When a Public Figure Dies and Your Feelings Are Complicated: How Parents of LGBTQ Kids Can Model Grace Without Erasing Harm

This week has been heavy. After the killing of Charlie Kirk, I've been sitting with so many conflicting emotions, and today I want to talk about what it means to be human in a moment like this. Welcome to More Human, More Kind, the podcast helping parents of LGBTQ+ kids move from fear to fierce allyship and feel less alone and more informed so can protect what matters, raise brave kids, and spark collective change. I'm Heather Hester. Let's get started. In today's episode, we'll explore why grief in moments like this is so complicated, especially when harm and humanity collide. I'll share the tension I've been holding between anger grace, and kindness, and what that is teaching me. And together we'll consider how we can model a response for our kids and communities that is honest, human, and kind. Today I come to you with a lot of feelings, care, and honesty. I decided to wait a week to say anything about the killing of Charlie Kirk. Not because I didn't feel something. On the contrary, I felt a lot. I felt heartbreak, confusion, fear, sadness, and anger. Lots of it. I needed to sit with all of it before I could speak clearly. This past week has been heavy, not just for me, but for so many of you. We're carrying so much: the grief, the tension, the overwhelm, the knowing that this moment is going to ripple outward into even more noise and even more division. And when something like this happens, when a public figure is killed, the reactions get loud, fast, and messy. It's easy to want to jump in, to post something right away, to prove that we're paying attention, to get there first. And I knew I couldn't do that. I didn't want to just react. I wanted to be real and thoughtful. So I've been sitting quite uncomfortably in the mess, and today I wanted to talk about what it means to be human in moments like this, what it means to be kind, even when it's hard, especially when it's hard. Here's what's true. Charlie Kirk was a husband, a father, a son. He was a central figure in the conservative youth movement. He built a powerful brand around being intentionally provocative. He was a skilled speaker and a polarizing one on purpose. As someone raising two LGBTQ+ kids and two young women, as someone who sees the beauty in all humans, and as someone who walks beside families navigating the complexity of identity, safety, and healing, I saw and felt the real-world impact of his rhetoric. I heard it in the pain of countless parents and kids. I felt it in my own home. When I first heard the news of Charlie Kirk's death, I didn't know what to feel. There was shock, confusion, and a tangle of really complicated emotions. Part of me wanted to feel grace right away, and part of me was just tired. Tired of the harm. Tired of the headlines. Tired of being told or feeling like I had to take the high road when it feels like no one else is. And then came the shame, the anger, the grief, for what this moment says about who we are and how far we've drifted from seeing each other as human. One of the first things I wrote down in my journal was, I feel annoyed with myself for not quite being there, not quite able to offer grace. I feel searing anger at the hypocrisy. I feel dismayed at the lopsided expectations. Why are we always the ones being asked to be better, to be kinder, to be quieter? I still stand by those feelings, and I also know this: political violence is never okay, full stop. Not when it comes from the left, not when it comes from the right, not when we agree with someone, and not when we don't. Violence, whether it is physical, verbal, or emotional, has long been used to try to control or silence others. This isn't new, and it never truly resolves anything. It doesn't heal. It doesn't transform. It only creates more pain. More fear, more loss. So here's the tension I've been holding all week. I grieve for Charlie Kirk's family. I grieve for the people he hurt. I grieve for the state of our country. And I grieve for what comes next. Because if you've ever been harmed by someone's words and the actions they inspired, Or if someone you love has, you know how complicated that grief can be. The line between heartbreak and relief can blur. The line between truth and rage can blur. The line between justice and vengeance can blur. And that brings up a deeper more uncomfortable question, one I've been processing all week long. How do we hold space for the truth that a violent death is never okay, while also not erasing the harm someone caused in their lifetime? What does it look like to grieve a tragedy without rewriting history? To honor the human dignity without ignoring the real damage that someone's words can cause? A mentor of mine once called this holding the tension of the opposites. And that's exactly what it feels like right now. The tension between feeling angry, so, so angry, and wanting to lead with grace. Between naming harm and refusing to cause more. Between upholding the importance of free speech and acknowledging the real-world consequences of what that speech unleashes. This week, I found myself returning to the words of Martin Luther King Jr.'s children, the people whose father was assassinated for his beliefs and who have endured decades of attacks on his legacy by some of the very people who now mourn Charlie Kirk. As well as Charlie Kirk himself in life. And yet, despite that, they wrote, the death of Charlie Kirk is not only a tragedy for one man or one movement. It is a wound to the soul of our nation. Whenever violence visits any of God's children, it diminishes us all, whether we agree or disagree with the words a man speaks. We must never lose sight of humanity, nor forget the sacred dignity that lives within each and every person. Reading that really stopped me in my tracks because it reminded me that grace is not about approval. It's not about pretending harm didn't happen. Grace is a choice to act from love. Even when we are in pain, perhaps especially when we are in pain. So what does that look like here? What does kindness look like in a moment like this? Kindness is not being a pushover. Kindness is not forgetting the people who were harmed. Kindness is not staying silent to keep the peace. Kindness is choosing to remember someone's humanity, even when their words tried to erase yours. Kindness is feeling every messy, complex emotion and still being intentional with your actions. Kindness is saying, "I will not celebrate a man's death, but I will still demand accountability for the harm his words caused." Kindness is holding space for our grief and refusing to dehumanize in return. Because here's the truth: we don't heal what we can't name. And we don't build a better world by copying the worst parts of the one we inherited. So what now? What do we do with all of this? Maybe it looks like talking with your kids about how they're feeling. Maybe it means checking in with yourself before you post something online. Maybe it means stepping away for a moment, not because you're disengaged, but because you care too much to speak carelessly. Maybe it means signing up to volunteer for a campaign. Maybe it means writing to your local school board. And maybe, just maybe, it means running for office yourself. Maybe it just means this: remembering that even when we are angry, we are still responsible for how we show up. This is one of those moments where we get to choose. Not once, but over and over again. We get to choose how we respond, what we model, what we teach our children, what we share with our communities, what kind of humans we want to be in the face of harm and fear and deep sorrow. I'm not here to tell you how to feel. I am here to remind you that your feelings are real and that your words still matter. And I'm also here to remind you, because I needed this reminder myself, that being kind is not about being nice. Nice is performative. Nice avoids conflict. Nice stays quiet so it won't rock the boat. Kindness is different. Kindness is truthful. Kindness is active. Kindness is what happens when we refuse to stop seeing each other as human. I've spent a lot of time this week feeling stretched thin. I've also felt a quiet clarity that this work, this commitment to choosing kindness when it's hardest, is more important than ever. We are allowed to feel everything we feel, and we are also responsible for how we respond. We can hold the pain. We can name the harm. We can grieve and stay grounded. We can feel deeply and we can still choose to be more human. And we can still choose to be more kind. As we close, I want to leave you with this: your words matter, your presence matters, and the way you show up right now matters. If this episode helped you, share it with someone who might need to hear it too. Together, we can model a different way forward, one rooted in truth, humanity, and kindness. And if you'd like to keep walking this journey with me, I write a weekly newsletter where I share reflections, encouragement, and small steps we can take to live with more humanity and more kindness. You can sign up at morehumanmorekind.com. Let's continue to see the humanity in each other, no matter the differences. Until next time, remember, you are not alone.