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Anthony Bourdain’s recent suicide rocked a lot of people.
I loved his show No Reservations. It was real.
He was so real. Just him.
Passionate. Not perfectly polished.
As is.
Likable in his humanity. Not posing.
Him sharing his life and food with us.
And, then.
Whump!
He checked himself out.
Suicide.
Without much of an explanation.
He’s gone.
We are left holding the bag. Trying to make sense of this.
In a time when little seems to make sense.
To many, it felt like some hope was taken.
This man – even this man who seemed to be comfortable with his own self – caved into the ultimate pressure and took his own life.
Comparisons enter the mind.
Si ille or istae cur non ego?
If he or she can, why not me as well?
My world feels the diminishment.
And, I didn’t know him.
The futility of toil is underscored.
Over-zealous cheer and buoyancy awkwardly stares at its shoes.
Nonetheless.
Nevertheless.
In spite of the disconnect.
Yet.
I have hope.
Still.
Anyhow.
I have hope.
Not Optimism, Hope.
Optimism overlooks pain and horror.
Hope does not.
Optimism often glosses over the imperfections.
Hope is more real.
Hope is real and honest.
Hope isn’t perfectly polished.
Hope takes the good with the bad.
Hope is more like Anthony Bourdain than optimism.
Because hope is real.
While I mourn, I have hope. I hold in my heart deep, steadfast knowledge that I will survive longer that I will live long enough to laugh again from a deep part of my soul.
Truth: I am sad and scared.
Truth: The world seems crazier than I can remember it being, and it doesn’t seem as though it is going to let up anytime soon.
Truth: I still have hope.
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Mark was wrong
October 14, 2026
Mark is smart. He’s one of my smarter friends. He is able to contort his words so as to not split an infinitive, as I just did in this very sentence. (Mark would have written, so as not to split an infinitive.) ⟡⟡⟡ Four or five years ago, Mark’s youngest child—assigned female at birth and named Clara—told him that they
