What happened to me one year ago made me think twice about how I respond to strangers online.
The death of Charlie Kirk.
Those five words changed the trajectory of my life.
That probably sounds dramatic coming from someone who, admittedly, only learned who Charlie Kirk was the day he was assassinated. But what happened afterward affected me in ways I never expected.
When the Salisbury Post shared information about a local vigil being held in Kirk’s honor, something in me snapped. I’m still not exactly sure why that particular post triggered me. Maybe it was the culmination of everything happening around me at the time — the political climate, ICE raids, the treatment of immigrants and especially Hispanic people, and what I viewed as the increasingly disturbing disregard for the rule of law by the current administration.
But it wasn’t just politics.
It was the internet. It was arguing with people who believed Kirk was a martyr. It was looking for strangers who would agree with me. It was social media addiction, anger, religion, politics and, honestly, my own mental health. Looking back, it was a perfect storm. And I let it consume me.
At the time, my Facebook page contained a lot of public and personal information — my name, where I worked and the community I was involved in. I had never really thought much about it.
But when I unleashed my anger on Charlie Kirk supporters online, some of those people eventually contacted my workplace.
That led to my suspension from work and some of the most uncomfortable — and ultimately necessary — conversations I have ever had with my employer, coworkers, colleagues, my husband, my children, my friends and myself.
I spent those two weeks asking myself a lot of questions.
What if I get fired? What if I have to find another job? What if children at school bring this up with my kids? How will people in my community look at me now?
And perhaps most importantly: Who was I becoming?
My workplace at the time was a nonprofit, and what followed was, to put it mildly, a lot of chaos. There were meetings and intentional conversations about race, religion, political beliefs and all the things we have become afraid to talk about with people who might disagree with us.
After my two-week suspension, the board voted to allow me to return to work, with pay. I remain incredibly grateful for that. Not every workplace would have handled the situation that way.
I was also overwhelmed by the people who rallied around me. Friends and family wrote letters of character on my behalf. They reminded me that one terrible chapter does not define an entire person.
Those words of support helped me through one of the hardest periods of my nonprofit career.
Earlier this year, I ultimately left that nonprofit.
And I’ve thought a lot about what I learned from the experience.
There is a difficult reality to working for an organization that depends on community trust, donors and funding. Sometimes, being completely outspoken comes with consequences. Sometimes, you are expected to separate your personal opinions from the organization you represent.
I understand why that happens.
But I also know now that I don’t want to live my life afraid to speak.
Not in 2026, when we are still battling racism, inequality, corruption and injustice.
I will continue to speak out about the things I believe are wrong. I will continue to advocate for immigrants and marginalized people. I will continue to have opinions that make people uncomfortable.
But there is one thing I would change about that night.
I wouldn’t necessarily change what I felt.
I would change how I expressed it.
That distinction has taken me a long time to understand.
I recently read “How to Stand Up to a Dictator,” the 2022 memoir and manifesto by Nobel Peace Prize laureate and investigative journalist Maria Ressa. Her writing about social media, disinformation and the business model that profits from outrage and division forced me to look at my own behavior differently.
I had become part of the machine I was angry about.
I was feeding the very division I claimed to hate.
One year later, I don’t look back at that experience with pride. But I also don’t look back with shame.
I look back with perspective.
I learned that being passionate does not give me permission to be cruel. Being angry does not make me right. And standing up for what I believe in does not require me to tear another person down.
I also learned that the people on the other side of a screen are still people. They have families, fears and experiences that shaped the way they see the world.
Sometimes, they will be wrong.
Sometimes, I will be wrong.
And sometimes, the most powerful thing I can do is step away from the argument.
A year ago, I thought winning an argument with a stranger online meant proving my point.
Now, I think winning looks a lot different.
It looks like keeping my voice without losing myself.
It looks like standing up for what I believe without becoming consumed by hatred.
It looks like being willing to have uncomfortable conversations instead of shouting into an algorithm designed to keep us angry.
Perhaps that is the strangest lesson I took from the death of someone I barely knew:
I don’t have to agree with someone to recognize their humanity. And I don’t have to be silent about injustice to practice compassion.
I will always speak out about inequality and injustice, even when it is uncomfortable.
But I hope I never again allow the hatred of the internet to speak louder than the person I want to be in the real world.
Bianca Muñoz lives in Rowan County.
