By Julia Carlson
On a small Island like Vashon, it’s easy to believe we’re insulated from the turbulence of the outside world. But lately, even here, you can feel the weight pressing down on America. Conversations at the grocery store, whispers on the ferry, posts in local groups, it’s clear that the past few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster for all of us.
We’ve seen more lately than the human psyche is built to handle. The events unfolding in real time have pushed people in different directions; toward faith, toward unity, toward anger, toward bullying, toward canceling, and sometimes even toward hurting those who care about us most. There is a shift happening, and we all feel it.
In the middle of this, people keep asking me: “Why are so many people deeply impacted by Charlie Kirk? Can you help me understand?”
I welcome those questions when they come from a place of genuine curiosity and not an urge to fight. My perspective is unique, and to explain it, you need to know a little about me.
I grew up in Washington, while my other parent lived in California. I split time between both. As an adult, I’ve lived in Arizona and Texas. That means I’ve lived near both the Canadian and Mexican borders, and in some of the bluest and reddest states in America. Because of that, I’ve seen both sides closely, and I don’t belong entirely to either. I was raised hardcore Roman Catholic and was even kicked out of Catholic school for asking too many questions. I’m no longer religious, but I am deeply spiritual. I’m also a parent now, close to 40 years old, and I’m watching firsthand how young people are being shaped by the culture around us.
That’s why I can say this with confidence: America is in collective mourning. The hysteria is real. The violence is real. The grief is real. But the reason it feels different right now, the reason it feels like something truly shifted, is Charlie Kirk.
Some are only now learning who he was. Others are mourning as if they lost a personal friend. Why? Because Charlie represented a voice we don’t hear anymore. He created space for difficult conversations when most of society seems too fragile, too angry, or too fearful to allow them.
The last election cycle especially revealed his impact. My own teenagers and even my middle schoolers knew him and followed his debates. For the first time in my lifetime, I saw the youth genuinely energized by politics. Early in the election, Charlie stood out to me. His approach was simple but powerful: he would challenge people with the question, “Prove me wrong.” And often, instead of facts, people would respond with only feelings.
This was eye-opening, not just because of his sharp debating skills, but because of the culture it exposed. Our colleges, which once promised critical thought and open dialogue, often churn out students more eager to repeat slogans than to wrestle with ideas. As someone who once worked in higher education myself, I found that heartbreaking.
Charlie’s gift was that he confronted this. He didn’t run from tough topics; he ran straight at them. He challenged people’s beliefs, motives, and assumptions. He defended free speech in a time when many of us were being silenced.
I know that silencing personally. During the pandemic, I was censored on social media, shamed by people I thought were my allies, and excluded from society because of my vaccine status. At one point, I even filmed the inside of hospitals to share what was really happening, and was shut down for it. I know the sting of being told your voice isn’t welcome. That’s why I respected Charlie’s relentless defense of speech, even speech he disagreed with.
Did I agree with everything he believed? No. His overt Christianity, for example, isn’t my path. But I respected his right to his faith. More than that, I respected the fact that he didn’t hide it or dilute it. He lived what he believed, and modeled that same courage for young people who are told every day to keep their mouths shut.
That courage is why his death has left so many reeling. For me, the feeling on September 10th, 2025, was hauntingly similar to how I felt on September 11th, 2001: shocked, hopeless, traumatized. I felt the world pause. Something shifted.
Charlie wasn’t just a conservative commentator. He was a cultural force. He lit a fire in the youth. He modeled what it looks like to engage instead of cancel, to question instead of blindly follow. He told us, over and over, that when we stop talking, violence fills the vacuum.
And now, violence has taken him.
You may not agree with his views. You may not have liked his tactics. But it is impossible to deny his impact. He reminded us that free speech, faith, family, and personal responsibility matter. He reminded us that we can debate passionately and still walk away neighbors. He reminded us that America is built on conversation … not conformity.
That matters here on Vashon, too. We’re a small Island, but we’re not immune to the divisions tearing apart the mainland. I’ve watched neighbors stop talking to each other over politics. I’ve seen community spaces grow quieter because people are afraid to speak honestly. If we can’t hold conversations here, where we live side-by-side, shop at the same grocery store, and ride the same ferry, then where can we?
That’s why Charlie’s death should matter to us. It’s not just about who he was. It’s about what he represented: the reminder that dialogue is essential, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable.
If nothing else, I hope his loss jolts us awake. I hope it reminds us to talk to one another, not about one another. To wrestle with ideas, not silence them. To ask better questions, not cancel the people asking them.
Because if we stop talking, we lose more than just a man, we lose the very spirit of America. And if we’re not careful, we could lose the spirit of our Island too.
