By Tori Stork (Ganahl) | Commentary, Rocky Mountain Voice
One year ago today, Charlie Kirk was killed.
It still feels strange to write those words.
I’ve spent a lot of today thinking about Charlie—not just the person the world knew, but the 21-year-old who called me out of nowhere when I was a college student at the University of Oregon. The guy who flew to Eugene, spent months helping our little group of students (mostly in disguise so no one would recognize him), strategized with us in my Jeep, drilled us on messaging and quoted Scripture from memory.
Charlie believed in people before most of the world knew their names.
He believed in me before I really believed in myself.
Years later, after Turning Point had become a national force and millions of people competed for his attention, I saw him backstage and he told me he’d been praying for me. He had heard I had been sick with Lyme disease. This big hotshot remembered little ol’ me, and not only remembered, but was praying for me.
That was Charlie.
But today, I keep thinking about what happened after his death.
For a brief moment, it felt like the noise stopped.
People hugged their kids tighter. They prayed. They went back to church. Young people started asking questions about faith. People who had been sitting quietly decided they couldn’t anymore.
And across a movement that had become very good at fighting with itself, we remembered we were actually on the same team.
There was grief. There was anger. But underneath it was something else:
Clarity.
We remembered what mattered.
Faith. Family. Freedom. Truth. Our children. Our country. Each other.
I said after Charlie died that I didn’t believe his death would extinguish what he had built. I believed it would ignite it. He had spent his life building an army of young people willing to stand up for what they believed.
And for a while, it felt like that was exactly what happened.
Then life went on.
The news cycle moved. The arguments returned. The factions returned. We went back to keeping score.
Somewhere along the way, I wonder if we lost sight of the lesson his death forced us to remember:
We need each other.
Charlie understood that. He showed up. When we were being attacked at Oregon, he showed up. When conservative students faced threats and cancellations, he showed up. When my mom was being vilified during her race for governor, he showed up for her too.
And his faith was at the center of it all. Charlie loved Jesus. He prayed for people. He knew Scripture. Even with one of the busiest schedules imaginable, he protected the Sabbath.
So maybe honoring Charlie today isn’t just posting a photo of him.
Maybe it’s asking whether we’re living any differently because he was here.
Are we showing up? Are we mentoring the next generation? Are we defending people when it would be easier to stay quiet? Are we building something that will outlive us?
Charlie also spent years telling young people to start families. Don’t wait forever. Get married. Have babies. Build strong homes and raise children who know what they believe.
Well, Charlie, I’m happy to report that this year, I did just that.
I got married in October. And now my husband and I are expecting a little boy, due in January.
There’s something emotional about writing that today.
My son will never meet Charlie. He’ll never know the 21-year-old who showed up in Oregon and changed the trajectory of his mom’s life.
But he will know what Charlie stood for.
He’ll grow up in a home where faith comes first. Where we love our country. Where we aren’t afraid to speak the truth. Where courage matters. And where we teach him that his life should be about something bigger than himself.
In that way, Charlie’s legacy isn’t frozen in time on September 10, 2025.
It’s still growing.
It’s growing in the students he mentored who are now leading. In the people he brought closer to God. In the millions he inspired to find their voice. And it’s growing in the families being built by a generation he spent his life challenging to reject cynicism and choose something lasting.
My little boy is one tiny piece of that legacy.
And maybe that’s the greatest answer to a culture that can feel so consumed by anger, division and hopelessness:
Build anyway.
Build the marriage.
Have the babies.
Raise good kids.
Mentor the next generation.
Strengthen your church.
Serve your community.
Call your friend.
Forgive each other.
Show up.
Charlie spent his life telling people to be courageous. To speak. To debate. To stand firm. But the Charlie I knew also understood that movements aren’t ultimately built by algorithms or organizations.
They’re built by people willing to show up for other people.
One year later, I miss my friend.
I wish I could tell him about the little boy I’m carrying now.
But I think he’d tell all of us the same thing:
Keep going. Keep building.
The unity we felt after Charlie died doesn’t have to be something we only remember.
We can choose it again.
The fire Charlie lit is still burning.
Now it’s our job to pass it on.