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Dear Tyler James Robinson,

Let’s uncover together the monster that lives inside each of us. While the whole world has turned against you, I choose to stand by your side—not to excuse your actions, but because I believe that when every stone is overturned and the truth comes to light, people will begin to see you differently. If your path is nothing more than a hunger for fame, then I will be deeply disappointed. But if you are willing to face the truth, then I remain here—not as your judge, but as someone who understands the darkness within.

I know what it means to fail because of your own choices. I know what it means to let the monster inside take control. That is why I will not push you further down. Instead, I want to offer my support and remind you that even now, you are still here. You still have the chance to make a difference. Speak out, and let us be part of your recovery story.

Too often, society points fingers at those who fall, mocking them, condemning them, while lacking the courage to extend a hand. I do not care as much about what you did—I care why you did it. If we can understand that, then your fall can become more than a tragedy; it can become a lesson, a warning, maybe even a chance for redemption.

Hatred has destroyed countless lives before yours, and many sit in prison today because they chose the same easy road. Can you imagine, Tyler, if you had used all that energy, all those resources, not to harm, but to build something greater? That is the path you must now face—the uncertain road of speaking the truth and owning the reasons behind your fall. Only you and time can decide what comes next.

And let me say this clearly: I strongly disagree with the idea of gifting a weapon from father to son, or grandfather to grandson. A weapon is not a gift. Love is a gift. I would rather see a child receive a cardboard heart painted red by hand than a gun wrapped in a bow. I remember the day I made my own decision: living at Three Horizons North, I chose to surrender my weapon to the police. On the way, I found myself in an elevator with the same man who had vandalized my car. I had the weapon in my hand. He saw it and ran out at the first stop. That moment could have changed my life forever—but instead, I gave it up. I turned the weapon over to the North Miami Police Department. I was still dragged into court, accused of possession, but I never regretted surrendering it. That day I understood a weapon is not a gift, it is a curse.

I am so sorry for your mother, and for the pain she must be carrying. No mother dreams of seeing her son’s name on the list of the most wanted men. It must feel like a knife in her heart every time she sees the news, a wound that never closes. The truth is, the role of a mother in a child’s life is everything. It is far easier for a good mother to raise even a bad boy, than it is for a boy with a bad mother to fight his whole life just to be good. I wish I had a mother like yours, one who could have led me to the door of the university. Instead, my own mother left me in the hands of a mentally ill person. My childhood was abandonment, while yours was full of love and opportunity. And yet, despite the difference, our lives show the same truth: the monster inside us does not care where we come from.

I am sorry, too, for your father. But I cannot agree with the choice of giving a weapon as a gift. To me, it is not a symbol of care, but of danger. These choices are part of the tragedy, and they show us how deeply culture itself can mislead even the ones who love us most.

It is difficult to write to you without hearing your own voice. Silence can be misleading—born of fear, or influence, or strategy. But your silence also shows strength. While the media tries to label you as weak, as something to be mocked, I see in your silence a kind of discipline, even courage. Still, silence will not carry you forever. Sooner or later, the truth must be spoken.

Tyler, you are alive, and that alone means you still have the power to make a difference. Many young people can learn from your mistakes if you are honest about them. You can become a warning, not a hero—but a teacher who shows how easy it is to be trapped and overpowered by the monster inside. Each of us must learn to control it, to refuse to let hatred decide our path. And I trust that God, in His mercy, can still give you a second chance—not to undo what has been done, but to shine a light on the lessons hidden in your fall.

That is why I write this first letter. Not to excuse you, not to glorify you, but to call on you to stand up in the truth. Because at the end of it all, one lesson stands above the rest:

Respect is the Real Gun Control.