Who Is Next For Speaking Out?

Charlie Kirk’s assassination shattered me; not for his politics, but for the reminder that every voice risks death now, and my family’s terror is suddenly unbearable.

Guest article by Michael Cohen. Follow him on Substack for more by clicking here.

Editorial credit: Shutterstock.com

Every day, I sit down and write. Every day, I go live here on Substack, on YouTube, on social media—not because it’s easy, not because it’s glamorous, but because it matters. I do it because our system is broken, and silence is complicity. I do it because I know how dangerous apathy can be. And yet, lately, I find myself drained in ways I can’t explain. Exhausted, anguished, staring at the ceiling at three in the morning wondering, what’s the point if the people trying to do something about it get taken out?

I hear from so many of you every day. Notes, DMs, texts. You tell me you’re exhausted too, that you’re in despair. You thank me for being a voice, for helping to keep you engaged, for refusing to let the fire go out. Believe me, I cherish every word, every message, every moment of connection. But now I have to flip the script. Now I’m the one asking for your energy. Your support. Your strength. Because right now, I need it.

Yesterday, the assassination of Charlie Kirk hit me like a brick to the chest. And I’ll be honest: at first, I was surprised by my own reaction. I didn’t agree with most of what Charlie Kirk stood for. I didn’t share his ideology. I criticized him plenty. But that’s not the point. That’s not why I can’t shake the weight of his death.

Why? Because whether you agreed with him or not, Charlie was doing exactly what I do—what so many of us do. He went into schools, communities, and town halls. He stood in front of people, some who loved him, some who hated him, and he tried to persuade them, to teach them, to engage them. He put himself in the arena.

Isn’t that what I’ve been talking to you about all along? The obligation to show up, to confront the lies, to try and change minds?

And yet, that same commitment to showing up is what got him killed.

That reality is sitting heavy on me right now. My family and I have been talking for months about the possibility of my running for Congress. Jerry Nadler’s seat has been in my thoughts—not because I need another title, but because I believed I could bring the fight directly to the floor of the House. My family always worried about my safety, which is why I hadn’t committed to a campaign. They were coming around, to the point of just saying, “go for it.” They told me that if anyone had the scars, the lessons, and the fire to do it, it was me. But they remained concerned.

But after yesterday? My family isn’t just hesitant. They’re vehemently opposed.
And can I blame them?

Charlie Kirk walked into spaces with conviction. He knew the risks. He knew the tension in the air. And yet, he did it anyway—because he believed in something bigger than himself. And still, someone decided he didn’t deserve to walk out of that town hall alive.

Now, here I am. Four schools have asked me to come speak, to take part in town halls, to engage directly with young people who are desperate to understand the chaos we’re living through. And my family’s answer is simple: absolutely not.

So, I’m torn. Torn between my duty to speak, to fight, to educate; and my duty to the people who love me, who don’t want to bury me because I tried to do the right thing. They remind me I left them once for a year; this would be forever. My children reminded me that they want me to walk them down the wedding aisle, to hold their children, to love my grandchildren as I love them.

That’s what makes yesterday’s tragedy not just heartbreaking, but terrifying. Charlie’s death isn’t just a headline. It’s a warning. It’s a wake-up call.
It says: if you dare step out there, if you dare to challenge, if you dare to believe you can make a difference—you may not make it home.

And yet, here’s the ugly truth I can’t shake: silence is still complicity. Retreat is still surrender. If we let fear dictate our actions, if we stop showing up because the danger feels too real, then the people who thrive on intimidation, on violence, on silencing opposition—they win.

But I’m human too. I’m not made of stone. I’ve been through prison, through hell, twice. I’m rebuilding my life brick by brick, not because it is fun, but because I have no choice. But now, staring at my wife, my kids, hearing the fear in their voices—I feel myself unraveling. I feel the weight of their worry pressing down on me.

So, I’m telling you honestly: I don’t know the answer.
I don’t know if I’ll run for Congress. I don’t know if I’ll walk into those town halls. I don’t know if my family can handle watching me put myself in the crosshairs yet again.

But I do know this: yesterday wasn’t just a tragedy for Charlie Kirk, for his family, for his supporters. It was a tragedy for all of us. Because when bullets silence a voice—any voice—it silences part of our democracy. It chips away at the fragile foundation we’re standing on.

So, yes, I’m asking for your support, your energy. I’m asking you to keep showing up, to keep speaking, to keep refusing to bow down to fear. I’m asking because I need to know I’m not the only one who still believes this fight is worth it.

And maybe, just maybe, if enough of us stand together, the risk won’t fall on just one person’s shoulders. Maybe we’ll find safety in numbers. Maybe we’ll find the strength to keep going.

Because if we stop now, if we give in to despair, if we let fear win—then Charlie Kirk died for nothing. And that, I refuse to accept.

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