Charlie Kirk interviewed me exactly two weeks before he was murdered on September 10, 2025. Neither of us knew it then, but it would be the last long-form interview he ever recorded.
I flew to his studio in Phoenix, where I met several members of Turning Point USA. They were young, energetic, and organized. I could see how much Kirk had shaped the culture there.
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I had listened to Kirk on various podcasts and thought that he seemed thoughtful, but I didn’t know what to expect. Our 90-minute interview went better than I could have imagined. He was gracious, curious, and quick on his feet. His questions were sharp. Within minutes, I understood why he had built such a large following. Without saying a word about it, he placed a copy of my book, Troubled, on his desk so that viewers could see it throughout the interview. After we wrapped, his team told me that the episode would likely air in September. It did eventually air in November.
News of his death hit me harder than I expected. Our time together lasted only one afternoon, but it stayed with me. Kirk was generous and willing to engage with anyone, even the far-right “groypers” who tried to ambush him at events. That intellectual courage is a major reason TPUSA became such a force in American politics. His assassination shows how dangerous it has become to speak plainly in public.
I was asked to appear on several programs to discuss Kirk and the meaning of his assassination. I didn’t feel ready. His highly engaged audience knew him better than I did, though I had met him in person. Today, you can follow someone online for years and understand him more deeply than someone who spent a few hours in his company.
Sudden loss has a way of resurfacing old memories. In high school, two people I knew died within a year. One was a girl who crashed her car while texting. The other was a friend’s younger brother, killed in a gang initiation. I had seen both persons only a day before they died. That disorienting feeling returns now: How can a young and healthy person have died, when I had just spoken with him or her?
Grief is a natural human response to loss. In the months after someone close to us dies, people sometimes report seeing the deceased in crowds or mistaking strangers for the person. Evolutionary psychologists posit a “reunion theory.” The idea is that in the ancestral human environment, temporary separations were common. If someone went missing, it was useful to stay alert and watch for signs of his return. Our minds treat the loss as if the loved one has simply been away too long.
As a result, humans developed rituals to signal, in unmistakable ways, that a person is gone forever. Funerals serve both the community and the individual. A classic study found that when families skipped a funeral, grief lasted longer and was marked by disrupted work, nightmares, and even higher rates of illness.
Clinical research also shows that the strength of attachment predicts the intensity of grief. The writer Julian Barnes put it simply: “It hurts just as much as it’s worth.” Grief functions as a measure of value. The more it matters to us, the more it hurts to lose.
This runs through every part of life. Anything worth having—love, loyalty, commitment—requires effort and sometimes struggle. Losing something of worth brings its own kind of suffering. It can be hard to accept that love and grief are inseparable, but the alternative is unthinkable. Imagine losing a loved one and feeling nothing. The ache of grief is not only a measure of pain but also a testament to what the person brought into your life.
Kirk’s life, and the way it ended, will continue to be felt far beyond his own movement. His voice is gone, but his message remains. A free society depends on people willing to defend the right of others to speak—even when they disagree.
Photo by BENJAMIN HANSON/Middle East Images/AFP via Getty Images
