Yesterday I Began My Training As A Death Doula.

So I Wrote A Letter To Anthony Bourdain About It.

Dear Anthony,

We never met and a part of me doesn’t even know why I’m writing this to you. But here we go. Someone once told me on a virtual call [supper], between restrained sobs and shaking breath, “I’m far more comfortable speaking with you now than I will ever feel speaking with a therapist.” She was a veteran mother in Melbourne, recounting the moment child safety services took her child away. Her voice didn’t just tremble—it cracked something open in me.

It’s not that I have answers. God, no. But perhaps what I have is presence. And I learned the power of that from watching you.

You sat at plastic tables in Hanoi alleyways, drank arak in the hills of Bali, broke bread in conflict zones and laughter in cramped kitchens. You bore witness. You asked the questions that hovered just beyond politeness—and did so with the kind of reverence that taught me food is not just sustenance. It is sacrament.

Over the past few months, as an immigrant living in The Netherlands, I’ve been hosted by kind strangers through #TheLastSupperProject—an ongoing ritual born out of my journey living with bipolar disorder and my quest to end my mental suffering non violently. It began at my lowest point, when my mind felt like an impossible room with no doors. I wanted to disappear. But instead, I show up at the table.

From dinner table to dinner table, I told the truth. About mania. About despair. About the suicidal ideations that once visited me like loyal ghosts. And in return, others opened up. An homeless Argentinian refugee in Amsterdam treated me to a stunning Burger King meal and she taught me about dignity. A queer Cypriot in Utrecht serve me the Molokhia which is very similar to Ghanaian spinach stew [ kontomire stew ]. And a Filipina mother who lost her bipolar son to suicide four years ago treated me to his favourite Lumpia in Amsterdam —grief had stolen her memory of that meal and I managed to return it.

Thousands of people have now shared their stories with me. Some anonymously. Others between bites. Stories about chronic mental illness, trauma, abandonment, shame. Stories that poured out with such unfiltered rawness they could only be described as sacred. They didn’t need fixing. They needed space. Radical, non-judgmental, loving space.

That’s when I realized: the true offering wasn’t the food. It was the witnessing.

Anthony, bearing witness—especially at life’s edge—is one of the most human things we can do. I see that now more clearly than ever. After intimate conversations with dear friends like Emmanuel and Nabila, both navigating the legal process of medically assisted death in the Netherlands to end their long mental suffering, I’ve come to understand the sacredness of the threshold. The in-between. The not-quite-here and not-yet-gone.

And from that came a calling.

Becoming a death doula wasn’t a sudden decision. I’ve spoken about it with my best friend a few times [she also has a great command of the word “fuck”]. This decision was a quiet arrival—like grief itself. It felt like a way to honour all the selves I’ve had to mourn within me. The manic Joseph. The deeply suicidal Joseph. The numb, absent one. The Joseph who still wakes up not entirely sure how he’s made it this far.

So I’ve enrolled in the Going With Grace End of Life Training Program, founded by Alua Arthur—a woman whose holistic, heart-forward work in death care has deeply moved me. Her language around death reminds me of yours—clear-eyed, unsentimental, but always laced with tenderness. The first class [online] was yesterday. I felt good.

I want to accompany others across the threshold. To be there for the last breath, the last joke, the last forkful of something warm. I want to offer presence the way you did—with curiosity, dignity, and no need to rush.

Anthony, your life taught me that some meals aren’t just meals. Some stories aren’t just stories. And some farewells—when done with care—can be the most meaningful kind of welcome.

Thank you for showing me how to sit with the uncomfortable. And for reminding us all that even the darkest kitchens have light.

With deepest respect,
Joseph Awuah-Darko