No one hands you a manual, there’s no syllabus for grief. No
checklist. No timeline. You stumble through, piecing things
together from fragments of advice, things you overhear, things you
read — or what your body forces you to learn. Then there are the “Myths.”
This is why this book exists. It’s not a map; there is no destination — only a
collection of experiences, symptoms, and reassurance that it’s ok to do grief
your way.You will see the above image, or variations of it, many times during your grief
journey. Let’s bust my choice of the biggest myth of all: the “Stages of Grief.”
Starting with a little history. Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross never intended her
“stages of grief” to be a roadmap for the bereaved. Her work described how
people facing a terminal diagnosis might process the reality of their own
death. They had nothing to do with the experience of loved ones after a loss.
Over time, though, society began applying this framework to mourners,
largely because it was the only written model connected to death and grief at
the time. In doing so, it created myths and misplaced expectations about how
mourning “should” look.
So, when someone asks, “Haven’t you reached acceptance yet?” — you will
understand why. Whether you choose to educate them or not is entirely your
choice.
The truth is that grief is not a neat list of stages, or a staircase to climb up and
over. Some call it a labyrinth that loops and spirals with dead ends and wrong
turns. Personally, I see it more like a wild rollercoaster.Here’s where I ramble, but I’m leaving it this way because grief itself is disjointed — it
doesn’t make sense, and it certainly doesn’t move in straight lines.
You’re strapped in. There’s no escaping. The cart lurches, then slowly moves forward,
mimicking the slow recognition that you’re grieving. Then comes the steep climb — the
painful learning curve of loss. Suddenly you’re spiraling downward, jolted by twists
and turns, thrown upside down, certain you’ll fall but held in by the relentless force of
grief.
Then, for a moment, false hope: the cart slows, you catch your breath, maybe even
laugh at how close you came to peeing your pants — only to be flung into another
steep climb, bigger than the first. These are the “firsts” since your person died:
birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, special events.
Unlike the amusement park ride that eventually ends, grief doesn’t. Instead, you’ll ride
again and again. Each round may be slower, less jarring, less frightening, less
unpredictable — but it’s still the rollercoaster of your loss.
Grief doesn’t have a script. How could it, when it’s uniquely yours? You might
feel worse at month three than you did at week one. You might laugh when
others expect you to cry, only to collapse years later at the smell of rain or a
phrase that sounds just like them. Grief is maddeningly inconsistent — one
moment you’re functioning at work, the next you’re undone in the restroom.
Personal whispers of grief…
“I thought I was healing. Then I saw someone who looked like him and had to leave the store.”
“I didn’t cry at the funeral. I cried six months later, watching a dog food commercial.”
“I broke down in the supermarket when I couldn’t find their favourite cereal — and then realised I
didn’t need to buy it anymore, because they were gone.”
Another well-known myth is “time heals all wounds.” Wounds, maybe. But
grief? Time doesn’t heal it. It only teaches you how to live alongside absence. You’ll come across many versions of this diagram — each trying to explain
what happens to grief over time. The common myth is that grief itself gets
smaller. But the truth is: grief doesn’t shrink — life simply grows around it.Closing thought…
The word “myth” typically refers to a traditional story or legend that explains
a particular belief of an individual or society. “Myth” can also mean widely
held but false beliefs or ideas. That should bust wide open most of the myths
you will see or hear involving grief.
The thing to remember with grief, as we have said many times, is that it’s
unique to you. There are no rules, no timeline, no wrong or right way to
grieve. If you remember nothing else, remember this: you have permission to
tell anyone and everyone — “This is my grief, I’m doing this my way.”
