What do you do when your father is literally the god of war?
Podcast Episode Season Number
1
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2
Podcast Transcript

Have you ever met someone who stomps into a room like they’re still on a battlefield? Who doesn’t say hello, just growls a little and throws their bag on the floor? That’s my father, Ares.

Now, don’t get me wrong—he means well. Sort of. But when you’re the god of war, you don’t exactly come with a “gentle mode.” Thunderclouds, roars, weapons clashing… that’s just his natural vibe. Some kids grow up with bedtime stories. I grew up with battle cries echoing off the marble halls of Olympus.

But here’s the thing: Ares isn’t just about fighting. Not really. He’s about anger, pride, passion, and—if you look closely—maybe even a little bit of fear. He’s the god who charges first and thinks later. And he’s definitely the god who taught me that even the strongest warriors are sometimes just trying to prove they belong.

So if you’re ready, I’d like to tell you about Ares—not just the god of war, but my father. His powers, his past, his very complicated family… and why, sometimes, even a god needs to be told to calm down.

Because in the Olympic Family, even the gods have issues.

My father, Ares, is the god of war. But let me be very clear—he is not the god of strategy or planning. That’s Athena’s department. Ares is the god of fury. Of clashing swords and charging horses. Of the moment when everything breaks loose and no one is quite sure who’s winning anymore.

Wherever there’s noise, fire, and chaos—he’s probably not far behind.

He doesn’t carry a clipboard. He carries a spear.

When Ares enters a battle, he doesn’t need armies—he is an army. His footsteps thunder across the field. His armor shines red like fire and gold like the sun. He can make mortals fight harder just by shouting from the sky. And if he joins the fight himself? Well… let’s just say things get messy.

He can’t be wounded by ordinary weapons, but the gods can be hurt by each other—and trust me, Ares has limped off the battlefield more than once. He doesn’t mind. He calls it “glory.”

Now, here’s the fun part. Ares doesn’t always fight alone. Sometimes, he brings friends. If you can call them that. There’s Phobos and Deimos—Fear and Terror—his sons, who gallop alongside him in battle like two screaming shadows. There’s Eris—my aunt—the goddess of discord. She stirs up trouble before the fighting even begins.

And sometimes… he brings me. Not to fight. Never that. But to remind him when things go too far.

You see, Ares doesn’t just love war. He gets carried away by it. He doesn’t always see what comes next. His power is in the now—in the clash, in the roar, in the feeling. That’s what makes him terrifying. But also, in a strange way, it’s what makes him honest. He doesn’t pretend to be anything else.

If you’ve ever felt angry and wanted to slam a door—or yell or stomp your foot—you’ve met a piece of Ares. That’s his power, too. He doesn’t hide emotion. He is emotion. Explosive, loud, proud, reckless…

And sometimes, brave.

Sometimes, he stands in front of the weak and dares anyone to come closer.

Sometimes, his rage is the only thing that stops something worse.

His power is dangerous—but it’s also real. And that’s something the gods—and mortals—don’t always want to admit.

So yes, Ares is the god of war. But what makes him truly powerful isn’t just the spear in his hand—it’s the fire in his chest.

And like all fire… it can warm you, or it can burn the whole field.

Let me take you back—before the armor, before the battles, before the roars that echoed across the world. Ares wasn’t born shouting. He was born into the quiet sky of Olympus, the child of two very complicated gods: my grandparents, Zeus and Hera.

Now, if you know anything about Zeus and Hera, you know this: they were powerful, proud… and not exactly winning any “Parents of the Year” awards. Their marriage was full of lightning bolts and long silences, suspicious glances, and very loud arguments. They loved each other—sometimes—but mostly, they were busy trying to outdo each other.

So imagine Ares—born into that. His father, Zeus, the king of the gods, could lift mountains and throw thunder like pebbles. His mother, Hera, the queen of Olympus, was sharp as a knife and just as protective.

But Ares didn’t get much attention. Not the soft kind, anyway.

Zeus admired strength, but he didn’t always admire his son. Hera loved fiercely, but she had her own plans. And so, Ares grew up trying to be noticed.

Some say he cried loudly as a baby—so loud the clouds rumbled. Others say he never cried, just glared at the sky. I don’t know. I wasn’t there yet.

But I do know this: he wanted to prove himself. Always.

He trained with the best warriors—immortal and mortal alike. He learned to fight with sword, spear, and shield. He taught himself to charge, to strike, to stand tall even when no one stood with him.

But even among the gods, Ares was… different.

You see, most of the Olympians had domains. Athena had wisdom. Apollo had music and prophecy. Artemis had the moon and the hunt. Hestia had the hearth. But Ares? He had war. Not the planning of it—the violence of it.

That made the others uncomfortable.

Even his half-siblings kept their distance. Athena, especially, didn’t care for him. She was the general. He was the berserker. She saw him as sloppy, emotional, wild.

He saw her as cold.

And so, Ares spent a lot of time alone—storming off in frustration, punching boulders into powder, sparring with his shadow.

But then something unexpected happened.

He fell in love.

With Aphrodite.

Yes, the goddess of love and beauty. Yes, she was married to Hephaestus. And yes, it was… messy.

But that’s another story.

The point is: Ares—this god of war, of rage and thunder—loved. And that love wasn’t a weakness. It was the one thing that softened him, even if just a little.

Out of that love came… me.

I remember once, when I was very small, I asked him if he loved war more than he loved me.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me with those blazing eyes, then took off his helmet and placed it gently—gently!—on my head.

And said, “War is loud. You are peace. I need both.”

Now, don’t get the wrong idea. He wasn’t about to join a meditation circle or start painting sunsets. But in that moment, I saw the truth: Ares wasn’t just trying to fight. He was trying to matter.

He was born from thunder, raised in silence, forged in fury.

And he’s been shouting ever since.

But underneath it all, under the roar and the rage… there’s a boy who once wanted his father to be proud. A son who wanted to be seen. A god who, in the end, just wants to be heard.

And in our family? That makes sense.

Because even the gods have issues.

If you've ever been to a family reunion where half the people are glaring and the other half are pretending not to notice—you’re starting to understand Olympus.

My father, Ares, is connected to nearly everyone in the divine family tree. But “connected” doesn’t always mean “on good terms.”

Let’s start with the obvious.

His father is Zeus, king of the gods, who rules the sky with thunder and ego in equal measure. His mother is Hera, queen of the gods, protector of marriage, and possibly the most determined being in the universe. Together? They created Ares… and a storm that never quite settled.

Ares has a complicated relationship with both of them. Zeus often treats him like an embarrassment—too loud, too wild, too obvious. He prefers gods who are clever, like Hermes, or balanced, like Apollo. Ares? Zeus sees him as a blunt instrument.

And Hera—oh, she loves Ares. Fiercely. But not gently. She pushes him, demands from him, expects him to prove himself again and again. She’s not warm, but she’s invested—and with Hera, that’s saying something.

Now, let’s talk siblings.

Ares has many—half-siblings and full, depending on how Zeus was behaving that month.

There’s Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war strategy. She and Ares are opposites in every way. If Ares is a wildfire, Athena is a chessboard. They don’t get along. Not even a little.

Athena once said, “Ares wins battles. I win wars.”
Ares replied by punching a bronze statue of her straight into a crater.

That pretty much sums it up.

Then there’s Apollo, god of light, music, and reason. Cool, poetic, deliberate. He once told Ares that his shouting was “damaging the acoustics on Olympus.”

Ares didn’t reply. He just made thunder happen during Apollo’s next concert.

There’s Artemis, Apollo’s twin, who respects skill in battle—but doesn’t care for Ares’ noise. She hunts in silence. He arrives like a cavalry charge.

Hermes finds Ares entertaining. Mostly because he doesn’t take him seriously. And Ares hates that.

And Dionysus? The god of wine and parties? Ares once tried to join a Dionysian festival and ended up challenging a grapevine to a duel. It did not go well.

Now, let’s get personal.

Ares fell for Aphrodite, the goddess of love, beauty, and mystery. She was married to Hephaestus, the god of blacksmiths and fire. And yet, she and Ares found each other—two forces drawn together like storm and seafoam.

Their love wasn’t quiet. It was passionate, impulsive, complicated. It caused scandals, gossip, traps—Hephaestus once caught them in a golden net and invited the other gods to come laugh. They did. Loudly.

But still… they returned to each other.

From that tangled love came children. One of them was me.

And others, too: Phobos and Deimos—Fear and Terror—who ride beside Ares in battle. Eros—sometimes called Cupid—who fires love into the hearts of gods and mortals alike. And Harmonia—me—who somehow tries to hold all of this together.

And then there’s Eris.

My aunt.

The goddess of discord.

She doesn’t just cause arguments—she is the argument. She delights in tension, in jealousy, in chaos. And while Ares claims he’s not like her, he sometimes shows up at her parties.

And leaves with a broken table.

So yes—Ares is related to most of Olympus. And he’s fought with nearly all of them.

But here’s the thing: for all the shouting, for all the punches and thunder and bruised egos, the gods are still family. They may not hug. They may not say “I love you” with words.

But they show up. Sometimes in battle. Sometimes at each other’s side. Sometimes, just when it matters most.

And Ares? He’s always ready.

Whether they want him there or not.

It’s strange, isn’t it? You can be the god of war, shake the earth with your footsteps, and still not feel like you quite fit in.

That’s what I see when I look at my father.

People think Ares is simple. Just blood and shouting. But it’s not that easy. He feels things deeply—he just doesn’t always know what to do with those feelings. So he charges, he roars, he swings his spear… and sometimes, he crashes into problems that could’ve been solved with a quieter word.

But isn’t that what some of us do?

We get loud when we’re actually scared. We argue when we’re really just hurt. We fight when what we wanted was for someone to understand us.

Ares doesn’t hide anything. What he feels, he shows. It may not always be graceful, but it’s honest. And that honesty—it matters. It’s not the same as wisdom, or fairness, or peace. But it has value.

And here’s what I’ve learned: even in the noise, even in the wildness, there’s a kind of courage in being real. That’s what my father taught me, without meaning to.

He doesn’t pretend to be clever. He doesn’t dress up his anger in poetry. He doesn’t offer sweet words unless he really means them.

But if you’re in trouble—real trouble—he’ll be there. He won’t ask questions first. He’ll stand in front of you like a wall of fire and say, “Not today.”

There’s love in that.

And sometimes, the loudest person in the room is the one who never got to speak softly.

I know Ares will never sit quietly and sip tea. He’ll always stomp, always argue, always forget to think things through. But when he looks at me—really looks—I see someone who never stops trying to belong. To protect. To be seen.

So I see him. And sometimes, that’s all we need.

Even the gods have issues.

Especially the ones with helmets.

Now, if you’ve been listening closely, you might be wondering…
Who could possibly fall in love with Ares? Who could calm his thunder? Who could stand toe-to-toe with the god of war and raise just one perfect eyebrow?

Well, I know her.

Her name is Aphrodite.

My mother.

She’s not what most people expect. Yes, she’s the goddess of love and beauty. Yes, her smile could stop a room—or start a war. But there’s so much more to her than hearts and roses.

Aphrodite is sharp. Clever. Dangerous, even. Love, in her hands, isn’t always gentle. Sometimes it’s wild. Sometimes it’s complicated. Sometimes it changes the course of the world.

She didn’t fall for Ares by accident. And he didn’t fall for her without consequences.

Next time, I’ll tell you how it happened—the secret meetings, the golden net, the laughter of the gods echoing through Olympus. And I’ll tell you why love, like war, is never simple.

Because my mother doesn’t just understand beauty.

She understands desire.

And desire? That’s a story all its own.

So if you think you know Aphrodite… get ready. You’ve only seen the surface. The rest is about to rise like foam from the sea.

In the end, war is noise, and love is quiet—but both come from the same place: the heart. My father may be the god of war, but he’s also a reminder that strength doesn’t always come from silence. Sometimes, it roars.

Thank you for walking with me today through fire and fury.

Next time, we’ll ride the waves and speak of love—not the simple kind, but the kind that changes everything.

Because here in the Olympic Family, even the gods have issues.

And sometimes… they fall in love anyway.

Until then, stay curious.

And stay harmonious.


 

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