Yesterday, America lost a voice. Charlie Kirk was gunned down for having the courage to stand and speak his convictions.
I can still remember my first impression of him—those short college campus clips that went viral years ago. I’ll admit, I had mixed feelings. At times he made strong arguments. At times, I felt it slipped too easily into mockery. I didn’t love that. But here’s the thing: it took courage to show up. To put himself in those rooms, to spar with strangers, to risk being wrong and risk being ridiculed.
Over the years, as I learned more, my view shifted. I learned that he started Turning Point at just eighteen. That he never went to college. That he had a wife, and two young children. I came to see him not as the caricature you get in a clip, but as a young man who, without formal credentials, dedicated his life to wrestling with ideas in the public square.
And I have to tell you—I see myself in that. I didn’t grow up with pedigree or privilege either. I wasn’t handed the roadmap. What I had was conviction, stubbornness, and the willingness to throw myself into arenas where I didn’t fully belong. That’s why I can’t help but feel kinship with Charlie Kirk. He stood in places he didn’t have to, knowing people would come at him hard, and he still went anyway.
That’s what we actually need more of. Not more Charlie Kirks in ideology. But more Charlie Kirks in effort, in energy, in the audacity to speak unorthodox ideas in a world that punishes anyone who doesn’t toe a line. We need more people willing to argue, to debate, to stay curious about how we solve the problems of our time.
Because the opposite is silence. And silence is dangerous.
The truth is, America is at an inflection point. We’ve been here before. In the 1960s, when violence and unrest spilled into the streets, we had to decide whether political murder would become normal, or whether we would choose peace and compassion. That choice is before us again. If we continue to let our language become weaponized, if we normalize words of war, we create conditions where someone on the margins will turn those words into action.
Charlie Kirk’s death is not just the loss of a man—it is the loss of a husband, the loss of a father. His wife, his two children, now carry that absence forever. Big moments—weddings, graduations—and small moments—bedtime stories, backyard laughter—will be marked by his absence. I know the weight of that. I’ve seen families lose fathers and mothers to violence, to war, to service. It is a grief that does not end.
So today, I pray for them. And I ask you to take stock of your own life. Look at what you love, who you love. Nothing is guaranteed beyond the breath you’re drawing now.
Be well, Charlie. Thank you for your energy, your fire, your willingness to wrestle with ideas bigger than yourself. Thank you for reminding us that credentials aren’t the same as courage.
We need more like you—not copies of your politics, but echoes of your daring. People willing to step into the arena, speak their truth, and face down the silence.
Because the only way through this moment—the only way to save the soul of this country—is to stop silencing voices, and to start multiplying them.
Charlie Kirk’s death is a reminder of what’s truly at stake—not just left or right, but whether we still believe in the possibility of a society where disagreement is not deadly. His wife and children now carry the weight of his absence, just as too many families in this country carry the scars of violence. The only way forward is not fewer voices, but more—spoken with honesty, conviction, and compassion.
If this struck a chord with you, share it with someone who needs to be reminded that courage and kindness are not opposites, but companions. And if you’d like to keep walking this path with me, subscribe so you never miss a reflection.
I’ll be back next week with more. Until then—hold close what you love, be unafraid to speak, and choose compassion over silence.
