In the eight years since my graphic novel on death published, I’ve learned readers of all ages want to talk about loss and preserve their family’s stories

Becoming an author in my late 50s was unexpected, the result of my daughter Hallie’s own existential anxiety in her early 20s.

Fearing my untimely demise, she begged me to write down advice that would cover all of life’s bases going forward. I agreed, but put the project off for years; it wasn’t until she cornered me with a laptop on vacation that I gave in. She asked countless questions, and I found, to my surprise, that I had plenty to say. Hallie helped shape the manuscript, and then spent a year painting its warmly emotional gouache illustrations.

I lost a parent (or other loved one, including spouse or beloved pet) and your book helped me through.

I gave the book to my kids and wrote my own notes in the margins.

I can’t bear the thought of my mom or dad dying, but they don’t want to talk about it. I’m hoping that sharing the book with them will start some conversations.

My mother was a keen swimmer, and she lived with depression. I wonder if she found the same respite in the water that has helped heal me since she passed away

It was early morning in late September, off the coast of Kaş in Turkey. Watching the slightly choppy sea from a boat, the last thing I felt like doing was embarking on another 5km (3-mile) swim. Mind fog had sapped my energy, and my mood was decidedly Eeyore-like. But as I pulled on my cap and flippers, adjusted my goggles and took the plunge, something shifted.

Head in the water, the knotted feeling in my throat began to loosen. Breathing came properly. There was respite.