Here’s what I’m grappling with. Those that appear the most fearless among us are the most fragile. Anthony Bourdain, my literal literary and foodie crush, that buoyed me with reruns twenty-four-seven after shoulder surgery? And Kate, the sprite who created an illusion of a fairy tale life (but, yes, the fashion industry is a crusher). I am, sadly, no stranger to suicide. My mother attempted several times, but ultimately cancer got her first. Her mental illness was a secret in my family because she was just SO. DAMN. FABULOUS. How could she be crazy? But we, her kids, were the ones that knew just how bad off she was and how terrifying (and exhilarating) life with her could be. I’ve always thought that suicide was the ultimate in cowardice. Giving up. Failure. But I see I’m wrong. If nothing else comes of these lives half-lived, the conversation is on. RIP Anthony and Kate and Mom.

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