The five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—were introduced by psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in 1969. Originally, they described the emotional process of people facing their own terminal diagnosis. Over time, the framework was adopted more broadly to explain how people grieve after loss.
A glimpse inside Grief is an Origami Swan, where visual poetry and ritual invite a soft approach to mourning and memory.
These stages are often interpreted as a linear path. But grief isn’t linear. It doesn’t unfold in tidy sequences. And it certainly doesn’t end once I’ve checked off a box labeled “healed” or "acceptance."
Many modern grief educators and therapists emphasize that these stages are not prescriptive. They aren't steps we must follow in order. Instead, they describe common experiences of grief—feelings that may come and go, overlap, or repeat.
But even these descriptions can sometimes feel limiting. In Grief is an Origami Swan, I suggest that grief is not a psychological riddle to solve, but a relational, embodied process. One shaped by memory, ritual, and creative care.
Here’s how I experience each stage, reframed through the lens of my own book, Grief is an Origami Swan:
1. Denial
Denial, to me, is a sacred pause. It's like folding the first paper swan—mechanical, slow, and detached—not because I don’t care, but because I need form before feeling. It’s a place where breath returns to the body.
2. Anger
Anger often arrives when my body remembers before my mind does. The rituals I practice give shape to that sensation. I let my grief be messy and defiant. A sharp crease in a delicate page. A shout into the folds. Anger doesn’t need to be feared; it needs to be witnessed.
3. Bargaining
I don’t see bargaining as futile. I see it as longing—for connection, for do-overs, for a different ending. My rituals don’t erase what happened, but create symbolic gestures that let me speak back to the silence. I fold an origami swan not to reverse time, but to hold time differently.
4. Depression
I don’t pathologize this stage. My sorrow is tender and poetic. It’s the ink soaking into handmade paper. The silence between lines. This isn’t a problem to fix—it’s a sacred presence. One that calls for stillness, breath, and gentle company.
5. Acceptance
To me, acceptance isn’t a tidy resolution. It’s a quiet ritual repeated. It’s remembering to light a candle on a certain day, or carrying a stone in my pocket. It’s folding another swan, not because I have to, but because it connects me to what was lost. Acceptance, here, is not closure—it’s continuity.
Grief as a Wave, Not a Ladder
The five stages can help name what I’m feeling. But they don’t capture the full complexity of grief. In truth, grief moves like a wave. It rises, falls, retreats, and returns. Some days, I’m flooded with emotion. Other days, the tide is quiet.
Instead of rushing to "complete" my grief, I try to make room for it. To listen. To soften around its edges. Grief is an Origami Swan reminds me that grief can be both ritual and rupture—folded gently into my life, one gesture at a time.
Resources for Gentle Grieving
If you're looking for compassionate tools for your grieving process, Grief is an Origami Swan offers a tender space of poetry, ritual, and art. You can learn more or order a copy here.