Conventional wisdom would have us believe that a powerful, promising tale must follow a cohesive structure. If German playwright Gustav Freytag's five-part dramatic structure is to serve as a blueprint, all narratives must contain specific benchmarks: a clear exposition, followed by rising action that steers readers toward a climax, and then gradually moves towards resolution. Even if a story doesn't follow a linear trajectory, with a beginning, middle or end, it is still expected to adhere to some semblance of structure.
However, Freytag's model seems to place far too many expectations on a narrative. Some stories are inherently uneventful, devoid of nail-biting suspense or a clear climax. Immersing ourselves in such tales can be an uninspiring pursuit and we often regret wasting time and energy on a story stripped of verve and intensity. The growing preoccupation with provocative plotlines has led many of us to produce formulaic, melodramatic stories that overlook the sheer monotony of life. A vast majority of stories unfold in a subtle rhythm, without so much as a bang or a whimper.
Likewise, not all stories are destined for a satisfying ending; many linger in the corridors of time, unfinished and unresolved. The absence of closure is what irks most of us who still labour under the illusion that a story must carry a lesson—a gift-wrapped parting thought that makes the bumpy journey feel worthwhile. It is difficult to rid ourselves of these false assumptions, especially if we continue to view storytelling as a means of edifying the masses.
Children's fiction is often viewed as an escapist fantasy, containing just enough trappings of reality to prepare young minds for life, without drawing them too deeply into its complexities. There is no guarantee that adults embrace ‘life lessons’ with alacrity. On the contrary, many of them simply disregard any epiphanies, preferring the comfort of old habits to any opportunity for spiritual growth.
Stories provide a mirror to this deliberate act of evasion. Few among us are forced to bear the consequences of these decisions and there is rarely any sense of glorious comeuppance attached with them. As a result, the villains get away with all manner of moral and emotional offences, and everyone, including the reader, has to make peace with it.
The villain takes it all
If we follow this logic, the search for resolution seems almost naive. Literature is an ever-present reminder of this cold fact, even if it doesn’t actively condone it.
In Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things, the actions of the perceived villains don't invite severe penalties. Baby Kochamma, who colluded with the prevailing power structures to undermine her niece's happiness, isn't subjected to meaningful scrutiny. In fact, she remains firmly entrenched in the gable-roofed house she once shared with those she harmed, ultimately outliving most of them. Some readers might interpret her loneliness as a form of vindication, but Baby Kochamma harbours no remorse about her actions and instead perfects the art of indifference. Watching such a vile character escape accountability for destroying innocent lives can shatter the reader’s faith in justice. As they finish the novel, they will be left reeling at the senseless personal carnage wrought by a deeply broken individual.
In this context, closure can be found in the unsettling realisation that not everyone’s actions are worthy of redemption, especially when they show no capacity for growth. Even so, the desire for an emotional resolution feels like a privilege in a world where individuals resist change and conveniently construct their own skewed versions of events, casting themselves as victims of other people’s cruelty. Many may find consolation in the notion that individuals are products of oppressive social structures that fuel their problematic conduct. However, people aren’t mere puppets held by the ventriloquist’s string; they possess the agency to act responsibly. This tension makes the question of healing all the more pressing, as the inability to achieve it can feel like a form of personal failure.
The benefit of hindsight
Narratives found in religious texts often provide a more definitive and structured view on the subject. The Quranic story of Yusuf (AS) begins with a young boy narrating one of his dreams to his father, before being thrust into a series of trials and tribulations, including betrayal by his siblings, enslavement and imprisonment. After enduring prolonged hardship, he is released from prison and elevated into a position of honour and authority in the very land where he first arrived as a captive.
This story aligns closely with Freytag’s model of dramatic structure, but it also suggests that closure is achieved through the benefit of hindsight. As a result, we are encouraged to continue wading through the currents of time and to wait for the opportune moment when answers eventually surface.
A search for structure
An endless waiting game only seems appealing in fiction; in reality, even the most earnest and relentless pursuit for the truth is marked by impatience. All of us are driven by timelines, which is why we tend to understand life’s most complex phenomena through clearly defined stages. The Kübler-Ross model may outline the five stages of grief, but it risks portraying bereavement as a mechanical, methodical process with a fixed roadmap. Loss is an intricate emotion that cannot be held captive to these structured frameworks. Instead, it unfolds differently in each case and takes unpredictable turns. This is why Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, in Notes on Grief, describes loss as a “cruel kind of education”.
My own experience with grief has been far from uniform; it is, in many ways, a chaotic patchwork of emotions. On the morning of November 25, 2021, I entered my ailing mother’s room before leaving for work and said a customary goodbye. She made a sarcastic remark about my shoes, and we shared a brief moment of laughter before I walked out of the door. Three hours later, she was gone.
I received the news by phone and promptly returned home for her last rites. She had been ill for a year, so her death, though painful, wasn’t unexpected. I was prepared for the final goodbye, but woefully unprepared for its emotional aftermath. My only consolation was that our farewell had, in its own way, been both peaceful and joyous.
Last year, I lost a loved one to an illness that consumed him like a slow, insidious poison. When his final moment came, I was not there. The circumstances surrounding my absence were different from when my mother died. A few weeks earlier, we had fallen out and some cruel words were exchanged like gunfire in a battlefield.
In the long months after his funeral service, as I became immersed in the intricacies of his family life, I carried the memory of our last exchange like a burden—a lingering curse. It felt like a cruel rupture, a reminder that not all stories end with the comfort of closure.
Yet, it is difficult to imagine moving forward without it. At times, closure seems like a hard-earned reward after a relentless struggle. The possibility of progressing with a clear mind seems remote without putting old matters to rest.
Under these circumstances, religion offers relief in the form of rituals—a path that I prefer, though I cannot advocate it as a universal solution. Literature, too, seems inadequate in helping us find solace after bereavement. While it succeeds in holding up a mirror to our emotions, it cannot always open up the doors we long to pass through in search of peace.
The psychology of healing
That’s why the quest for closure is better understood as a psychological journey rather than a literary or religious voyage. Expert advice can help steer us out of the quagmires many of us find ourselves in.
“Psychologically, closure is defined as something that is solved,” states Margaret Lobo Fialho, a life coach who specialises in Time Line Therapy (TLT) and self-development. “[It is defined as] a closed chapter—a sense of a need for resolution and understanding in the emotional sense.”
She believes the concept is intimately linked to “acceptance” and “meaning-making”, but is processed differently.
“Acceptance is about acknowledging reality and living with it,” Fialho explains. “Meaning-making helps [us] find numerous lessons of growth and purpose.”
When asked whether psychological closure is a crucial ingredient for personal and emotional wellbeing, she agrees empathically.
“A healing process influences healthy ‘internal’ closure,” Fialho opines. “Healing comes first before anything [else].”
Be that as it may, she notes that research suggests closure may not be indispensable for long-term emotional recovery.
“Recovery tends to depend more on processes such as acceptance, emotional processing and meaning making,” Fialho asserts. “A large body of psychological writing argues that the need for closure before healing is misleading.”
Huma Sheikh, a trainee therapist, claims that the need for closure varies across clinical groups.
“High levels of cognitive dissonance can make recovery harder,” she says. “Long-term recovery is often more robust when individuals learn to live with unresolved experiences.”
Sheikh asserts that emotional resilience is linked with the ability to function well even without external validation or clear answers.
We the people
At its core, closure is a deeply personal process that must be tailored to an individual’s emotional needs and personality. As a result, no universal formula can be devised to achieve it. The trajectory varies from person to person and the outcome also differs.
“Personality traits and attachment styles strongly influence how a person seeks closure,” Fialho says.
She argues that people with anxious attachment styles fear abandonment, have a strong desire for explanations and constantly need reassurance. “Those with an avoidant personality often distance themselves and avoid confrontations,” Fialho explains. “A [person with a] secure personality appreciates straightforward open conversations and is open to healing to move on.”
Beyond personality traits, cultural norms also shape our perceptions about how to process a traumatic event.
“Some cultures encourage open discussions of feelings to gain peace of mind while others value emotional restraint and quiet acceptance,” Fialho said.
She believes mourning periods and memorial events provide “structured ways to process loss”.
“Culture influences whether closure is required, how it is achieved and how people move forward after loss,” Fialho adds.
Echoing these sentiments, Sheikh states that the dichotomies between Eastern and Western culture also determine people’s outlook on these matters.
“Western psychological frameworks often over-emphasise the ‘stage model’ of grief,” she states.“Many Eastern and indigenous cultures prioritise ancestral continuity and the ongoing presence of the deceased.”
According to Sheikh, these beliefs transform the act of moving forward with life into a “cultural construct” rather than a universal psychological requirement.
“This can place undue pressure on individuals to achieve a state of resolution that may not align with their internal reality,” she asserts.
Barriers to peace
Fialho believes that the pursuit of emotional resolution can also impede the healing process and prolong a person’s distress.
“Constantly searching for answers can lead to overthinking, which keeps the loss emotionally active,” she says. “Relying on…another person for closure may prevent [people from] moving on, especially if they don’t provide clear answers.”
Citing the findings of modern psychology guru Gabor Maté, Sheikh states that when the focus remains on obtaining an apology or explanation from another, it can perpetuate a cycle of emotional dependence and victimhood.
“This external focus often hinders the development of self-authored peace,” she adds.
Beyond the external
In the absence of direct closure, individuals need to devise their own emotional roadmap.
“It becomes important to look inward and focus on the personal healing process,” Fialho says. Healing should be a priority regardless of whether closure is achieved.”
If this strategy is to work, people need to stop depending on the external world for validation or concrete answers and focus on their own internal processes.
“This [requires people to] connect with their higher [self],” Fialho says. She advocates self-care and personal development, seeking therapy, spending time with nature and journaling.
“Through these approaches, individuals can gradually process their emotions, gain perspective and extract meaningful lessons from the experience,” she concludes.
Referring to the work of renowned psychologist Alfred Adler, Sheikh highlights the effectiveness of teleological thinking, a technique whereby individuals opt for a future-oriented approach instead of remaining mired in the past.
“Symbolism and rituals allow the psyche to enact a transition without requiring participation from anyone else,” she says.
A for ambiguity
In an age when ambiguity is unavoidable and neat conclusions are unlikely, Fialho says therapeutic practice should give priority to “internal closure”.
“At times, people experience sudden losses or a one-sided end to a relationship that leaves them with unanswered questions,” she explains.
“In such situations, therapy can help individuals accept reality, process their emotions and gradually find a sense of being and resolution.”
Echoing these concerns, Sheikh states modern-day therapeutic practice needs to account for negative stimuli.
“Helping a client deal with unresolved matters fosters a more sophisticated level of ego strength,” she says. “Rather than facilitating a forced conclusion, the clinicians should support the client in building a life that is meaningful despite the presence of the unresolved.”
A many-splendoured
Life is undoubtedly a story that both adheres to and defies Freytag’s dramatic structure. That tension is part of the beauty of life. It has the potential to reveal everything, yet often withholds crucial details. As mere mortals navigate its mysteries, many of them may need to borrow a leaf from the Stoics’ handbook. They must learn to find contentment in what they can make peace with, while accepting that some wisdom will always remain beyond their reach.
The writer is the critically acclaimed author and can be reached at tahakehar2@gmail.com
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