You wake up. The sun rises. You pour coffee, scroll your phone, and start your day.
Ever wonder who's driving that giant ball of fire across the sky?
In Norse mythology, that's Sunna's job. Every single day. No weekends off. No sick days. No "I don't feel like it today" option.
She's the Norse sun goddess, and she's been pulling her shift since the beginning of time, chased by a wolf that wants to eat her, racing across the sky in a chariot pulled by horses that would burst into flames if she slowed down.
And most people have never even heard of her.
Let's fix that.
Who Is Sunna in Norse Mythology? (The Goddess Keeping the Lights On)
Sunna is the personification of the sun itself. Not just a goddess associated with the sun. Not a deity who controls solar energy. She IS the sun.
Her father is Mundilfari, a figure whose name means something like "the one who moves according to particular times." Which makes sense when your kids are literally celestial bodies responsible for time itself.
Sunna has a brother: Máni, the moon. Together, they're the cosmic siblings who define day and night, light and darkness, the rhythm of time as humans experience it.
According to the Prose Edda, Mundilfari was so proud of his beautiful children that he named them after the sun and moon. The gods, apparently not fans of presumptuous naming choices, responded by actually making them into the sun and moon.
Classic Norse mythology. "You named your kid after a celestial object? Fine. Now they ARE that celestial object. Enjoy."
So Sunna became the sun. She drives it across the sky in her chariot, pulled by two horses named Árvakr ("Early Riser") and Alsviðr ("Swift"). And she does this every single day.
Why? Because if she stops, the world goes dark. Simple as that.
No pressure.
Sunna and Sol: Why the Norse Sun Goddess Has Two Names (And How to Not Get Confused)
Here's where things get slightly messy: Sunna and Sól are the same goddess.
Sól is the Old Norse form. Sunna is the Old High German form. Both names mean "sun." Both refer to the same divine figure driving the solar chariot across the sky.
In Icelandic sources (like Snorri's Edda), she's usually called Sól. In continental Germanic traditions, she's Sunna. Same goddess, different linguistic traditions.
Think of it like this: if you're reading the Poetic Edda or Prose Edda, you'll see Sól. If you're looking at older Germanic sources or exploring how the Germanic tribes understood the sun, you'll see Sunna.
For this article, we're using Sunna because it's closer to "Sunday" in English, and that connection matters. But know that when you see Sól in other sources, it's the same fierce solar goddess racing across the sky with wolves on her tail.
The difference between Sunna and Sol is basically spelling. The essence? Identical.
The Sun Chariot Norse Mythology: Sunna's Daily High-Speed Chase
Every morning, Sunna climbs into her chariot. Her two horses, Árvakr and Alsviðr, are already harnessed. They're special horses, inscribed with cooling runes to keep them from burning up from the sun's heat.
Because yes, the sun is hot. Shockingly hot. So hot that the gods had to place a massive shield called Svalinn ("Cooler") between the horses and the sun itself. Without that shield, the mountains and seas would burn.
The horses have cooling runes. There's a giant heat shield. And Sunna herself is presumably fireproof.
Now picture this: she takes off across the sky. Fast. As fast as horses can run when they're pulling the literal sun.
Why so fast?
Because right behind her is Skoll, a giant wolf who wants to devour the sun.
Every. Single. Day.
Sunna isn't just driving the sun across the sky. She's fleeing for her existence. The wolf chases the sun Norse mythology style: relentlessly, endlessly, hungrily.
And her brother Máni, driving the moon at night? He's got his own wolf: Hati. Same deal. Wolf chases moon. Moon runs. Repeat forever.
This is how the Norse explained solar and lunar eclipses, by the way. When the sun or moon temporarily disappears? That's when the wolves get too close. When the darkness briefly catches up.
(Spoiler: at Ragnarok, the wolves win. But we'll get to that.)
So Sunna's job is simple: drive the sun, don't get eaten, repeat daily. For eternity.
And people wonder why she doesn't have time for worshippers.
Sunna's Role in Ragnarok: When the Wolf Finally Catches the Sun
At Ragnarok, everything ends. Gods die. Monsters break free. The world burns and drowns simultaneously.
And Skoll finally catches Sunna.
According to the Völuspá, one of the key sources for Norse apocalypse mythology, the wolf devours the sun. Sunna's eternal flight ends. The light goes out.
Her brother Máni gets eaten by Hati at the same time. Moon gone. Sun gone. The sky goes dark.
But here's the twist: before Skoll catches her, Sunna gives birth to a daughter. This daughter will, after Ragnarok, take up the sun chariot and continue the journey. The cycle continues.
Life, death, rebirth. The solar pattern doesn't end. It transforms.
Sunna dies. Her daughter becomes the new sun. The eternal chase begins again with a new goddess and presumably new wolves (because Norse mythology doesn't do happy endings, it does continuing cycles).
This is actually profound if you stop and think about it. The sun goddess doesn't survive the apocalypse. But the sun itself does. The role continues even when the individual holding it dies.
Sunna isn't immortal in the way we usually think of gods as immortal. She's mortal with a really long shift. And when her time ends, she passes the torch (or chariot, technically) to the next generation.
The sun continues. The individual? Expendable.
That's both beautiful and terrifying.
Sunna Sunday: How the Norse Sun Goddess Named Your Weekend
Every Sunday, you're honoring Sunna. Whether you know it or not.
Sunday literally means "Sun's day." In Old English, it was "Sunnandæg." In German, it's "Sonntag." In Dutch, "Zondag." All variations of the same thing: the day dedicated to the sun goddess.
This pattern holds across most Germanic languages because the ancient Germanic peoples, including the Norse, organized their week around celestial deities and gods.
Look at the rest of the week:
Monday = Máni's day. Moon day. Sunna's brother.
Tuesday = Týr's day. The one-handed god of war and law.
Wednesday = Óðinn's day. Woden's day. All-father day.
Thursday = Thor's day. Þórsdagr. The hammer-wielding thunder god.
Friday = Freyja's day. Goddess of love, war, and magic.
Saturday = Not actually Norse. Saturday comes from Saturn (Roman god). The Norse called it Laugardagr, "washing day," because apparently even Vikings needed laundry day.
So Sunna gets Sunday. The first day of the week in many traditions. The day of beginnings, brightness, and starting fresh.
Which makes sense. The sun represents new beginnings. Every sunrise is a rebirth. Every dawn is a chance to try again.
Sunna worship in ancient Norse culture probably happened on Sundays, though specific ritual details are sparse in the surviving sources. The Norse weren't big on writing down their religious practices. They just lived them.
But the fact that Sunday bears her name across multiple Germanic languages suggests she was important. Respected. Honored as the force that brings light and warmth and makes life possible.
Every week starts with her. Every Sunday is a reminder: the sun rises. The chase continues. Light persists.
Thanks, Sunna.
Norse Sun Myths: What Sunna Actually Teaches Us About Cosmic Terror
Let's zoom out for a second and look at what these Norse sun myths are actually saying.
Most ancient cultures have sun deities. Egyptian Ra. Greek Helios. Aztec Huitzilopochtli. The sun is life. Warmth. Growth. Civilization.
But in Norse mythology? The sun is being chased by a monster that wants to devour it.
Every. Single. Day.
The light isn't guaranteed. The warmth isn't permanent. The sun isn't a benevolent deity bestowing gifts on grateful mortals. It's a goddess fleeing for her existence, pulling the actual sun behind her, knowing that one day the wolf will catch her.
That's darker than most sun mythology. More anxious. More aware of impermanence.
The Norse lived in Scandinavia. Long, brutal winters. Short summers. Darkness that lasts for months in the far north. The sun wasn't just important to them. It was survival.
And their mythology reflected that anxiety. The sun might not come back. The darkness might win. The warmth might end.
Sunna has to run every day to make sure that doesn't happen.
This is what makes Norse mythology so psychologically rich. It doesn't promise permanence. It doesn't guarantee happy endings. It says: everything is temporary, everything is under threat, and the only thing you can do is keep running.
Which, honestly, feels pretty relevant to modern life.
You wake up. You try. You keep moving. You know it won't last forever. You do it anyway.
That's Sunna's lesson.
The wolf is always behind you. The destination is uncertain. But you get in the chariot and you drive.
Sunna Daughter of Mundilfari: Family Dynamics When Your Dad Turns You Into a Celestial Object
Let's talk about Mundilfari for a second because this guy deserves some examination.
He names his kids "Sun" and "Moon" because they're beautiful. The gods hear about this, get offended by his arrogance, and respond by literally transforming his children into cosmic objects with eternal jobs they can never quit.
That's... intense.
Imagine being Mundilfari after that. "Hey kids, I named you after celestial bodies because I thought you were amazing, and now you ARE celestial bodies, and I'll never see you again because you're literally in the sky being chased by wolves. My bad."
The surviving sources don't tell us how Mundilfari reacted to this. They don't tell us if Sunna resented her father for it. They just state the facts: he named them, the gods transformed them, now they drive the sun and moon forever.
But think about the implications. Sunna didn't choose this role. It was imposed on her because her father was proud and the gods were vindictive.
She's doing one of the most important jobs in the cosmos (literally providing light and warmth for all living things), and she never asked for it.
How very Norse.
The myths are full of people forced into roles they didn't choose. Loki's children exiled and bound. Fenrir chained because of prophecy. Sigurd destined to kill a dragon. Even the gods themselves are destined to die at Ragnarok.
Sunna is just another character in a cosmic drama where free will is questionable and fate is inescapable.
She drives the sun because she must. The wolf chases because he must. The cycle continues because it must.
And yet she does it. Every day. With two magically cooled horses and a massive heat shield, racing across the sky so the world doesn't go dark.
That's devotion. Or duty. Or maybe just acceptance that this is the role she's been given and there's no point complaining about it.
The sun rises. Sunna drives. The wolf chases. Repeat.
Sunna in Viking Calendar and Worship: Honoring the Light-Bringer
We don't have detailed accounts of how the Vikings specifically worshiped Sunna. The surviving sources focus more on the major gods: Odin, Thor, Freya. The Aesir and Vanir get the spotlight.
But Sunna was there in the background. Literally. Every single day. In the sky. Impossible to ignore.
The Viking calendar structured itself around solar and lunar cycles. Months were lunar, but the year followed the sun. Winter Solstice (Yule) marked the sun's return, the lengthening of days. Summer Solstice celebrated peak solar power.
Sunna's chariot defined these cycles. Her daily journey determined when people woke, worked, and slept. Her yearly journey north and south determined planting and harvest.
You don't need elaborate temples to worship something you see and depend on every day.
Sunna worship in ancient Norse practice was probably less about formal rituals and more about acknowledgment. Greeting the sunrise. Thanking the sun for warmth and light. Marking the solar festivals.
Simple. Practical. Direct.
The Norse were practical people. They honored what was useful. And the sun? Extremely useful.
So Sunday became her day. The week started with light. And every sunrise was a reminder: Sunna is still racing. The wolf hasn't caught her yet. We have another day.
That's worship. Not elaborate. Not complicated. Just recognition that the light matters and the goddess who brings it deserves honor.
The Sunna Practice: Starting Your Week with Solar Consciousness
So how do you actually work with Sunna in your life?
You could read about her forever. Memorize her horses' names. Study Norse cosmology until you can explain the sun chariot in your sleep.
Or you could actually engage with what she represents.
Here's a simple practice: Sunday as Sunna's Day.
Every Sunday morning, before you scroll your phone or check your email or dive into weekend chores, step outside. Face east. Watch the sunrise.
That's it. That's the practice.
Stand there for five minutes. Watch the sun clear the horizon. Feel the light hit your face. Remember: this happens because Sunna is racing across the sky. The wolf is chasing. She's still running.
And you're still here to witness it.
Notice what that feels like. The warmth. The light. The beginning of a new day, a new week.
Sunday, in modern culture, has become rest day or errand day or dread-Monday-is-coming day. But originally? It was the sun goddess's day. The day of beginnings. The day light returns after Saturday's darkness.
Reclaim that. Make Sunday morning about acknowledging the light. About starting fresh. About remembering that every week is another cycle, another chance, another sunrise.
The Weekly Solar Reset:
Sunday morning: Face the sunrise. Say (out loud or silently): "Sunna rides. The light continues. I begin again."
That's it. No elaborate ritual. No special tools. Just you, the sun, and the acknowledgment that this light isn't guaranteed. It's fought for. Every day. By a goddess with wolves at her heels.
Then go live your week. Go through your Monday meetings and Tuesday deadlines and Thursday challenges. Let the week unfold.
And when Saturday comes, when you're tired and depleted and the week has beaten you down, remember: Hel's day of endings precedes Sunna's day of beginnings. The darkness before the dawn isn't failure. It's the pause before the next cycle.
You don't power through darkness. You rest in it. And then Sunday comes. The sun rises. Sunna's chariot races across the sky again.
You get to begin again.
That's the gift. Not eternal light. Not guaranteed success. Just another chance. Another sunrise. Another Sunday.
The sun rises. The week begins. Sunna races.
This article is part of our Mythology collection. Read our comprehensive Norse Gods guide to explore the ancient wisdom and mystical power of Norse spiritual traditions.
.jpg)