Healing in the Shadows: The Spiritual and Emotional Toll of Witnessing Violence in Our Feeds
As a mental health professional with a deep-rooted faith, I've always believed in the power of measured words—especially when it comes to public platforms. For the past three and a half weeks, I've held space in my office for clients who are unraveling, their hearts heavy with confusion, fear, and profound brokenheartedness. They've come to me not just grieving a loss, but grappling with the raw, unfiltered way it unfolded before our eyes. On September 10, 2025, Charlie Kirk was assassinated in a public shooting in Orem, Utah, captured in real-time and disseminated across our screens like a viral storm. The suspect, Tyler Robinson, was quickly charged with aggravated homicide and other felonies, but the damage? That's etched into our collective psyche, rippling far beyond the headlines.
I've been slow to speak out here, on this professional space where vulnerability meets expertise. Politics have a way of muddying waters, and I've seen how quickly conversations devolve into division. But it matters not what political affiliation I hold—or what anyone else does. What we witnessed was wrong. A life snuffed out in broad daylight, not in some distant war zone, but in a moment that invaded our phones, our feeds, our fragile sense of safety. This isn't about red or blue; it's about the red blood on concrete and the blue screens that replayed it endlessly. And as I've sat with my clients—some who admired Kirk's fire, others who clashed with his views—I've realized silence isn't neutrality. It's complicity in the isolation that festers.
The trauma we're carrying? It's vicarious, seeping through pixels into our souls. You were never meant to witness someone's final breath... and then laugh at a TikTok. You weren't built for that. Your soul wasn't designed to hold that kind of weight and then move on like it's nothing. This isn't just about tech. This is trauma. This is spiritual damage. We're overstimulated, under-connected, and completely shut down inside. We're seeing everything and feeling nothing. And that should break your heart.
These words, pulled from a haunting reflection that's circulated online, capture the dissonance we're all feeling. In the hours after the shooting, as videos looped and reactions poured in, many of us scrolled right past the horror to the next dopamine hit—a dance challenge, a cat meme, an ad for noise-canceling headphones. It's a survival mechanism, this numbing. Our brains, wired for connection in small tribes around campfires, aren't equipped for the firehose of global agony. Psychologically, this is moral injury—a deep wound to our sense of right and wrong—compounded by the spiritual fracture of bearing witness without the rituals of communal mourning. We grieve in isolation, thumbs swiping through echo chambers that amplify outrage but starve us of empathy.
From a faith perspective, this overload echoes the Psalmist's cry: "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death" (Psalm 42:5, NIV, adapted). We're not just tired; we're soul-weary. Jesus Himself invites us into this space: "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest" (Matthew 11:28, NIV). Rest isn't escapism—it's reclamation. In the face of such violence, faith calls us to lament, to name the brokenness without letting it define us. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18, NIV). If you're feeling that crush today—the confusion of why this happened, the fear it could happen again, the heartbreak for a family shattered—know that God's nearness isn't a platitude. It's a promise that invites us to lay down the weight we're not meant to carry alone.
And here's where Charlie Kirk's voice lingers, a poignant echo even in his absence. He often warned that when we stop talking about social issues because we're afraid to offend, that's when the silence breeds violence. Paraphrasing his fire: "When people stop talking, that's when you get violence... because you start to think the other side is so evil." We all have issues that ignite our passion—justice, family, freedom, compassion—and we've let fear of offense muzzle us. But offenses are personal; they're not licenses for harm. We're individually responsible for our own hurts, and we cannot—must not—let them propel us toward violence against one another. Kirk's assassination isn't just a tragedy; it's a siren call to reclaim conversation as holy ground. To disagree fiercely but humanely. To see the image of God in the "other" before the algorithm convinces us otherwise (Genesis 1:27).
The ripple effects? They'll echo through generations if we don't intervene. Children watching parents doomscroll, absorbing a world where death is content and grief is performative. Clients tell me they're haunted—not just by the footage, but by the apathy it bred in them. "I felt nothing," one shared, tears finally breaking through. "And that scares me most." This is the under-connection: bonds frayed by screens, leaving us shut down inside.
So, how do we heal? Start small, faith-fueled:
Pause the Scroll: Set boundaries. One client swore off social media for 24 hours after the shooting; she found space to journal her raw emotions, inviting God's whisper into the quiet.
Lament Together: Gather with your people—church small group, coffee with a friend across the aisle. Share the weight. "Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ" (Galatians 6:2, ESV).
Speak Boldly, Love Fiercely: Pick one social issue that breaks your heart. Talk about it—not to win, but to connect. Remember, "Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt" (Colossians 4:6, NIV).
Seek Professional Space: If the numbness lingers, or fear grips tighter, reach out. Therapy isn't weakness; it's wisdom. (And yes, my door's open—email for resources or to set up an appointment.)
We're seeing everything and feeling nothing—but it should break our hearts. Let it. Let it propel us toward the Messiah who wept over Jerusalem (Luke 19:41) and still weeps with us. In this digital wilderness, may we choose connection over consumption, dialogue over division, and healing over hiding. Because in the end, we're built for eternity, not endless feeds. And God's got the generations to come in His hands—if we'll just reach out.
With hope and heavy hearts, Jessica Pottorff, Licensed Therapist & Faith Companion
