I never knew Charlie Kirk personally. I never heard him speak in person. I never worked with him. I wasn't part of his family, and I couldn't call myself his friend.
And yet, somehow, Charlie was a voice in my life almost every day.
I heard him through my phone, through interviews and YouTube shorts, and through conversations with people who often disagreed with him. He was speaking to the person sitting across from him, but in many ways, he was also speaking to people like me—the people listening quietly from home who needed to hear what he had to say.
And I'd like to think I'm part of a much larger group of people who knew Charlie this way. Maybe even the majority of the people whose lives he touched never shook his hand, never sat in one of his audiences, and never had the opportunity to tell him what his words meant to them. We knew him through a screen, a clip, a conversation, or simply a voice coming through our phones. But that doesn't mean the impact wasn't real. For so many of us, he became a familiar voice in our everyday lives without ever knowing our names.
I don't think we always realize the impact someone has on our lives while they're still here. Charlie helped guide me through moments for which I will probably never be able to give him enough credit. His words challenged me to think more deeply about my faith, helped me as I tried to guide my children toward Christ, and gave me the courage to have conversations with my husband about faith, values, and the kind of life and family we wanted to build.
I'm a 46-year-old wife and mother of four girls. Every day, I'm trying to raise them with faith, a strong moral compass, compassion, courage, and an understanding that goodness still matters. Charlie's voice became one of the voices that helped me along that journey.
A year after his death, there is something particularly painful about knowing that I can never thank him personally. I can never shake his hand and tell him, "You didn't know me, but you mattered in my life."
So instead, I pray. I pray that somehow my gratitude is heard. I pray for his family and for everyone who loved him personally. And I pray for a country that still feels the absence of his voice.
I don't believe anyone needs to replace Charlie. Some people simply cannot be replaced. But I hope we can carry forward the things that moved us—the courage to have difficult conversations, the willingness to stand for what we believe, and the desire to become better people.
I never knew Charlie Kirk.
But his voice reached me.
And I'd like to believe there are millions of people who could say exactly the same thing.
Because his voice reached me, I will continue trying to be a better person, a better mother, a better wife, a better friend, and a woman who leads her family through faith.
For that brief moment that his life crossed into mine, I will always be grateful
I never knew Charlie Kirk personally. I never heard him speak in person. I never worked with him. I wasn't part of his family, and I couldn't call myself his friend.
And yet, somehow, Charlie was a voice in my life almost every day.
I heard him through my phone, through interviews and YouTube shorts, and through conversations with people who often disagreed with him. He was speaking to the person sitting across from him, but in many ways, he was also speaking to people like me—the people listening quietly from home who needed to hear what he had to say.
And I'd like to think I'm part of a much larger group of people who knew Charlie this way. Maybe even the majority of the people whose lives he touched never shook his hand, never sat in one of his audiences, and never had the opportunity to tell him what his words meant to them. We knew him through a screen, a clip, a conversation, or simply a voice coming through our phones. But that doesn't mean the impact wasn't real. For so many of us, he became a familiar voice in our everyday lives without ever knowing our names.
I don't think we always realize the impact someone has on our lives while they're still here. Charlie helped guide me through moments for which I will probably never be able to give him enough credit. His words challenged me to think more deeply about my faith, helped me as I tried to guide my children toward Christ, and gave me the courage to have conversations with my husband about faith, values, and the kind of life and family we wanted to build.
I'm a 46-year-old wife and mother of four girls. Every day, I'm trying to raise them with faith, a strong moral compass, compassion, courage, and an understanding that goodness still matters. Charlie's voice became one of the voices that helped me along that journey.
A year after his death, there is something particularly painful about knowing that I can never thank him personally. I can never shake his hand and tell him, "You didn't know me, but you mattered in my life."
So instead, I pray. I pray that somehow my gratitude is heard. I pray for his family and for everyone who loved him personally. And I pray for a country that still feels the absence of his voice.
I don't believe anyone needs to replace Charlie. Some people simply cannot be replaced. But I hope we can carry forward the things that moved us—the courage to have difficult conversations, the willingness to stand for what we believe, and the desire to become better people.
I never knew Charlie Kirk.
But his voice reached me.
And I'd like to believe there are millions of people who could say exactly the same thing.
Because his voice reached me, I will continue trying to be a better person, a better mother, a better wife, a better friend, and a woman who leads her family through faith.
For that brief moment that his life crossed into mine, I will always be grateful
@RealCandaceO
@baroncoleman Commenting solely to give you the opportunity to provide the exact insufferable slop response you just complained about. Don’t let me down.
@LauraLoomer@RealCandaceO@DHSgov@ICEgov@AGToddBlanche@TPUSA No one cares about who Candace Owens has in her house. We care about the Epstein files. Stop distracting from the issue people are actually asking about and do something about that.
Women already face enough criticism from society and, unfortunately, from each other. Imagine using your platform to lift women up instead of repeatedly insulting them. You can have a sense of humor without tearing down an entire group of people. Strong women don’t need to make other women feel small to be funny, confident, or outspoken. There’s plenty of room for humor AND kindness. Supporting other women doesn’t make you weak,it says a lot more about your character than an insult ever will.
@dylanmcuddy@LionelMedia@ZeeToTheHill Honestly, why do people find the need to personally attack a person instead of making an intelligent argument about what they are saying?
@Rach4Patriarchy@bronconoma95607 She's a scum bag and a despicable human being but your husband can call "All women retarded " and you're ok with that?? Ummmm...