I never met Charlie Kirk. For years, I thought he was my adversary. While he was building Turning Point USA, I was running College Democrats chapters, convinced he was everything I opposed. Today, I mourn him. His assassination in Utah this past week left me grieving a man I once dismissed, but would come to admire.
Charlie was only 31 years old. He leaves behind his wife, Erika, their three-year-old daughter, and their one-year-old son. I, myself, am about to turn 31, with a wife, a three-year-old daughter, and a one-year-old son. Our kids even have the same hair color.
That morning, I woke up in Warsaw to emergency alerts about a Russian drone incursion. The airport was shut down. For a moment I thought, maybe it’s time to move back to America. Later that night — while it was still daytime in Utah — I saw the video of Charlie’s assassination. It was deeply traumatic, something I and many others cannot unsee. My first instinct was the opposite of that morning: maybe I should never go back to the U.S. at all. How could this happen? Why did this happen? It felt like the country I loved was unraveling from its seams.
And yet, as the days passed, I began to feel the reverse. If anything, I think I want to return to America more now — because I feel a deep and sincere desire to help carry the torch that Charlie left us in whatever small way I can.
For me, Charlie was a kind of peer, though we were on opposite sides of the political spectrum when we were starting out. In my late teens and early twenties, I was climbing the ranks of College Democrats. I was president of my chapter at UMass Amherst, vice president of the state chapter, then National Chartering Director for College Democrats of America. I worked in the House of Representatives, I served as a motorcade driver for Hillary Clinton’s campaign, I helped organize on numerous other campaigns.
While I was busy building up College Democrats chapters, Charlie was building up Turning Point USA. I watched TPUSA chapters spring up across the country like weeds, and I confess I felt contempt. Nothing like the hatred we see today on the internet — where troubled souls openly celebrate his assassination, which is incomprehensible to me — but a simmering disdain nonetheless.
And yet, life has a way of humbling us. In 2017, I left the Democratic Party and became an Independent, where I’ve remained ever since. Over the years, as I listened to Charlie more and more — his interviews, his speeches, his campus events, his podcast — my respect for him grew. What began as dislike became admiration. Especially over the last two years, I found myself truly admiring the man.
I saw him speak once or twice at events like CPAC, and I may have been in the same room with him a couple of times. But the funny thing is that less than a year ago, he acknowledged me by name. In October 2024, I submitted a video to Brandon Straka’s WalkAway campaign. I had been a finalist in their contest, telling my story of leaving the Left. Charlie shared my video on X and welcomed me publicly to “the team.”
At the time, I thought it was incredibly cool — one of those moments you don’t forget, especially when it comes from someone with such a large following. This recognition opened doors to podcasts, interviews, and conversations I wouldn’t have otherwise had. But now, in light of his death, it means something far deeper. That simple tweet now serves as a treasured memory.
Charlie Kirk was not just a conservative activist. He was a crucial figure in the American conservative movement, more connected to its lineage than many realized. He spoke of Andrew Breitbart as the reason he founded Turning Point. Rush Limbaugh became not only a donor but a mentor, once declaring that Charlie could be a future president of the United States. And Charlie’s support for Donald Trump came long before it was fashionable, with public encouragement for him to run as early as 2013. He saw what others, including many in Trump’s own party, did not.
He also played a unique role in connecting generations of conservatives. At one event in Florida, he introduced Glenn Beck, who introduced Rush Limbaugh, who then introduced Donald Trump. That chain alone tells you something about the role Charlie played as a bridge between eras of conservative leadership.
And Charlie was not only a bridge-builder. He was also a Socratic figure. He went from campus to campus, often facing hostile rooms, armed only with Scripture, the Constitution, and his own sharp wit. He was an autodidact, yet always prepared — with facts, with moral clarity, and with the conviction that truth could withstand questioning. He forced people to think, even those who despised him.
That is why his loss feels not only personal but civilizational. For those who never liked him, I feel a kind of sorrow — because what if they, like me, might one day come to see him differently? What if they spent their years hating him, only to realize after his death that they had been wrong?
Charlie should have had fifty more years — to lead, to inspire, perhaps to run for office, perhaps even to become the indirect successor to Trump. Erika said his focus, if he were to run for office, would have been on “the family.” That fact alone is telling: in a culture that far too often looks down on traditional values, Charlie was their champion.
Now, instead of planning his next chapter, we are left to mourn him. Erika’s words, spoken with extraordinary strength just days after her husband’s death, have stayed with me. She vowed that “the movement my husband built will not die.” Hearing that, I felt not only grief but a call: if she can summon such courage in loss, then those of us who survive cannot excuse our silence any longer.
His death has changed me. For the first time in years, I picked up a Bible. I am planning to finally register as a Republican after years as an Independent. For the first time in a long time, I feel that being passive is no longer an option. Charlie’s example demands more of us all.
He will be awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom posthumously — a fitting and true honor, but it is not enough. He must be remembered as a martyr, because that is what he was: killed not just as a man, but as a symbol of faith, family, and truth in an age that despises all three.
Some have tried to hedge their condolences with the refrain: “I disagreed with him on everything, but…” No honest person disagreed with Charlie Kirk on everything. He put God and family first. If you value either of those things, you had common ground with him. Pretending otherwise is virtue signaling for the virtueless.
The feeling of lost potential is immense. In one sense, it reminds me of John F. Kennedy Jr., taken too young, a man who some thought might one day lead the nation. In another sense, Franz Ferdinand — whose assassination marked not just an end, but a dangerous beginning. I do not know whether we are living in the April or the June of 1968, but I pray for the sake of our country that this is an isolated tragedy, even if its impact is far from isolated. Let us ensure Charlie’s death does not inaugurate a cycle of violence. Let it instead awaken us to live as he did — with courage, faith, and devotion to truth.
Hours before the shooting, Erika posted Psalm 46:1: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” That same afternoon, Charlie shared 2 Corinthians 5:15 with the crowd: “And He died for all, that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again.” These verses have become a kind of spiritual frame around his death — reminders that he lived and died with eternity in view.
I did not know Charlie Kirk, but I mourn for him. In some sense, I miss him. I pray for him, for his family, for his friends, for his organization, and for our country.
In these past days, one passage has stayed with me above all: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” (2 Timothy 4:7). That was Charlie’s life. And now, the race is ours to run. May we run it with even a fraction of the conviction and devotion to God and family that he did. Thank you, Charlie. God bless you.
“The tyrant dies and his rule is over, the martyr dies and his rule begins.” –Soren Kierkegaard
Michael J. Hout is Editor-in-Chief of Liberty Affair. Based in Warsaw, Poland, he writes about politics, culture, and history. Follow his latest insights on X: @michaeljhout.
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