The caskets of Melissa Hortman, left, and Mark Hortman before the procession down the aisle of the sanctuary during funeral services at the Basilica of St. Mary in Minneapolis on June 28. (Jeff Wheeler/The Minnesota Star Tribune)

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For nearly a decade, I worked as a victim advocate with families whose lives had been shattered by homicide. I sat with parents after they learned their child had been killed. I held space for survivors of domestic violence. I wrote Minnesota’s annual domestic violence homicide report, documenting how intimate partner and gun violence steal lives and ripple outward through families, communities and systems. I also witnessed the incredible strength of families of law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty while responding to domestic violence calls. I’ve seen the long, slow arc of grief and the resilience that follows.

Still, nothing prepares you for this.

The murder of Minnesota House Speaker Emerita Melissa Hortman and her husband, Mark Hortman, and the attempted murder of state Sen. John Hoffman and his wife, Yvette Hoffman, have left Minnesota in shock. It is a tragedy so brutal, so targeted and so unfathomable that it feels impossible to name, let alone process.

But in the midst of this public grief, there’s something we cannot lose sight of: Our state’s leaders are grieving, too. And they are not just grieving, they are traumatized. They are survivors.

Many experienced harm, fear or deeply personal proximity to this act of violence. Some were close friends and colleagues of Hortman. Some had seen her just days before. Some had worked alongside her for years, passing historic legislation and navigating impossible decisions. And now, they are navigating a loss that is both personal and political, in the harsh, unrelenting light of public service.

As someone who has spent years working in the shadow of violent loss, I know this much: Grief doesn’t follow a schedule. Trauma doesn’t stay quiet just because you’re back in the office. The months and years to come will be full of emotional whiplash for our leaders. There will be moments of clarity and strength, followed by waves of sadness, confusion and exhaustion.

They may cry unexpectedly. They may be quieter than usual. They may need to step back and then forward again. They may not be themselves for a long time, if ever. And that’s OK.

We must give them space. We must give them grace.

These are the same people who have shown up for us through pandemics, protests, floods, fires, budget crises and long nights at the Capitol. They’ve made hard decisions with heavy hearts. They’ve carried the burden of leadership quietly, persistently.

Now they need to be carried too.

Over the last 15 years, I’ve continued to witness the deep, life-altering grief of families and communities affected by violence. I’ve listened to parents, partners and neighbors search for answers after unimaginable loss. It is sacred, heavy work, and it reminds me daily how violence reshapes the lives of those left behind. Healing isn’t linear. It is slow, uneven and deeply human.

This is not just a moment for policy change or procedural reviews, though those will come. This is a moment for humanity. For empathy. For letting our leaders be more than their titles. For letting them fall apart and come back together in their own time.

In the world of victim advocacy, we say healing isn’t linear. We say trauma lives in the body long after the moment has passed. We say survivors deserve patience, dignity and care.

Let’s extend those same truths to our legislators, to the governor, to the staffers, to the colleagues and friends who are quietly carrying unbearable loss while still being asked to lead on our behalf.

We are a state in mourning. And as we grieve our brilliant Speaker Emerita Hortman, we also grieve the illusion that our democracy is somehow protected from violence. That illusion has been shattered.

But even in our pain, there is a way forward. Melissa Hortman believed in Minnesota; now Minnesota must believe in itself. We must carry her legacy, not in silence but in action. And though we are shattered, we will rise, because she showed us how.

But as we do, we must remember this truth: Our leaders and their staff will grieve this loss in the weeks, months and years to come. They will not be the same people they were before June 14. Let’s give them room to be human. Let’s give them grace.

Safia Khan is a former victim advocate who wrote Minnesota’s annual domestic violence homicide report from 2010 to 2019 and worked closely with families and loved ones of those murdered. She continues to work in public service, focusing on the criminal justice system.