Erika Kirk: What I've Learned About Grief

It's Sept. 11, 2025 — the day after my husband, Charlie Kirk, was shot and killed. The past 24 hours feel like a fever dream as I land in Phoenix from Utah and return home. I get out of the car, and my kids run into my arms. They have no idea where I was or what I was doing. They care only that I am home. As I walk to the front door, there's a tightening in my chest I don't recognize. Is this what grief feels like? I sit on the couch where Charlie sat two nights ago watching the Cubs with our kids. I feel a wave building inside me, and I know it's about to crash. 'I don't know how I'm going to do this,' I told the second lady, Usha Vance, earlier that day. As she held my hand, she said: 'You know when you're on an airplane with your kids, and you're going to land in 15 minutes, but the kids are going crazy, screaming, throwing things, and then the plane lands, and the kids relax, and everything is fine again? That's how it will be. Just get through the next 15 minutes.' Her words are seared into my heart. Eventually, I worked up the courage to go into our bathroom. I stared at his side of the sink. His toothbrush was still lying on its side, his towel still hanging on the hook. 'I'll never touch that towel,' I told myself. I stood in the doorway of our bedroom. I turned on the light and walked toward his side of the bed. I stared at his pillow and wondered how long a person's scent can last in sheets. I stood there in silence, replaying all of the completely ordinary mornings we woke up there together. I wasn't ready to be there, so I turned off the light and crawled into bed with my 3-year-old daughter. Just get through the next 15 minutes. For months, I avoided my bedroom. I told myself it was OK to confront the pain gradually and to sit with each memory as it came to me. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.