People have different reactions to celebrity deaths. When someone many of us admired takes his or her own life, the matter is further complicated by a persistent misunderstanding of mental illness and the thought processes that can lead someone, anyone – from a high school student to Anthony Bourdain – down that terrible, lonely path.

Anthony Bourdain was many things.: A father. A husband. A chef who started as a line cook. A man who traveled the world so that we could have our eyes opened to the everyday wonders in places most of us will like never have a chance to go. I remember watching an episode of No Reservations during which he ate warthog rectum; he didn’t particularly enjoy it nor did he disdain it. It was part of the lives of the people among whom he found himself, and he was determined to experience every aspect of those lives from base to sublime.

Above all else, Bourdain was a master storyteller. His actual, physical voice was distinctive – you knew from the initial sounds that he was the one speaking and you leaned forward a little, shut down the background noise, and tuned in because what no matter to whom he was speaking, what he was eating, whether or not he was smoking like a chimney, playing with kids, out on a rickety boat searching for some rare sea creature, or being driven along the winding, mountain roads of Cambodia, he was going to tell you a story and it was going to be magnificent. It would give the homiest of homebodies a thirst for adventure. He was phenomenally crass, unfailingly respectful, and unflinchingly honest.

He showed us everyone is different but, beneath those glorious differences, we are all human. That there is so much more to bring us together than divides us, that even when bombs are falling or gang violence is rampant there are moments when families sit down together, or people with their friends, or sometimes with strangers, and they eat and tell stories and exist, if only for a few minutes, as humans.

There are not many voices like that in this world right now, and Bourdain’s will be missed so very much.

We are fortunate that, while he is gone, he’s left a legacy of stories that is ours in perpetuity.

These are some of my favorites:

Kitchen Confidential

Bourdain’s no-holds barred memoir of coming up through the ranks of the culinary world is horrifying, amusing, and defiant. It exposed the inner workings of the once apparently glamorous world of haute cuisine, and all other kinds of cuisine for that matter, to the general public in all of its brutal reality. Contained herein you’ll find sex, drugs, and alcohol in biblical quantities. You’ll have your eyes opened to how cooks and chefs and other restaurant workers are treated, how they’re expected to work their butts of for a pittance that can barely sustain basic needs, and how, remarkably, people such as Bourdain remain in that world, in that life, for the love of food. Because they have a drive to create for the sake of giving others a sublime moment, a respite in the trash fire that is the world. This was the first of Bourdain’s books I read, and I remember being immediately entranced, snatching moments late at night, early in the morning, and even during class, to dive back in. I was sad when I finished it because there was no more. I’ve read it more than once, which is something I rarely do because there are just so many stories in the world. That speaks to the power of this one and of Bourdain’s prowess as a weaver of words and tales.

Appetites: A Cookbook

Bourdain has contributed to countless cookbooks over his decades-long career, from gorgeous tomes revealing the secrets of Les Halle‘s classical bistro techniques to an introduction to The Provincetown Seafood Cookbook. His best, though, in my opinion, is Appetites, because it collects not only the recipes Bourdain enjoyed making most but those he enjoyed eating, especially with his family. That food is an integral part of bringing the family together is practically a universal constant, and perusing Appetites and recreating the recipes in it is an intimate experience because you know Bourdain has made these same meals, enjoyed them much as you are: in his own home, with his daughter, with friends. Also, there are fewer crazy expensive and/or rare ingredients to find. I mean, I know where to get pigs’ feet, but I’m not sure I want to. Cacao nibs and stinky cheese I can get down with.

A Cook’s Tour: Global Adventures in Extreme Cuisines

I am not the child of adventurous eaters. Both of my parents grew up in relatively traditional American-Jewish households wherein there wasn’t much time or inclination toward experimentation. It was an era in which “fusion” cuisine was still the stuff of sci-fi. It wasn’t that I deliberately avoided sampling more unusual or diverse foodstuffs; it was that, until I went to college in DC, I didn’t know they existed. And once I made the discovery, how to choose? Ostrich burger? Sushi? Will it be too spicy? What does octopus feel like in your mouth? (True news: I’ll try almost anything but that’s something I’ve never been able to chew or swallow.) Can I eat that? Should I eat it? A Cook’s Tour converted me from a cautious dabbler to someone who will try almost anything at least once (being a medical provider, I draw a line at brains and livers and the Icelandic national dish hákarl). I’ve tried and taught myself to cook so many different cuisines because of this book: Malaysian. Mexican.  Ethiopian. Greek. Cuban. Peruvian. Korean. Indian. Moroccan. I made Transylvanian kebabs last night. I’ve learned Scandinavian pastry, mochi, baklava, cheesecake mousse, rice crepes, Hawaiian milk bread, and pretzel rolls. I know the difference between red, green, and yellow curry and which one to cook kabocha in. I’ve tasted puffin. I’ve shoveled firecracker shrimp po boys from a dive bar in New Orleans into my mouth as readily as ettoufé from Antoine’s. I’ve eaten cheese with a rainbow of mold (the ones that are supposed to have mold, chill). I know how to prepare kohlrabi. I’ve licked the scorpion. I’ve devoured alligator pierogi. A Cook’s Tour made my food life, and thus the entirety of my life, so much bigger, playing a huge part in my transformation from cautious suburban kid to someone who will say, without reservation, “Hell, yeah, I’ll eat that.”

Get Jiro! 

Bourdain was also a prolific fiction writer, penning everything from full-length novels to comics for Vertigo. Not everyone can make the transition back and forth between memoir and make-believe; Bourdain did and he did it well. Get Jiro! was a project in which both Bourdain’s love of being a chef and criticisms of the culinary establishment combined with his sublime snark, vivid imagination, and wide-ranging travels to produce a bloody, hilarious, wild tale of near-future culinary warfare that couldn’t possibly have come from any mind except Bourdain’s. I had always hoped he’d do more comics. I’m going pull this one out and reread it tonight.

We’re lucky to have had a storyteller like Bourdain and we’ve lost him way, way too soon. He’s left us a legacy of words no one can take away, but I can’t help think about what else he might have created. There’s no blame here, no judgment. That isn’t how this works, or it shouldn’t be. There is no right or wrong way to mourn him, whether you knew him intimately, met him once, or admired him from afar.

We can’t bring him back, but we can, going forward, work to reduce the stigma of mental illness, to provide safe spaces for people to go to, be they physical or virtual, where they can be honest about what’s happening in their minds, with their emotions. Mental illness isn’t contagious. It isn’t a dirty word.

You don’t have to have experienced depression or anxiety to provide a willing ear and empathy to someone who has or is. Don’t wait for the people you care about to reach out to you – they may not be able to or know how. Call them. Text them, even if it’s just to say, “I’m here if you need me” or “I love you” or “You’re important to me.”

Speaking from personal experience, those tiny moments, the ones that seem most insignificant to you, may very well save a life.

We’ll miss you, Anthony Bourdain. And we’ll never forget your stories.

And we’ll work hard, in your honor, to make sure someone else has the chance to tell theirs.