The Destruction of Empathy
he year is 1963. President John F. Kennedy has just been assassinated, and the world stands in stunned silence. Some people cry, others question God, and many question the very nature of the world they thought they knew. But no one celebrates in the streets. No one dresses up as the bloodied, fallen president. There is grief, confusion, and fear, but also a shared respect that bridges the divide between Democrat and Republican. Between chaos and celebration, there was a middle ground: empathy.
Empathy, as it is commonly defined, is the ability to understand and share another person’s feelings and perspective. It is more than sympathy; it requires stepping into someone else’s shoes to recognize their pain, joy, and humanity. Psychologists describe three kinds of empathy: cognitive empathy, understanding another’s thoughts; emotional empathy, feeling what another feels; and compassionate empathy, being moved to help. Empathy builds relationships and compels us toward mercy, even when we disagree.
On September 10, 2025, a man was murdered. His crime was exercising his First Amendment right to speak his beliefs. Charlie Kirk dedicated his life to engaging America’s youth in conversations about conservative and biblical values. He often said that the moment we stop having difficult conversations about opposing ideas is the moment we begin to lose America. Many labelled him hateful, yet I never saw a man more willing to hand a microphone to anyone, friend or critic, and invite honest dialogue.
I had the privilege of working for Charlie’s company, Turning Point USA, in Phoenix, Arizona, and when the news of his death broke, my heart shattered. I thought of my friends and coworkers who witnessed the horror, and of his family who must now live with the image of someone they loved being murdered before the world. Naively, I hoped this tragedy might do what JFK’s assassination once did, remind us that, despite political differences, we can all agree that murder is wrong. I was mistaken.
Instead of mourning, I saw celebration. I saw people mocking his death, dressing as his dismembered body, rejoicing that a voice they opposed had been silenced. And then came another cruelty: those who called Charlie a friend began turning on his family, his wife Erika, and the very organization he built. From every side, supporter and opponent alike, empathy seemed to disappear.
I felt that callousness personally after posting a video expressing support for Turning Point and for Charlie’s family. Strangers accused me of being complicit, of being paid, of being evil. Anonymous usernames attacked my character with a confidence they would never show face-to-face. Everyone demanded answers, conspiracies, explanations. But the truth is painfully simple.
Charlie Kirk was a man, imperfect, passionate, outspoken, who believed in God and in his vision for America. And he was murdered. A family lost a husband and father. Two children will one day see the footage of a moment that changed their lives forever. No theory, no accusation, no online outrage will undo that reality. What might begin to heal it is something far quieter: love and empathy.
Love is not a feeling alone; it is an action. It is patient and kind, unwilling to boast, and slow to keep record of wrongs. Empathy asks us to see the humanity even in those we oppose. We do not have to agree with one another to grieve with one another. We do not have to share politics to share compassion. If we allow disagreement to strip us of empathy, we lose something far greater than any argument, we lose our ability to be human together.
The measure of a society is not how loudly it celebrates its allies, but how gently it treats its enemies. May we choose, even now, to be people who mourn with those who mourn, who speak with humility, and who remember that every life, especially the ones we struggle to understand, deserves dignity. May we all choose to be more empathetic.
