It’s OK to Have Mixed Feelings Charlie Kirk is Dead

For many LGBTQ+ people, Charlie Kirk represented hostility. The far-right political commentator and founder of Turning Point USA frequently disparaged LGBTQ+ people, calling transgender people a “throbbing middle finger to God,” describing being gay as a harm to children, and referring to LGBTQ+ identities as a “social contagion.”

Kirk also made remarks about race, including questioning whether he would feel safe if a pilot were Black and claiming God had cursed Black people to be “servile.”

And as an Arizona resident and founder of one of the most prominent conservative groups in the state—both in the Capitol and school campuses—his death has sparked mixed feelings, particularly within the LGBTQ+ community. 

Kirk was shot and killed this week while speaking at a college event in what appears to be a political assassination. Shortly before he was attacked, he responded to an audience member’s question about mass shootings.

Reactions to his death highlighted sharp divides. While media outlets and political leaders called for peace and remembrance—oftentimes downplaying or altogether never mentioning Kirk’s history of racist or homophobic comments—some in the LGBTQ+ community and other groups targeted by Kirk’s rhetoric expressed little grief.

“It makes sense if you don’t feel a well of empathy for someone who made a career out of refusing to show it for others,” therapist Jeff Guenther said in an online post for his popular Instagram channel, TherapyJeff. “This doesn’t mean you’re celebrating. It doesn’t mean you’re cold-hearted. It just means your compassion has limits, and those limits are often shaped by how much compassion someone showed in their lifetime.”

Online, many posts were blunt:

A meme circulating on Instagram read: “The ultra violent country demands that we mourn the people who wanted us dead.”

Other posts from specifically queer people were quick to note how Kirk called for Nuremberg-styled trials of doctors who gave gender-affirming care, or called transgender people “groomers,” or pedophiles. 

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Bre Wandrych, a Phoenix-based social worker who works with LGBTQ+ clients, said her reaction reflected more complexity:

“A part of me is sad for a man who died of gun violence—I don’t think anyone should die from gun violence,” she said, explaining how she took time to figure out what emotions she had. “A part of me feels nothing for a man who upheld white supremacy and bigotry. It might be a part of me is horrified to see a graphic video of a shooting, and it might be a part resentful because our community doesn’t get that same level of support when violence is inflicted on them.”

Wandrych said conversations about empathy are central to processing moments like this. 

Researchers identify different types of empathy: cognitive empathy, which allows people to understand another’s perspective; emotional empathy, when people mirror the emotions of others; and compassionate empathy, which drives people to take action. But trauma, grief and what is known as “empathy fatigue” often shape how much empathy people are able to give.

“When clients ask me, ‘Should I feel ashamed for not caring about his death?’ I see that as self-judgment layered on top of already difficult emotions,” Wandrych said. “Often those questions come from people who pride themselves on being empathetic, but feel conflicted when they can’t extend that empathy to someone who harmed them.”

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She compared it to the way survivors of intimate partner violence may respond to news that their abuser has died: 

“If you’ve lived through repeated harm, it’s understandable that you may not feel sadness when that person is gone,” Wandrych said. “That doesn’t mean you’re cruel—it means you’re human. Our capacity for empathy is impacted by how much harm someone has caused us, and by how safe we feel.”

For LGBTQ+ people, she said, those conflicts are magnified by collective trauma. “This year alone there were more than 900 bills introduced that would negatively impact transgender and nonconforming people,” she said. “That comes on top of decades of systemic discrimination. When you carry that history, it changes how much empathy you can—or should—expect yourself to have.”

For Wandrych, the takeaway is that empathy is not limitless, and that does not make someone immoral. “These are complex emotions. Almost every feeling people have in this moment is valid,” she said.

Psychologist Travis Munnerlyn, who works with Arizona-based queer patients, agreed, saying Kirk’s assassination creates what is known as “complex grief.”

“This death doesn’t make sense and we weren’t planning for it, and so it’s complicated,” he said. “There are many pieces that make it complicated. Therefore it’s a complex grief for everybody for different reasons. To think that there’s a template that we’re all supposed to subscribe to is ridiculous.”

He added that for communities repeatedly targeted by Kirk’s rhetoric, withholding empathy may be less about cruelty and more about survival:

“It’s not heartlessness. It’s self-protection,” Munnerlyn said. “Expecting targeted communities to feel overwhelming empathy for abusers ignores their lived trauma. They’ve built narratives to keep themselves safe—‘that person is dangerous.’ So when the abuser dies, the response may simply be, ‘That’s good for me.’”