The Rise of Political Violence, in Word and Deed

Welcome back to Sunshine Strategies Radio, friends. I’m your host, Jen McMillin. Today’s episode is a hard one, but a necessary one. We’re talking about speech, violence, and democracy—and how they’re tied together in ways that too many of us still don’t want to face.

This isn’t cable news sensationalism, and it’s not a debate stage talking point. It’s personal. It’s about what it means to live, speak, and raise our families in a world where words can inspire hope—or ignite violence.

In light of the recent assassination of Charlie Kirk, I want to share some reflections—not to sensationalize his death, but to grapple with the bigger truth it reveals about political violence in America today.

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Several months ago, I sat on a panel about women’s safety in a violent world. A sobering but necessary topic.

What I realized quickly was that I was the wrong person for that little church basement. Not because the conversation flopped—it didn’t—but because they, like so many, haven’t wrestled with how dangerous it is to speak politically right now.

Yesterday, as the news broke of Charlie Kirk’s assassination, I finally said out loud what my husband and I had both been thinking, but afraid to admit:

No matter how kind, welcoming, or inclusive I try to be—my political speech makes me a target. And I’ve made peace with that reality.

Speech is dangerous. Kirk knew that, too. He built his career on it. His words transformed conservative politics—and they earned him more than his share of threats along the way. And yet, he kept at it, because he believed his message mattered enough to risk the danger.

That’s the same reason I keep writing, speaking, and advocating—even when the harassment comes in the form of shouted insults or pickup trucks revving at the crosswalk.

Which is why I’ve struggled to process his death. I try to refrain from political violence. He did not.

Because political violence doesn’t begin with bullets. It begins with words. Words that make violence imaginable. Then acceptable. Sometimes even righteous. When someone builds a career on demeaning others, on suggesting their destruction or exclusion, they are piling tinder at the nation’s feet. And when the spark comes—whether by their hand or another’s—we should not be surprised when the fire spreads.

Let me be clear: I grieve for his family. This should never have happened. But here’s the paradox—Kirk’s rhetoric helped create a culture where menace lived just under the surface. His murder is not only a personal tragedy; it is also a crime against democracy itself.

And his death is a sign. A sign that we are drifting further from democracy and closer to something darker—toward strongmen and one-party rule.

So the question is no longer, “This isn’t who we are.” That phrase rings hollow now, worn thin after every tragedy. The harder, more honest question is: What if this is who we’ve allowed ourselves to become?

Political violence isn’t new here. America has a long history of silencing voices through force—sometimes the voices of those who sought justice, like Medgar Evers or Martin Luther King Jr., sometimes the voices of those who thrived on division. Kirk’s death fits squarely into that legacy of incendiary speech and bloody consequences.

This is why speech is so dangerous. And why we need an honest conversation—not about censoring thought, but about drawing boundaries that protect democracy from being eaten alive by words turned into weapons.

Other democracies have faced this reckoning. Germany drew hard lines after Nazism, outlawing denialism and incitement because they saw what unchecked rhetoric could do. Canada and the UK crafted hate-speech laws that balance liberty with community safety. Even John Stuart Mill—the philosopher of free expression—warned that speech inciting harm is not the same as speech exchanged in debate.

America has always resisted limits. Our First Amendment tradition tilts toward absolutes, even when that means handing the loudest stage to the most dangerous voices. But Kirk’s death, and the culture of menace that fed it, forces us to ask: Is speech truly free when it strips others of belonging and citizenship? Or is that, too, a form of violence?

We don’t need to abandon liberty. But we do need courage—courage to admit that rhetoric has consequences, and courage to draw civic lines before others draw them in blood.

Here’s where we can start:

• Draw Civic Boundaries Together. Communities, schools, faith groups, and civic organizations must reclaim the work of naming harmful rhetoric out loud. Laws can’t carry this burden alone.

• Transparency for Amplifiers. Require full disclosure of who funds political ads, media outlets, and platforms. Citizens deserve to know who is paying to spread fear.

• Platform Accountability. Social media and broadcast networks must be responsible for the incitement they amplify. Freedom of speech is not freedom of reach.

• Strengthen Civic Education. Teach every child how words have fueled both hope and hatred—from Lincoln and King to Wallace and Kirk—so they learn to discern rhetoric before it metastasizes into violence.

• Promote Counter-Speech. Invest in journalism, storytelling, art, and community conversations that give people something better to believe in.

• Legal Guardrails. Without gutting the First Amendment, expand the boundaries we already recognize—incitement, harassment, and threats—to cover sustained campaigns of dehumanization that predictably lead to violence.

None of this is easy. But neither is burying another American cut down by political violence—or watching democracy erode under the weight of words that corrode trust.

If we care about democracy, we must care not just about who speaks, but how.

Because democracy cannot live on violence. It survives on trust, on boundaries, and on a shared promise that we will not weaponize our words against each other.

That’s it for this week’s Sunshine Strategies Radio.

If there’s one thing I want you to take with you, it’s this:

democracy doesn’t just live in our votes or our laws—it lives in our words. And the way we choose to use those words matters.

So let’s be the people who draw the lines together. Who teach our kids that debate is not destruction. Who hold our leaders, our platforms, and even ourselves accountable for the culture we create.

Because if democracy is to survive, it won’t survive on violence. It will survive on trust, boundaries, and a shared promise that we won’t let our words become weapons against each other.

I’m Jen McMillin. Thanks for listening, thanks for caring, and most of all—thanks for believing that we can still rebuild something better, together.