Let's be real: The Five Stages of Grief are a lie.

I say this to my clients all the time, and I’m going to say it to you right now: If you feel like you’re "failing" at grief because you aren't checking off boxes in a neat, linear order, it's because the map you were given is wrong.

Before we even get into the "why," I want to clear something up: Grief isn't just about death. We grieve divorces. We grieve the loss of a career. We grieve the loss of what could have been. We grieve the person we used to be before a health diagnosis or a major life shift. If you are feeling that heavy, "frozen" weight in your chest, it counts as grief—regardless of whether there is a funeral involved or not. You don't need a "good enough" reason to feel the way you do.

Almost everyone has heard of the "Five Stages of Grief" (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance). Even a lot of therapists still treat this like the gold standard. But here’s the thing—it wasn't even written for you.

The Real History of the "Five Stages"

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross originally created those stages in 1969 for people who were facing their own deaths. It was about how a patient processes their own mortality—it was never meant to be a manual for how the people left behind should feel.

When we try to force bereavement into those five stages, we end up feeling like there's something wrong with us when we’re still angry six months later, or when "acceptance" feels like a cruel joke. Loss isn't a checklist; it’s chaotic. You can feel acceptance on Monday morning and be in a puddle of raging denial by lunch. That doesn't mean you're backsliding; it means you're human.

Why my world stopped in February 2025

I’m not just speaking as a therapist; I’m speaking as someone who is currently in the thick of it. My dad passed away in February 2025.

Biologically, the calendar says it's now 2026. The rest of the world has spent the last year marching forward, checking their watches, and making plans. But for me? Time has been frozen since the moment my stepmom yelled for us. If you know that feeling—that specific, gut-wrenching moment where your internal clock just... stopped—I want to normalize that for you. It isn't "complicated grief" or a sign that you’re stuck; it’s a sign of the magnitude of what happened. Grief has its own time zone, and it doesn't care about the actual date. If you feel like you're still standing in that room while everyone else is moving on, you aren't doing it wrong.

The "How Are You?" Problem

When you’re living in that "frozen" time, the social script of grief feels even more broken.

We’ve all heard them: "I’m sorry for your loss," or the dreaded, "How are you?" Most people come from a good place, but they just don't know what to say. When I was in the early days of losing my dad, I often wanted to snap back, "I mean, how do you think I am?" I want us to normalize being more honest. It’s okay to tell someone, "I don’t even know what to say right now, but I’m here whenever you want to talk." Personally, I’ve stopped asking people if they’re "okay." I even find myself struggling with what to say to my own family. When I text my stepmom, I don't ask how she's doing; I ask, "Are you surviving?" It acknowledges the reality that sometimes, just making it to the next hour is the only goal on the table.

A better way to look at it: Growing around the grief

Since the "stages" are a lie, I prefer a different model. It’s called Tonkin’s Model of Grief, and it’s often visualized as "The Jar."

Most people think grief is supposed to shrink over time. They think the "ball" of grief gets smaller and smaller until it’s just a tiny pebble you can carry in your pocket.

It doesn't.

The grief stays the same size. It’s just as heavy, just as dark, and just as big as it was on day one. But what happens—hopefully—is that your life grows larger around it. Imagine a jar with a big black ball inside it. At first, the ball fills the whole jar. You can’t see anything else.

But then, very slowly, the jar starts to grow. You have a good cup of coffee. You see a movie that makes you laugh. You meet a new friend. The jar gets bigger and bigger. The grief (the ball) is still exactly the same size it always was. It’s still there. But it doesn't take up 100% of the jar anymore. You have room to breathe again, not because the grief left, but because you grew.

Give yourself some grace

If you’re waiting for the day you reach "Acceptance" and suddenly feel "done," I want to give you permission to stop waiting. There is no finish line.

You aren't a project to be fixed or a series of stages to be completed. You are a human being who is carrying a lot of weight. Some days the jar feels tiny and the grief feels like it’s pressing against the glass, suffocating you. Other days, you might realize you went a whole hour without the weight crushing you. Both are okay.

Stop shaming yourself for where you "should" be. If you’re still "frozen" in the moment your life changed, let yourself be there.

Give yourself grace. You’re doing a hard thing. There’s no right way to do it, and there’s definitely no timeline. Just keep growing the jar, one tiny inch at a time.