I drove out from San Diego on Saturday and pulled into Arizona around 8:30 p.m. My first stop was Turning Point USA Headquarters. The entire street was lined with candles and flowers—people shoulder to shoulder, praying, reading Scripture, singing gospel songs. It felt like a neighborhood had turned itself into a vigil: love, community, quiet weeping, hands on shoulders. That was my first glimpse of the scale.
My second came at press pass pickup near the stadium. Because of security, streets around the venue were already shut down—businesses and hotels ringed by barricades, police everywhere, and U.S. Secret Service visibly in place ahead of the service. People were lining up the night before along the streets to secure their spot when gates opened; cars were staged for miles down Glendale Avenue at the road-closure checkpoint. By the time I had my badge and headed to the hotel, I knew I’d only seen a sliver of what was coming.
The next morning, the drive back in told the story before I parked. Streets were lined with people, cars backed up for miles; many parked far out and walked or took rideshares. No one was allowed in the venues or lots until the morning, and by the time I queued for the USSS press check at 5:45 a.m., the sheer volume made it clear: the stadium would hit capacity.
From that point on, I was on the arena floor—as watched the arena fill, level by level, seat by seat, sections filling one by one, I felt the movement build at ground level, and experienced every surge from within the crowd’s heartbeat.
Inside, the day moved from sound to feeling: music, prayer, gospel—and then a kindness that didn’t need instructions. Whatever arguments people might paste over a crowd like this, I saw something else: people who believed they’d been changed. Faith steadied. Courage lit. Families prioritized. A renewed seriousness about country and speech and responsibility.
There were moments when unity became visible. From the floor, I saw signs rise in a single wave; I felt the whole place stand. Applause rolled over me like weather. I had to breathe to steady myself.
I did a slow 360 right there from the floor and was overcome—chills ran through my body and I wept, not only from sadness but from the depth and magnitude of the energy, love, admiration, respect, and mourning together. Many times, as the crowd rose together, sang together, embraced, and chanted love together, a strong wave of emotion hit me like a tidal wave. What I experienced on that floor was nothing short of life-altering. I don’t care what side you’re on—whether you, agree or don’t—the people there agreed on one thing: to mourn with love, kindness, peace, and reverent, steadfast gratitude for how Charlie Kirk had impacted them. If one life has touched that many people, that is a life-altering moment. I was proud to have witnessed it—a showing of love, kindness, God, and what I would call the best of humanity: heart and soul first, love for family, God, speech, and country. This was the turning point.
As the morning progressed and the stadium reached max capacity, Desert Diamond Arena opened for overflow. Even then, people who couldn’t get a seat stayed outside the stadium—surrounding the grounds simply to be near, to pay respects, to show love and support.
From the floor, I kept circling and taking it in: giant flags framing the stage; the cross carried down the center; “Turning Point” and “Never Surrender” signs filling entire sections; faces turned toward the platform and then toward each other. Speaker after speaker offered memories that landed like personal letters—different people, same throughline: he encouraged me, he made me brave, he pointed me toward purpose. I was told the livestream audience climbed to 100,000,000+ worldwide. Inside, the number that mattered was one: one room, one family honored, one crowd turning sorrow into resolve. One event that brought the world together, to remember the great impact Charlie Kirk made.
More than once I felt the tears rise—throat tight, eyes hot—and I let them. To stand on that floor as press was to be inside a current you don’t direct and can’t fake. It was humbling. It was powerful. It was beautiful.
If you strip away all the commentary and argue-points, here’s what I actually witnessed: thousands of people who loved, grieved, and gave thanks together; a family being shown honor; a crowd that turned its sorrow into resolve. As a journalist, it’s the most profoundly impactful scene I’ve ever been allowed to witness. And I’m grateful I was there to feel it. Like Isaiah said, “Here I am, Send Me” (Isaiah 6:8), Charlie Kirk stood to the same, he said send me, use me. On September 10, 2025, Charlie Kirk joined the angels, he will be remembered for his faith, love of family, and country. Well done, my good and faithful servant (Matthew 25:21), We’ll take it from here, Charlie.
