Violence and Grief: A Mental Health Provider’s Reflection

Before anything else, a prayer:

God of comfort and mercy, we lift up the Kirk family—Erika and their two children—into Your hands. Surround them with a peace that surpasses understanding. Hold them through shock, anger, confusion, and pain. Send wise, gentle people to carry meals, share tears, and sit in the silence that follows sudden loss. For every loved one, colleague, and friend now grieving, be near. Amen.

Earlier today—Wednesday, September 10, 2025—Charlie Kirk was shot at an event at Utah Valley University and died from his injuries, according to multiple major news outlets. Reports describe a single shot during an outdoor campus event; authorities have been investigating and gathering information from the scene. As details continue to emerge, the facts we have are enough to say this plainly: a family has lost a husband and father, a community has lost a leader, and a campus has been traumatized.

As a trauma- and grief-focused mental health provider, I wish I never had to write posts like this. Every act of public violence is a stone thrown into a lake—the first splash is horrific, but the waves carry outward for a long time. Those closest to the event will feel the strongest waves, yet people across the country will feel them too: students who were present, friends who knew him personally, and even those who only watched from afar and now feel their sense of safety wobble. Grief and trauma don’t ask our political affiliation before they settle into the nervous system. They simply arrive.

When violence enters a community, three wounds often appear at once: the wound of loss (someone is gone), the wound of fear (am I safe?), and the wound of meaning (why did this happen?). In the days ahead, each person who loved Charlie or witnessed the event will move—unevenly—through these wounds. Some will feel numb. Others will replay the moment obsessively. Sleep will be hard; bodies may shake; tempers may flare; tears may surprise you in the grocery aisle. All of this is a normal nervous-system response to shock. If this is you, you are not “weak” or “dramatic”—you’re human.

To the students and staff at Utah Valley University—especially those who saw or heard the shooting—please tend to yourselves the way you would tend to someone you love. Eat. Hydrate. Try to sleep. Keep routines gentle. Avoid doomscrolling and repetitive replay of videos; your brain doesn’t need to see the moment again to know it was real. Text two trusted people and tell them how you’re doing in one honest sentence. If flashbacks or panic swell, slow your breathing: inhale to a count of four, hold for four, exhale for six or eight; repeat five times. If you have access to campus counseling or local supports, consider booking a session even if you’re “not sure you need it.” The body often needs help unwinding from an event like this.

To parents and caregivers: your kids will take their cues from you. If you are steady and available, they can borrow your steadiness. Offer simple, age-appropriate language—“A person hurt and killed someone today. You are safe right now. It’s okay to feel sad, mad, or scared.” Invite questions and don’t be afraid to say, “I don’t know.” Turn off autoplay news in common areas; traumatic repetition is not the same as being “informed.” Most of all, give permission for all feelings and keep the home routine as predictable as possible.

And to our wider country: we must do the hard, grown-up work of disagreeing without dehumanizing. We can hold convictions fiercely, advocate passionately, and still refuse the lie that those who disagree with us are enemies to be eliminated. When political identity becomes a proxy for personhood, violence finds oxygen. We must shut off that oxygen—at our dinner tables, on our timelines, and in our civic life—by practicing a different way: curiosity over contempt, boundaries over brawls, relationship over ridicule. This doesn’t mean we minimize harmful ideas or silence necessary critique. It means we insist on the dignity of every person while we debate the consequences of every position.

Violence is never an answer. It never “proves a point.” It only multiplies trauma. The nervous system keeps score; so do our children. If we want a gentler future, we have to model gentler methods right now. That looks like correcting misinformation without humiliation. It looks like showing up to argue policies while protecting people. It looks like stepping away when our bodies tip into fight-or-flight, and returning when we can speak from our prefrontal cortex instead of our adrenaline.

If you are grieving Charlie, here are a few anchors that can help in the weeks ahead:

• Name what you’re feeling. “This is grief,” “This is anger,” “This is fear.” Naming helps the brain organize chaos.

• Move your body. Walk with a friend. Trauma often lodges in the muscles; motion helps it release.

• Create small rituals. Light a candle, write a letter to the person you lost, gather with others for prayer or remembrance. Rituals turn pain into something held.

• Limit exposure. Take intentional breaks from news and social media—even from well-meaning hot takes.

• Receive help. Let people bring food. Let them drive you to appointments. Let them sit with you and say nothing.

• Seek professional care. Grief counseling and trauma-informed therapy are not luxuries; they are wise tools for healing.

To leaders and influencers—left, right, and otherwise—your words shape the weather. Please choose ones that lower the temperature. Condemn violence without qualification. Avoid framing that paints broad swaths of Americans as monsters. Call your communities to mourn, to pray if they pray, and to practice the hard work of listening. We honor the dead not only with statements but by how we treat the living.

Today, a family’s table has an empty chair. A campus has an empty lawn where an event turned into an emergency. A movement is grieving one of its own. You don’t have to share Charlie Kirk’s views to share the sorrow of this moment. That’s what it means to be a community, and a country: when one house burns, the whole block feels the heat.

I’ll close with another prayer:

God who heals, hold Erika and the children in the long night that follows this day. Strengthen their extended family and friends as they shoulder the practical work of grief. Be present to every student, staff member, first responder, and clinician now carrying images they never asked to see. Give wisdom to investigators, steadiness to leaders, and gentleness to all of us as we speak to one another. Teach us to be people who protect life, honor difference without hatred, and reject violence in every form. Help us build communities where safety is real and compassion is strong. Amen.

If you were present at the event or are struggling with thoughts of self-harm in the aftermath, please reach out now: call or text 988 in the U.S., or contact a local crisis line. You are not alone, and help is available.