The Dreamer's Pen

This evening I am sitting quietly in my recliner with Chewy by my side. I feel absolutely drained. Today has been one of the most stressful and heartbreaking days I can remember in a long time. Work itself was already heavy, but what overshadowed everything was the conversations in the hallways, the emotions in people’s eyes – the news of Charlie Kirk’s murder at Utah Valley University.

We weren’t just reading about it in headlines . We saw it. His actual death captured from countless angles, was uploaded and shared across social media within minutes. Students, staff, and faculty alike were shaken. Everywhere I turned, someone was whispering, grieving, staring blankly at their phone. We were all watching the same unfiltered, horrific reality: a man losing his life right before our eyes. It wasn’t something distant or abstract. It was raw, immediate, and deeply traumatizing.

People were unsettled, some angry, some numb, many just quiet. For students especially, it was terrifying to realize that someone could be murdered in broad daylight during what should have been an ordinary, safe campus event. For faculty and staff, it hit differently — the realization that in a world already filled with so much division, violence could erupt in a place meant for learning, dialogue, and growth. I carried all of that with me as I tried to make it through the day. My colleagues and I discussed it and tried to be positive for the public, but honestly, it was almost impossible to focus on anything else.

My heart aches most for Charlie Kirk’s wife, his children and his loved ones who now have to live with a loss that should never have happened. No matter what anyone thought of his politics, he was a husband, a father, a human being. No one deserves to be taken in such a horrific way, and certainly not in front of thousands of witnesses, both in person and online. I also think about the people who were at the campus event in Utah, who heard the shot, who saw the chaos unfold in real time. They will carry that trauma with them forever.

What unsettles me most is how familiar tragedy has become. We hear of shootings at schools, churches, concerts and now, even during a debate on a college campus. And while these things still shock us, they also feel frighteningly routine. That’s what terrifies me. Have we become so used to death that we barely pause anymore? Have we lost our ability to sit in grief together, to truly see the humanity in what was lost?

It makes me think of September 11, 2001. That day was horrific, unthinkable. It is a wound we will never fully recover from. But what I remember just as clearly as the smoke and the sorrow was the unity that followed. It shouldn’t have taken something so devastating to bring us together, but it did. And for a time, the divisions that normally cut us apart seemed to fade. We were simply human beings, neighbors, strangers even, who looked out for one another. I remember how every single home had candles flickering in the windows for the victims. Entire neighborhoods glowed at night, a sea of small lights against the darkness. We prayed together, we cried together, we supported one another. It was beautiful, in the purest sense of the word.

I miss that feeling so much. That deep sense that even in our differences, we belonged to one another. Now it feels like we’ve lost that spirit and instead of unity, we’ve grown numb. The candlelight has gone out, replaced with scrolling screens and fleeting outrage. We witness horrific violence but instead of binding us together, it seems to push us further apart. And that desensitization — that numbness — is frightening to me.

Debate should never end in death. Debate, at its best, is alive, respectful, and even joyful. It’s an opportunity to learn and to grow. But when disagreement devolves into violence, we’ve lost something precious — something essential to who we are as a nation and as people.

Maybe I’m idealistic. Maybe it’s just the INFJ way – longing for harmony in a world that seems to be unraveling. But I still believe unity is possible. I still believe we can choose compassion, kindness, and respect — that we can remember that behind every opinion is a human being with a family, with love, with a story that matters.

Tonight, after a long and exhausting day, I am heartbroken. But I am also finding small ways to take the edge off — sitting here, enjoying Dubai chocolate I treated myself to, sipping on a cider, letting those small comforts remind me that even on the hardest days, gentle moments can exist. My heart is heavy, but it is also still hopeful. Because despite everything, I still believe in humanity