What Lilith Can Teach Us About Masculinity, Men, and Love

Lilith is often remembered as a demon, a seductress, or a warning—a woman who defied the first man and was cast into exile for refusing to submit. But strip away the distortion, and she stands as something far more powerful: the first woman who chose self-sovereignty over obedience.

Her story is older than the Garden itself. Before Eve, before the fall, there was Lilith, made from the same earth as Adam, formed as his equal. But when he demanded her submission, she refused. And so, she left. She was not banished; she walked away.

This decision—so radical, so disruptive—was enough to turn her into a mythic threat. A force to be feared. Because what happens when a woman does not yield? What happens when love is not built on dominance and submission, but on truth and choice?

In this essay, we explore what Lilith’s myth can teach us about masculinity, men, and love—not just in relationships, but in the very way society constructs desire, power, and connection.

This article expands on the conversation begun in the Playing Her Part podcast series, where I explore mythic women through storytelling, embodiment, and creative reclamation. The first episode, “Reclaiming Lilith—Feminine Power, Sovereignty & the Myth of the First Woman,” reclaims her story from the narratives of fear and control. Here, we take the next step: examining how her story challenges the myths we have inherited about gender, romance, and power.

Because Lilith is not just a symbol of feminine defiance—she is a key to reimagining masculinity and love beyond the structures of dominance and submission.

So, what does she reveal?

 

The Myth of Lilith and Its Significance

Let’s talk about Lilith—the OG baddie, the woman who took one look at Adam’s entitlement and said, “Absolutely not.”

You have to admire her, really. She was there at the dawn of time, freshly sculpted from the same divine dust as Adam, taking in the view of paradise, and still had the audacity to ask for more. She didn’t wait for a second draft of womanhood. She took one look at the script and walked off set.

Lilith was supposed to be his equal—a partner, a counterpart, a fellow earth-formed being. But Adam, bless him, decided that equality was more of a guideline than a rule. “Lie beneath me,” he told her, presumably with the confidence of a man who had never been rejected before.

And Lilith? She laughed. She actually laughed. She looked him dead in the eyes, said, “I’d rather not,” and left. No dramatic exit, no monologue about how he would miss her when she was gone. Just pure, undiluted self-respect.

Of course, history could not let that stand. A woman leaving without making a fuss? Unacceptable. So instead of letting her story be one of self-sovereignty, they rewrote it as one of corruption.

Instead of a woman who knew her worth, Lilith became a demon who devours children (because obviously, rejecting a man must mean you’re also out for infant blood). Instead of a woman who chose her own path, she became a dark force sent to tempt and destroy.

Meanwhile, Adam—poor, rejected Adam—was given Eve, the “better” model of womanhood. A woman who did not walk away. A woman made from him, not alongside him. A woman who would not say no.

And so the first great myth of masculinity and love was born: that a good woman is one who stays, who submits, who blooms in response to a man’s love. And that a man’s role is to hold, protect, and ultimately define her.

Lilith exposes the lie in this. She was not created for Adam. She was created for herself.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s a lesson worth reclaiming.

 

The Problem of Benevolent Patriarchy

Now, let’s talk about a concept that seems comforting on the surface but is actually just patriarchy in a softer coat: benevolent patriarchy.

You know the type. The men who proudly say, “I would never control a woman—I just want to protect her.” The ones who think chivalry is a moral high ground rather than an outdated attempt to wrap control in a velvet glove. The ones who tell you they’re not like other men while upholding the exact same system, just with more compliments.

This is the fantasy of the benevolent patriarch—the idea that women will finally be free when we find the right kind of man to lead us. That the problem isn’t patriarchy itself, just the wrong kind of men at the top.

But here’s the problem: It still places men in control.

The benevolent patriarch is still a patriarch. He still assumes leadership. He still assumes women need guiding. He still assumes his presence is what makes a woman feel safe. It’s a rebranding exercise, not liberation.

Which brings us back to Lilith.

Lilith does not need Adam to be a better man. She does not stick around in Eden, trying to negotiate a softer form of control. She does not say, “Okay, what if I lie beneath you, but like… in an empowered way?”

No. She leaves.

Because even when power is wielded with kindness, it is still power over. And Lilith does not do power over.

The idea that a good man will “unlock” a woman’s true nature is just another way of saying that women are passive vessels, waiting to be shaped, defined, or “brought into their fullness” by the right masculine presence. It still centres men as the defining force in a woman’s life.

 

Lilith teaches us another way.

What if love was not about control—soft or otherwise?

What if safety was not something granted, but something chosen?

What if women were not waiting for permission to be whole?

Benevolent patriarchy tells us that the solution to oppression is a gentler oppressor. Lilith tells us that the solution is leaving the Garden altogether.

And honestly, I think she’s onto something.

 

The Archetypal Father-Daughter Dynamic in Love and Society

There is something unsettling about the way patriarchal love stories are framed. At first glance, they appear to celebrate romance, devotion, and care. But beneath the surface, many of these narratives do not depict a relationship between equals. Instead, they cast love in the language of parenthood—specifically, a father-daughter dynamic in which the man leads and the woman follows.

We see this in the way masculinity and femininity are culturally defined. A real man, we are told, is a protector, a provider, a source of stability and strength. His role in love is to hold, guide, and offer security. Meanwhile, the ideal woman is soft, yielding, and nurtured. She is someone who “blossoms” under the right kind of love, whose fullness is unlocked not by herself, but by a man who understands her better than she understands herself.

This idea is not limited to myth and legend—it permeates everything.

In fairy tales, the hero rescues the princess. She does not free herself; she waits. She is rewarded not for action, but for patience. She belongs to the one who finds and saves her.

In romance novels, desire is often framed as a woman being awakened by a man’s love, as if her truest self was waiting to be revealed by the right masculine presence. Her autonomy is an illusion—she is only whole because he sees her, claims her, makes her his.

Even in modern relationships, we see echoes of this dynamic. Women are still praised for finding a man who will “take care of them.” A successful relationship, by patriarchal standards, is one where a man steps up to be a guide, a protector, a figure of unwavering strength. Meanwhile, a woman’s role is to trust, to surrender, to soften into his care.

Surrender. That word again.

Which brings us back to Lilith.

Lilith refuses to surrender—not because she is hardened or broken, but because she does not require Adam’s protection. She does not see herself as something that must be held, guided, or tamed. She does not believe that love requires submission. And for this, she is cast as unnatural.

Because women, according to patriarchal myths, are supposed to belong to men. Not necessarily as property—though history has certainly tried that model—but as something shaped by male desire, existing in response to it. A woman is not a complete being in her own right; she is made whole by his love, by his presence, by his choosing.

Lilith’s rejection of Adam is a rejection of this entire framework. It is not just about refusing to lie beneath him; it is about refusing to define herself through him at all. She does not see herself as incomplete in his absence. She does not need him to give her meaning. And for that, she is vilified.

The patriarchal model of love tells women, “Find a man who will take care of you.”

Lilith asks, “Why do you need taking care of?”

One path keeps women small, dependent, waiting.

The other leads beyond the Garden, into the unknown.

 

Even “Conscious” Relationships Are Not Immune to This Dynamic

It would be easy to assume that this father-daughter dynamic only exists in traditional, patriarchal relationships—the ones where rigid gender roles are explicitly upheld, where men are expected to lead and women to follow. But the truth is, even in the most conscious, spiritual, or progressive relationships, the same underlying patterns often remain. They are simply dressed in softer language, made more palatable, disguised as healing.

In spiritual and self-development circles, relationships are often framed as sacred unions, built on the interplay of divine masculine and feminine energy. These models encourage polarity—the idea that a healthy relationship requires one partner to embody masculine leadership and the other to embody feminine surrender. Women are encouraged to soften, open, and trust their partners fully. Men are encouraged to hold space, provide structure, and lead from a place of grounded strength.

On the surface, this sounds deeply nourishing. It promises a form of balance, a return to something ancient and sacred. And yet, when we look closer, we see the same hierarchy repackaged in poetic language.

The woman still blooms because of him.

The man is still the source of stability.

She surrenders; he holds.

She flows; he contains.

It may look different from the rigid patriarchal structures of the past, but at its core, it still centres male leadership as the defining force in a woman’s experience of love.

Even in deeply self-aware relationships, there can still be an unspoken expectation that men are the ones who create safety, and that a woman’s freedom is something that must be earned through the presence of a good man.

Which brings us back to Lilith.

Lilith does not require a man to make her feel safe. She does not see herself as something that must be held, softened, or tamed. She does not base her ability to love on whether or not a man has proven himself worthy of her trust.

Lilith’s love is not given in response to protection. It is given freely, or not at all.

She challenges the idea that masculinity is what allows femininity to flourish. She challenges the belief that safety must come from outside of oneself. And, most disruptively of all, she challenges the notion that love is something women must surrender into, rather than something they can stand fully in.

This is why her story remains dangerous.

Because Lilith’s existence offers a different paradigm—one in which love is not built on polarity, but on mutual sovereignty. One in which safety is not provided, but created. One in which neither partner is the source of the other’s fullness, because they are already whole.

This is love beyond the Garden. Love without ownership, without roles, without the illusion that we must become something for another in order to be worthy of devotion.

And perhaps, that is the kind of love Lilith walked towards when she left Eden behind.

 

The Inseparability of Dominator Masculinity and Misogyny

At the heart of patriarchal gender dynamics lies a fundamental and often overlooked truth: male dominance cannot exist without female submission. The two are structurally interdependent. A system that elevates men as leaders, protectors, and authorities is only sustainable if women accept—or are coerced into—being led, protected, and controlled. The dominance of one requires the surrender of the other.

This is why dominator masculinity, even in its so-called benevolent form, is inseparable from misogyny. It does not matter whether control is framed as protection, reverence, or honour—if it still requires a woman to yield, to surrender, or to be shaped by male authority, then it is simply patriarchy rebranded.

 

The Power Dynamic Beneath the Myth

Feminist scholars such as bell hooks and Audre Lorde have long argued that oppressive structures cannot be dismantled by slightly kinder versions of themselves. In The Will to Change, bell hooks dissects the ways in which patriarchal masculinity is inherently built on domination, control, and the suppression of vulnerability—not just in women, but in men themselves. Masculinity, as we have been conditioned to understand it, is defined not by who a man is, but by who and what he has power over.

A man’s strength is measured by his ability to command, to be unshaken, to stand as an unmovable force. A man is a man because he is not a woman—because he does not yield, does not soften, does not allow himself to be penetrated emotionally, physically, or intellectually.

This creates a system in which power is relational. For a man to be dominant, there must be someone beneath him. And for centuries, women have been cast in that role. This is why the concept of “strong femininity” is often met with resistance or skepticism—if women claim power, where does that leave men? If women reject submission, masculinity as we have defined it loses its foundation.

The fear of this collapse is precisely why Lilith was demonised. She did not simply challenge Adam’s authority—she revealed that his authority was an illusion to begin with. She did not fight him. She did not plead. She simply refused to participate in the structure at all. And that refusal made her a threat.

 

Masculinity as Control—Even in Its “Protective” Form

There is a particular narrative within patriarchal gender roles that positions male control as a necessary structure for women’s safety. It suggests that a good man does not dominate for his own gain, but to protect and guide women who, by nature, are too vulnerable, emotional, or naïve to navigate the world alone.

This myth is deeply ingrained in everything from fairy tales to modern relationship advice. The “protector” archetype of masculinity is still dominance—it simply reframes submission as something in a woman’s best interest. The logic goes: If a man must lead, it is only because he knows better. If he must exert control, it is only because the world is dangerous. If a woman resists his authority, she is not just rebellious—she is foolish, unsafe, or self-destructive.

This is why patriarchal control and misogyny are inseparable. If women must be led for their own good, then any assertion of their independence is cast as reckless, unnatural, or in need of correction. In religious traditions, this “correction” is often moralised—women who resist male authority are disobedient, sinful, or lost. In secular spaces, it is pathologised—women who do not trust men are damaged, bitter, or “trauma-informed” rather than “love-informed.” Either way, the goal is the same: to keep women questioning their own authority over themselves.

 

How Both Men and Women Internalise These Myths

One of the most insidious aspects of patriarchal structures is that they do not require active oppression to function—only belief.

If men are conditioned to equate masculinity with dominance, they will instinctively resist models of love, leadership, and collaboration that do not place them at the centre. And if women are conditioned to equate femininity with surrender, they will feel discomfort—perhaps even guilt—when they prioritise their own sovereignty.

This is why so many women, despite being independent in other aspects of life, still find themselves unconsciously drawn to relationships that reinforce submission. The expectation that love requires a woman to soften, to yield, to be guided is not just something imposed on women—it is something that has been internalised over centuries. The father-daughter dynamic in love, as explored earlier, is so deeply embedded that many women do not even recognise it as hierarchy. It has been repackaged as romantic longing, spiritual devotion, and the highest form of feminine expression.

Men, too, are trapped by these narratives. Dominator masculinity does not just harm women—it dehumanises men. It strips them of vulnerability, of softness, of the ability to form relationships built on mutuality rather than authority. It creates a world where men are valued not for who they are, but for how much power they wield. This is why so many men, even those who reject overt misogyny, struggle to conceptualise love that is not based on leadership and control.

 

Breaking the Cycle: Why Lilith’s Refusal Still Matters 

If dominance and submission are two sides of the same structure, then true liberation cannot come from a softer, gentler patriarchy. It must come from rejecting the foundation entirely. 

Lilith offers a blueprint for this rejection. She does not stay in the Garden and demand Adam treat her better. She does not ask him to reflect, to do inner work, to learn how to hold her. She does not attempt to find a healthier version of patriarchy. She simply leaves.

That act—her refusal, her exit, her choice to exist beyond the system altogether—is the only real path to freedom.

This does not mean that love is impossible. It does not mean that men and women are destined to remain in opposition. It means that love must be built on a new foundation—one that does not require hierarchy.

Lilith’s story does not just challenge men to rethink masculinity. It challenges women to reconsider what they have been told about love. It asks all of us to interrogate the narratives we have inherited and the roles we have accepted.

Because if love is only possible when one submits and the other holds power—then it is not love. It is control.

Lilith walked away from that kind of love.

And maybe, so should we.

 

Leaving the Garden: Reimagining Love and Masculinity

For all the progress we have made in redefining gender roles, one truth remains largely unchanged: women are still defined in relation to men.

From the moment a woman is born, her identity is shaped not by who she is, but by who she belongs to—or who she is expected to belong to. Her worth is measured by her desirability, her relationship status, her ability to be chosen. And if she does not enter into the “right” kind of relationship, society does not let her forget it.

A man who remains unmarried is a bachelor—a title that carries an air of freedom, autonomy, even sophistication. A woman in the same position is a spinster—a word soaked in pity, in the suggestion of loneliness, in the assumption that something has been lost rather than chosen. Even the language of marriage reflects this imbalance. A woman takes on a man’s name, marking her transition from daughter to wife. Meanwhile, a man’s identity remains intact. His title does not change; his sense of self does not hinge on marriage in the same way.

And then there’s the strange and telling distinction between Miss and Mrs. Unlike Mr., which applies to men regardless of marital status, women’s titles are designed to announce whether they belong to a man or not. Miss signifies that she is unmarried—still available. Mrs. tells the world that she has been claimed.

This framing does not end with names.

A woman without children is questioned—why didn’t she have them? Did she not want them? Could she not? Was there something missing in her life? A man without children is rarely asked to explain himself. A woman who prioritises her work over relationships is seen as too ambitious, too focused, missing out on what truly matters. A man who does the same is driven, successful, an example of dedication.

Even in love, women are rarely granted autonomy in the same way men are. It is still considered a milestone for a woman to be proposed to, to be “chosen” by the right kind of man. Wedding traditions still tend to reflect this: the father giving away the bride, the groom lifting the veil, the assumption that the woman is the one being claimed.

Lilith disrupts all of this.

She was the first woman who refused to be defined by her relationship to a man. She was not shaped by Adam’s desire, nor did she allow her existence to be dictated by whether or not he accepted her. And for that, she was vilified. A woman who does not belong to a man must be something unnatural, something monstrous. She cannot simply be.

Her refusal to submit was not just an act of defiance—it was a blueprint for a different kind of love. One that is not about power, possession, or being chosen. One that is not about playing a role, but about standing fully in oneself.

For centuries, women have been taught that to be wanted is to be worthy. But Lilith offers another path. What if worth was not something granted by a man’s love, but something that existed regardless of it?

To leave the Garden, in the symbolic sense, is to step into this paradigm. A love that is not based on dominance and submission, but on mutual sovereignty. A love that does not require a woman to make herself smaller, softer, more acceptable in order to receive it.

To truly understand what is required to move beyond patriarchal models of love, we must first acknowledge that the dominant image of masculinity in our culture is not simply about power—it is about divine authority. 

The “Daddy-God” model of masculinity is deeply ingrained in religious, historical, and cultural narratives. It positions men as creators, rulers, and protectors—the ones who govern not just nations but relationships, families, and spiritual truths. In this model, love is not an equal exchange but a bestowal—something men give, something women receive.

This is why even the most “empowered” versions of femininity often remain tethered to masculinity. Women are told they can be strong, independent, and self-sufficient—as long as they ultimately surrender to love. The highest expression of womanhood, in many circles, is still framed as the ability to trust a man enough to let go.

Lilith rejects this.

She does not stay in Eden hoping Adam will become a better man. She does not attempt to teach him how to hold her. She does not wait for his leadership to become worthy of her submission. She walks away entirely, not because she does not desire love, but because she refuses to accept a love that requires hierarchy.

This is the foundation of true love beyond patriarchy: mutual sovereignty.

Love that is not based on ownership.

Love that is not a transaction.

Love that does not demand one person shrink for the other to feel strong. 

To leave the Garden, in the symbolic sense, is to step into a new paradigm of love. A love in which neither partner is the source of the other’s wholeness, because they are already whole. A love that is not based on control or surrender, but on co-creation, mutual respect, and deep truth.

Lilith’s refusal is not just an act of defiance—it is an invitation.

An invitation to reject love that is built on dominance.

An invitation to see masculinity as something beyond control.

An invitation to imagine relationships as partnerships, rather than power struggles.

 

The Garden and the Wilderness: Control vs. the Untamed Feminine

At the heart of Lilith’s myth lies a powerful symbolic divide: the Garden and the Wilderness. One is a space of order, structure, and control; the other is a space of wildness, autonomy, and untamed possibility. This division is not just geographical—it is ideological. It represents two competing visions of existence: man’s dominion over the world versus nature’s inherent, uncontrollable force.

 The Garden of Eden is often imagined as paradise, but whose paradise was it? A place where everything is in its right order, where Adam is ruler, where woman exists not as an independent being but as his companion, molded to fit his needs. It is a world curated, shaped, and maintained by an external authority—a controlled environment, much like patriarchal structures that dictate how people, especially women, are allowed to exist.

The Garden is the ultimate metaphor for man’s attempt to control life itself. It is not simply a lush, green sanctuary—it is a carefully maintained space, an enclosure, a world where everything is named and ordered, where nothing grows wild. It is a place where nature exists only as it is permitted.

 Lilith’s rejection of Adam is, in many ways, a rejection of the Garden itself. She steps beyond its gates, beyond the world built by men, into the unknown. And in doing so, she aligns herself not with the curated paradise of man, but with the raw, uncontained force of the natural world.

The Wilderness represents a return to something primordial, something that predates the Garden and exists outside of its constraints. It represents the Mother, the Earth, the Feminine in its truest form—unruled, self-governing, abundant, and indifferent to human control. In mythology and religion, the wild is almost always coded as chaotic, dangerous, dark, or forbidden. It is the realm of witches, goddesses, shapeshifters—the domain of those who do not fit within society’s neatly ordered structures.

A woman who cannot be contained is dangerous to a system built on containment. The Wilderness, then, becomes both a literal and symbolic space of rebellion. This is why Lilith is demonised. It is not just because she left—it is because she left for the wild. She abandoned the carefully structured safety of the Garden and embraced a world where she belonged only to herself. 

This contrast between the Garden and the Wilderness is a metaphor that still lingers today. Women are still expected to stay within carefully cultivated spaces, to remain within the structures that define femininity in safe, acceptable terms. The wild, in contrast, is unpredictable, messy, ungoverned—and therefore, threatening. A woman who does not need to be controlled is a danger to those who rely on that control to maintain their own power.

 But what if the Wilderness was never something to fear?

What if the Garden was never paradise, but simply a gilded cage? 

Lilith’s story reminds us that the wild—the unknown, the untamed, the ungoverned—is not a place of exile, but a place of return. A return to what is natural. A return to a way of being that is not dictated by external authority. A return to a state of sovereignty, wholeness, and self-trust.

When Lilith left the Garden, she did not fall. She did not become lost. She did not wither without Adam’s love.

She thrived. 

Lilith’s lesson is clear: the Garden was never paradise. It was a cage disguised as safety. The Wilderness, with all its untamed beauty and unpredictability, is not the place where one becomes lost—it is the place where one is finally free.

 

Love Beyond Dominance

Lilith’s story is more than just an ancient myth. It is a lens through which we can examine the ways we have been conditioned to understand power, love, and gender. It forces us to question the structures we have inherited - who holds authority, who is expected to yield, and why.

At its core, Lilith’s story teaches us that dominance is not love. The moment love requires submission, it becomes control. Whether framed as protection, devotion, or even worship, any dynamic in which one person must shrink for the other to remain strong is a distortion of true connection.

She also reveals the deep interdependence between masculinity and patriarchy- how men have been taught to define themselves not by who they are, but by how much power they wield. In a world where masculinity is synonymous with leadership, control, and strength, the existence of a woman like Lilith, who does not ask to be led, exposes the fragility of the entire system. If masculinity is built on dominance, then it is not strong at all. It is a house of cards, reliant on women continuing to say yes, to surrender, to stay. 

For men, Lilith presents an invitation to redefine masculinity. To move beyond power over and into power with. To recognise that strength is not about control, but about presence. That love is not about leading, but about standing side by side.

For women, she offers a mirror. A reminder that love is not something they must wait to receive, but something they already carry. That their value is not determined by being chosen, their completeness not dependent on another’s presence. That love, in its truest form, does not require them to make themselves smaller, softer, or more palatable—it asks them only to be who they are.

Perhaps the greatest lesson Lilith offers us is this: The Garden was never paradise. The roles we have been taught to play—dominant and submissive, protector and protected, leader and follower—are not natural, they are learned. And if they can be learned, they can also be unlearned.

Lilith left Eden not because she did not love, but because she refused to love within a framework that required her to kneel. 

And that is where we find ourselves now—standing at the edge of the Garden, asking what love might look like if it were freed from hierarchy.

Lilith already gave us the answer.

Love without power.

Masculinity without control.

Partnership without ownership.

Connection without submission.

She walked away so that we might know another way is possible.

Now the question is: Are we ready to follow?

For a deeper exploration of Lilith’s myth, her symbolism, and how we can reclaim her in our creative and personal work, listen to Episode 1 of Playing Her Part: Reclaiming Lilith—Feminine Power, Sovereignty & the Myth of the First Woman.