What Are the 5 Stages of Grief: What if They’re Not Linear?

Grief is often described in stages – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross first introduced the Stages of Grief while working with terminally ill patients, but if you’ve ever grieved anything deeply, you already know this truth: Grief rarely follows a set order.

Have you noticed how it never fits neatly into the boxes we try so hard to put it in?

There was a time when all I felt was numbness. I watched others cry while I felt empty inside and wondered if something was wrong with me. The world expects us to react a certain way when loss strikes, so it’s no surprise I questioned my sanity.

Until I learned this: numbness isn’t failure. It’s protection. During a session, my psychologist explained that for many people who experience sudden loss or trauma, numbness comes first. The emotions often arrive later – once life resumes, support fades, and reality settles in.

And suddenly, relief washed over me. I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t weak. I was grieving.

Grief isn’t linear – and neither is healing. Learning about the Stages of Grief helped me understand what I was experiencing after my accident. We don’t necessarily go through them in order, and we may not even experience all of them. They aren’t rules. They’re signposts. And for me, they helped put language to feelings I didn’t yet have words for.

Read also ‘Navigating Grief: What It Is and How It Shapes Our Emotions‘

What are the 5 Stages of Grief?

Denial: Holding on quietly

Denial surprised me the most. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what had happened – I just didn’t want to face what it meant. Instead, I clung quietly to hope. I remember insisting we’d climb Mount Snowdon that summer, less than a year after my accident. I walked, I smiled. And I pushed – as if determination alone could undo reality. I knew things weren’t the same, but I refused to admit it.

Can you relate to clinging to a version of life that no longer exists? Denial isn’t ignorance. Often, it’s the heart saying, I’m not ready yet.

Anger: Pain finding a voice

Then came anger. At doctors, at loved ones, at life, at God, at my body, at myself, at others, at the world. Even small things set it off – like the adapted chairs at work. One day, I noticed the signs that said “Please don’t adjust this chair” were gone, and the chairs had been changed. A small thing, perhaps. But when you live in pain, small things matter. Often, anger is pain trying to speak. Have you noticed that? The anger wasn’t about the chairs. It was about my body, my limitations, and everything I had lost.

Anger did teach me something valuable – how to stand up for myself when something felt unfair. But when I tried to explain this at work, I was misunderstood. What they heard was anger – nothing more. In that moment, honesty stopped feeling safe, and the anger slowly turned into sadness.

But staying in anger for too long can be damaging. I think of it like a car journey. We pass through anger. We may even stop there for a while. But we don’t have to make it our permanent residence. What helped me move through it was throwing a pillow, going into a field and screaming, crying out to God, journaling, or writing letters to my feelings. What didn’t help was taking it out on my husband – snapping, lashing out, or blaming him for things that weren’t his fault.

Bargaining: Trying to negotiate with reality

Then came bargaining: If I rest today, I’ll feel better tomorrow. I told myself, If I do everything right, the pain will stop. If I try harder, life will return.

“You’re trying to negotiate your way out of the reality you’re in,” my psychologist said gently. “That’s not a weakness. That’s grief.” I’d bargained before – during my mum’s illness, with God, with doctors, with time. Haven’t we all tried to negotiate when life feels unbearably unfair? But the pain didn’t lift. The nights stayed long. And slowly, quietly, depression settled in.

Read also ‘Understanding Grief, Bereavement, and Mourning: What Is the Difference?‘

Depression: Grief left unnamed

Depression wasn’t loud. It was heavy. Sleepless nights. Tears without words. Days that stretched endlessly. The belief that my husband might be better off without me.

When I tried to share that pain, I was often met with misunderstanding. “You’re strong,” some would say. “You wouldn’t do something like that.” As if strength had anything to do with it. Those words didn’t comfort me. They silenced me. Have you ever been told you’re strong when what you really needed was understanding?

My depression wasn’t a weakness. It was grief left unnamed. If I had listened more closely to what my body and depression were telling me, the message would have been simple: Stop. Rest.

Acceptance: Permission, not approval

Acceptance came slowly. Not as understanding. Not as answers. Some of my questions still begin with why. Over time, I’ve learned to sometimes replace why with what. What is this teaching me? Instead of Why is this happening to me? This isn’t easy. I’m a slow learner. And even admitting that – without judgment – feels like acceptance to me.

Acceptance, for me, is honesty. Not approval – but permission. Permission to feel everything, permission to move at my own pace. Permission to have bad days, permission to stop trying to run before I could walk again.

Do you believe acceptance is possible for you? Or does it feel like something meant for others, not for someone where you are right now? Acceptance doesn’t mean liking what happened. It means accepting reality as it is and letting go of the fight against it. Because, after all, we cannot fight reality. For me, acceptance looks like surrender – not giving up, but holding my feelings and handing them to God.

Read also ‘The Weight You Carry – What if This Is Grief?‘

Making space for grief

Reaching acceptance doesn’t mean graduating from grief. In grief, we move in and out of the stages. I’ve had days of acceptance followed by days of despair. The stages overlap, reappear, and revisit us – often without warning. They were never meant to be a formula for how grief should look, but rather a description of how it may look.

I made many mistakes on my journey. But eventually, I learned to walk alongside grief rather than fight it. Though it remains an unwelcome guest, I’m slowly learning how to make space for this everyday companion.

If you’re reading this and recognising yourself somewhere in these words – I want you to hear this clearly: Grief is heavy, but we were never meant to carry it alone.

Let me walk with you through this. Let me remind you that grief has no straight path, healing has no timetable, and peace isn’t found by rushing – it arrives when you stop fighting where you are.

Your grief makes sense. Your pace is allowed. And your feelings are valid.

If you need someone to sit with you in the mess, to help you name what hurts, or simply to remind you that you’re not failing – reach out.

Friend, are you in a season of grief? What does it look like for you and what is helping you to navigate it? Share your experience in a comment below.

Thank you and till the next blog post,

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