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In our modern American society, there remains a strange discomfort around a woman baring her breast—even briefly—when breastfeeding. I’ve always found this reaction curious. Breastfeeding is one of the most natural acts a woman can perform. It is, quite simply, what the body was made to do. So what, exactly, are people afraid of when they see a mother nursing her child? That it might somehow be inappropriate? That something inherently life-giving could be mistaken for something else entirely? Perhaps it says more about our cultural lens than the act itself. Maybe it’s time we question the unease rather than the mother. Since the earliest days of humanity, women have nourished their children this way—openly, instinctively, without shame. One of the oldest known human figures, the Venus of Willendorf (dating from roughly 30,000–25,000 BCE), emphasizes full breasts and hips—symbols not of modesty, but of power, fertility, and the ability to sustain life. So what does this have to do with mythology, Homer, and The Homeric Chronicles? According to the 2015 article “Breastfeeding in the Course of History” published in the Journal of Pediatrics & Neonatal Care, breastfeeding held deep cultural and symbolic value in ancient Mesopotamia and Greece, with numerous references appearing in mythology. From my own reading of the Iliad, the Odyssey, and other sources, this holds true. In the ancient world, breast milk was not merely nourishment—it was sacred. The act of nursing was essential, intimate, and worthy of reverence. The article goes on to note that it was not until the 20th century, when formula companies rose to prominence, that public perception began to shift, and mothers were increasingly made to feel shame around an act that had once been honored. This brings me to one of the most powerful scenes in the The Iliad. As Hektor prepares to face Achilles, knowing it will likely mean his death, his father, King Priam, begs him not to go. He grieves the sons he has already lost and fears the loss of his heir. But it is Hecuba’s plea that cuts deepest. She does not speak as a queen but as a mother. She bares her breast and begs her son to remember what she gave him from the beginning: life. Through that gesture, she invokes something older than war, older than honor—the sacred bond between mother and child. It is not a political plea. It is not even a rational one. It is elemental. And it is powerful. Throughout The Homeric Chronicles, I return to this motif—the breast, the act of nursing—as a symbol of that sacred connection. It is intimate. It is primal. It is life-giving. So when Hecuba is unable to nurse her second son, Paris, it becomes a quiet but profound wound. That loss stands in contrast to the deep, embodied bond she shared with Hektor, and it shapes her choices as a mother moving forward. She refuses a nursemaid for her later children, determined to preserve that connection for herself. Because in a world of war, prophecy, and the will of the gods, there are still things that belong solely to the mother and the life she gives. If you enjoy this post or Greek Mythology check out the Homeric Chronicles |
Janell Rhiannon
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