I rarely watched Anthony Bourdain’s shows. But when I did, mixed in with mouth-watering desire to taste whatever it was he was eating, was an abiding, peaceful jealousy; I wished to be a braver, bolder human. To be the kind of human who walked the earth fearlessly and consumed experiences with an open heart and a boundless appetite. But I am not that person. I didn’t need to be, because Bourdain existed, which somehow left me to my quiet, simple life where the most exotic thing I consume on a regular basis is raw oysters.

Today, I realized a part of me presumed, against all reason, that Anthony Bourdain—like David Bowie, or George Carlin, or Katherine Hepburn—was indestructible. That’s the only reason I can think of for why I am so inexplicably gutted by the news of his suicide.

Because of course he was destructible. We all are. Just some of us more than others.

I won’t pretend I know him as others did. I’ve read a lot of what he’s written—his marvelous, muscular, dexterous prose that makes me hunger and laugh and miss working in the insanity of a restaurant. I watched Parts Unknown a handful of times, lusting after this mortadella sandwich from some chaotic market in São Paulo or this goat stew bubbling over an open fire in Ghana.

He made the strange and far-flung seem close and accessible, as simple as opening your mouth and taking a big bite out whatever the moment offered.

Whatever he was struggling with that drove him to remove himself from such a life must have been mighty.

With him gone, we have lost a most delicious, wholehearted conduit of vicarious living. It’s up to each of us now to take the big bites on our own, to live as deliciously and fearlessly as we each can stand. To take a little bit of his big-hearted, open-minded, hard-working curiosity and walk around this world with it.

Photo by Norma Jean Roy for Vogue.