Republican Titan Jon Kyl Exits Public Life After Dementia Diagnosis

Paul Riverbank, 12/31/2025Jon Kyl exits public life after a quiet, impactful career shaping Arizona and national policy.

Kyl’s political footprint defies tidy summary, not least because of how deeply entwined he became with Arizona’s—and by extension, America’s—policy challenges over three decades in Washington. But the bare facts are these: he first came to Congress representing Arizona’s 4th District in 1987, then moved on to the Senate in 1995, carving out a reputation as a lawmaker as detailed as he was deliberative. By the time Kyl first bid farewell to the Capitol in 2013, he’d ascended to the position of Senate minority whip, one of the Republican leadership’s central figures.

But his ‘final’ term didn’t quite stick. In one of those twists particular to American politics, Kyl returned to the Senate—briefly—after John McCain’s death, answering a call from Governor Doug Ducey to fill the legendary senator’s shoes. It was a short, almost transitional assignment. Yet, even in that denouement, Kyl’s steady hand was evident; he managed the tricky, emotional transition with a sense of both gravity and restraint. He left again in 2019, returning to Covington and Burling, the law and lobbying firm where he’d spent several years between Senate stints.

What gets overlooked in ceremonial recitations of his résumé, however, are the quieter corners of policymaking where Kyl did some of his most lasting work. Take water, for example—a subject that’s rarely in the headlines, yet shapes the destinies of Western states in ways few laws ever do. Sarah Porter, who leads the Kyl Center for Water Policy at ASU, once described him as not just an observer but "an important participant" in the often labyrinthine negotiations around water rights. That included shepherding tough agreements over tribal water rights and hammering out regulatory details with direct impact on Arizona’s future. It hardly made for riveting sound bites, but among those who cared to look, it marked the man as a negotiator at home in the long game.

Kyl was not, however, merely a behind-the-scenes operator. In the chaotic summer of Brett Kavanaugh’s Supreme Court nomination, he worked with visible intent to usher the nominee through a bitterly divided confirmation process. That moment highlighted, if nothing else, his continued centrality in Republican strategy—his phone still rang when the stakes were highest.

The outpouring of praise following his announcement was broad and, in its specifics, telling. The University of Arizona, tying his contributions back to his earliest days, lauded his "leadership, integrity, and commitment to service." Current Arizona Senator Mark Kelly—a Democrat—spoke publicly of Kyl’s devotion to both state and nation, underscoring the bipartisan respect Kyl managed to maintain, even as politics became ever more fractious.

There are details rarely captured in tributes: a knowing glance exchanged with a junior staffer in the back corridors of the Russell Building, his remembered patience during a tense negotiation over the Colorado River, a reputation for never quite raising his voice, even when tempers flared. If you asked those who worked closest with him, you’d hear about the sense of duty he brought, more interested in dry Substance than sparkling performance.

As Kyl and his family now prepare for what he himself described as “a path filled with moments of joy and increasing difficulties,” he does so with the privacy and dignity that defined him. There’s a deep undercurrent in Arizona’s political community—spoken quietly in offices and, sometimes, at kitchen tables—that remembers his years of service not for one signature act or speech, but for the aggregate effect of a steady hand over turbulent decades.

Kyl’s public persona, consistent to the last, never lent itself to grand gestures or self-mythologizing. His legacy is less a headline than a body of work—incremental, durable, and as much a part of Arizona’s landscape as the policies he helped sculpt. The story of Jon Kyl, in the end, belongs as much to Arizona’s future as to its past.

When Jon Kyl finally announced, in a brief, almost plainspoken statement, that he was stepping out of the public spotlight after being diagnosed with dementia, it caught many in Arizona politics off guard, even if the man himself would likely scoff at the idea of fanfare. At 83, after a lifetime woven tightly with the state’s political fortunes, the former senator sounded measured, even as he shared difficult news. "I was blessed to represent the people of Arizona in Congress and to have numerous other opportunities to contribute to the political and civic life of our nation and state,” he wrote—words that, for anyone familiar with Kyl’s careful style, rang both modest and unmistakably final.Kyl’s political footprint defies tidy summary, not least because of how deeply entwined he became with Arizona’s—and by extension, America’s—policy challenges over three decades in Washington. But the bare facts are these: he first came to Congress representing Arizona’s 4th District in 1987, then moved on to the Senate in 1995, carving out a reputation as a lawmaker as detailed as he was deliberative. By the time Kyl first bid farewell to the Capitol in 2013, he’d ascended to the position of Senate minority whip, one of the Republican leadership’s central figures.But his ‘final’ term didn’t quite stick. In one of those twists particular to American politics, Kyl returned to the Senate—briefly—after John McCain’s death, answering a call from Governor Doug Ducey to fill the legendary senator’s shoes. It was a short, almost transitional assignment. Yet, even in that denouement, Kyl’s steady hand was evident; he managed the tricky, emotional transition with a sense of both gravity and restraint. He left again in 2019, returning to Covington and Burling, the law and lobbying firm where he’d spent several years between Senate stints.What gets overlooked in ceremonial recitations of his résumé, however, are the quieter corners of policymaking where Kyl did some of his most lasting work. Take water, for example—a subject that’s rarely in the headlines, yet shapes the destinies of Western states in ways few laws ever do. Sarah Porter, who leads the Kyl Center for Water Policy at ASU, once described him as not just an observer but "an important participant" in the often labyrinthine negotiations around water rights. That included shepherding tough agreements over tribal water rights and hammering out regulatory details with direct impact on Arizona’s future. It hardly made for riveting sound bites, but among those who cared to look, it marked the man as a negotiator at home in the long game.Kyl was not, however, merely a behind-the-scenes operator. In the chaotic summer of Brett Kavanaugh’s Supreme Court nomination, he worked with visible intent to usher the nominee through a bitterly divided confirmation process. That moment highlighted, if nothing else, his continued centrality in Republican strategy—his phone still rang when the stakes were highest.The outpouring of praise following his announcement was broad and, in its specifics, telling. The University of Arizona, tying his contributions back to his earliest days, lauded his "leadership, integrity, and commitment to service." Current Arizona Senator Mark Kelly—a Democrat—spoke publicly of Kyl’s devotion to both state and nation, underscoring the bipartisan respect Kyl managed to maintain, even as politics became ever more fractious.There are details rarely captured in tributes: a knowing glance exchanged with a junior staffer in the back corridors of the Russell Building, his remembered patience during a tense negotiation over the Colorado River, a reputation for never quite raising his voice, even when tempers flared. If you asked those who worked closest with him, you’d hear about the sense of duty he brought, more interested in dry Substance than sparkling performance.As Kyl and his family now prepare for what he himself described as “a path filled with moments of joy and increasing difficulties,” he does so with the privacy and dignity that defined him. There’s a deep undercurrent in Arizona’s political community—spoken quietly in offices and, sometimes, at kitchen tables—that remembers his years of service not for one signature act or speech, but for the aggregate effect of a steady hand over turbulent decades.Kyl’s public persona, consistent to the last, never lent itself to grand gestures or self-mythologizing. His legacy is less a headline than a body of work—incremental, durable, and as much a part of Arizona’s landscape as the policies he helped sculpt. The story of Jon Kyl, in the end, belongs as much to Arizona’s future as to its past.