on the passing of charlie kirk: amidst grief, I choose to speak

edited by sarina e. guerra
formatted by justin orsino

The passing of Charlie Kirk hit me like a blow to the chest. I felt shock, anger, and deep sorrow—not only because a life has ended, but because it happened on the eve of September 11. That day is already heavy, already a wound we carry together. Now, the shadow feels even darker. And yet, here I am, writing. Reflecting.

Trying to hold Grief
in one hand &
Hope in the other.

I don’t write as a polished journalist chasing headlines. I write as a person, about another person. This, to me, is the heart of citizen journalism. It turns the spotlight away from power and back toward humanity. It insists that stories are not just about events, but about what they mean to us as human beings.

Charlie Kirk speaking with attendees at a “Chase the Vote” rally at Dream City Church in Phoenix, Arizona.
Photo courtesy of Gage Skidmore / CC BY-SA 2.0

Charlie Kirk was human before anything else. Before microphones and platforms, before a name became bigger than the man himself, he was a son, a friend, a soul who laughed, struggled, and mattered. I don’t want to flatten him into politics or controversy. I want to remember him as a man whose life touched others, because that’s the truth no one can take away.

Still, I feel the danger in writing this way. When I speak plainly, when I insist on telling the raw, human story, I wonder—am I putting myself at risk, too? In a world that often punishes honesty, it feels like citizen journalism itself is a kind of resistance. We dare to look grief in the face and not look away. We dare to say:

the Story is about
People, not Power.

If my grandmother were alive today, she would tell me not to lose myself in despair. She would place a rosary in my hand and remind me to pray, to fast, to kneel in adoration. She would tell me, in her steady voice: hate the sin, not the sinner. She would remind me that mercy and compassion must always remain, even when the world feels cold.

So this is my reflection—not polished, not tied with a bow, but honest. Grief does not vanish, but neither does hope. Love travels farther than death. Prayer reaches deeper than silence. And to tell these raw, human stories is not just an act of mourning, but of courage, of faith, of remembering what matters most.

I don’t have all the answers. I don’t need them. What I have is this moment, this voice, and the conviction that grief and love, prayer and memory, can live side by side.

And maybe that is where we begin: by choosing to speak when silence tempts us, by choosing to see the human story where others see only headlines. It is gentle work, but it is also bold. It is reflection, but also resistance.

Even in the shadow of loss…

i Choose
to Speak.

And I invite others to do the same.