parallels are unsettling.
So we find comfort where we can. In art. In stories. In music, books, games, shows—tiny pockets of imagination that soften the exhaustion.
And in Messia, I saw myself. Not the fantasy. Not the dominance. But the truth.
The part of me that sees the world clearly, even when it hurts. The part that makes calculated choices because pretending things are equal won’t save me. The part that understands survival without shame.
Messia lives in truth. And I’m learning to do the same.
