Mary Todd Lincoln may be the most vilified first lady in American history. This is not because she was uniquely unscrupulous or evil, but because her life intersected with an unprecedented national crisis presided over by her husband, unforgiving gender norms, and sensational media coverage that outlived her. She has been remembered more for controversy and tragedy than for her intelligence, resilience, and influence as first lady.

Popular culture also reinforced these ideas for generations.

The wild popularity of the Broadway hit  “Oh, Mary!” — satire that riffs on her image — shows how she remains a compelling figure. The play’s humor lands because it reinforces the exaggerated stereotypes we inherited: volatile, self-centered, performative, and unhinged. It presents her as an alcoholic, frustrated cabaret singer. There’s no evidence she drank much, and she certainly wasn’t a singer. Although hilarious and inventive, “Oh, Mary!”  reinforces a false narrative to new, younger audiences.  

It’s important to note here that Mary was not blameless in fostering her reputation. She certainly could be imperious, volcanic, and excessive in her spending. But she did not deserve the derision and cruelty heaped upon her during her lifetime, which became her legacy.

From the moment Mary stepped into the White House in 1861, her background put a target on her back. A Kentuckian from a divided slave owning family, she had half-brothers and brothers-in-law who fought and died for the Confederacy.

Rumors flew that she was a Confederate sympathizer and a Southern spy — despite evidence to the contrary. In fact, she was unequivocally loyal to the Union cause. 

Her personality — outspoken, sometimes acerbic, and unapologetically ambitious — defied the constrained expectations placed on women in the 19th century. In particular, first ladies were supposed to embody quiet grace. But Mary was committed to Abraham Lincoln’s success and wanted to help shape the administration’s public face. She cared about patronage and understood politics, which did not sit well with powerful men.

To both Lincoln’s enemies and allies alike, mostly men, she was an unwelcome voice getting in their way.  In the partisan press, frustrations with Lincoln’s perceived slow pace in ending slavery were blamed on her.  

“I seem to be the scapegoat for both North and South,” she accurately commented to her sister Emily. 

Her spending became a lightning rod. While Mary was a compulsive shopper, the harsh criticism overlooked context. In truth, the White House was in shabby condition when she arrived. Mary oversaw refurbishments and purchased clothing that, amid wartime austerity, seemed extravagant. Washington gossip fixated on her gowns and the costly renovations. She was expected to stage large public receptions, and other administrations had spent money to maintain ceremonial dignity. Yet Mary’s bills were held up as moral failings.

Her profound public grief made her even more vulnerable. She lost a child before reaching the White House, and another son, her beloved Willie, died in 1862. Finally, her husband was shot while sitting next to her. Her mourning was raw, not discreet, and easily ridiculed in an era that expected women to be stoic. She sought comfort where she could find it: in spiritualism and séances that were fashionable in the 1860s because of the high wartime death toll. Yet, she was unfairly mocked for seeking solace. 

The vilification did not stop with Lincoln’s death. Widowed, in debt, and emotionally fragile, she aggressively lobbied Congress for a pension — an unprecedented request at the time that would later benefit other presidential widows.

Congress debated her worthiness in language that bordered on cruelty.  Later, her son Robert, convinced she was mentally unsound, largely because of her shopping and spiritualism, had her temporarily institutionalized in 1875. The resulting trial, sensationalized by the press, sealed her public identity as “crazy.” 

Historians and physicians have suggested that Mary suffered from depression and PTSD, and was perhaps bipolar. Whatever the precise diagnosis, 19th-century America had little tolerance for mental health struggles in women.

Symptoms that today might invite treatment invited scorn. The stigma amplified every other criticism: Her spending was considered crass, her grief likened to hysteria, and her political interest framed as scheming.  

Many first ladies have endured fierce criticism — Eleanor Roosevelt for activism, Hillary Clinton for policy influence, Jacqueline Kennedy for spending — but they also benefited from countervailing narratives and, in most cases, rehabilitation.

Mary had few defenders in her lifetime, and Lincoln’s deification worked against her: his gravity versus her supposed frivolity, his sacrifice versus her self-indulgence.

Other first ladies undoubtedly made similar mistakes without paying a historical price. What distinguishes Mary is how relentlessly her flaws were mined to tell a story about national virtue and vice, and how little compassion she was afforded. 

Her life reflects the power of gendered expectations, the sensationalism of the press, and the enduring human impulse to preserve male heroes by assigning blame to the women who stood beside them. In that sense, Mary Lincoln’s vilification reveals less about who she was than about America’s long discomfort with women who are grieving, ambitious, outspoken, or imperfect.

 Lois Romano is the author of the forthcoming book “An Inconvenient Widow: The Torment, Trial, and Triumph of Mary Todd Lincoln.”