I went out the back door in a huff and crossed the yard which was in the full-throated bloom of spring. Anyone in an ordinary state of mind would have marveled at the budding crocuses, sweet lilacs, flowering hydrangea, dancing bees, and dappled sunlight on the glistening grass.
But I was too pre-occupied to enjoy any of it.
Leaving had always been my go-to strategy when triggered in an argument and about to say something mean. But walking out on somebody is what mean words look like—even when they’re not uttered. The clip of my exit, the way I swung the door shut behind me rather than properly closing it, the cold tone of my silence—all carried the intensity of warring words.
I rode that high horse for years, departing in silence to convince myself I was above a fight, that I was better than the one raising their voice. In truth, I was a bonafide contributor to the conflict. I’d leave with the illusion of my superiority intact, in no way taking responsibility for perpetuating the battle.
That was my state as I left my partner behind in the house, crossed the yard to the back gate, flipped the rusty latch, and stepped into the lane.
Then it came to me.
An airtight, crowning zinger that would ensure my victory for the argument at hand. I spun around on my heels, glided confidently over the lawn, and strode back up to the porch. I didn’t expect her to be standing there, waiting for me, as though predicting my arrival. All the better, I thought, because I was ready, my winning point on the tip of my tongue.
But I never got to say a word.
She opened the door before I got there, took out the bright sword of her insight, and masterfully disarmed my assault with four simple words.
“Your story precedes you.”
I wasn’t even sure what that meant, but it felt painfully true. What was she pointing to, and why was my entire offense dismantled by this idea? The notion of showing my hand before I’d even arrived on the scene was wholly unnerving. What was the story she clearly observed?
Divorces often come with painful gifts. Those four words from my ex endured over the years. I came to see the stories I wouldn’t release: that she was overbearing, cold, and aggressive. My judgments about her were not veiled, they were a step ahead of me in our stand-offs. The solution might seem straight-forward, that I could have stopped judging her, but it wasn’t that simple. As any emergency responder learns, the secret to putting out a fire is to extinguish its source of fuel. Beneath the smokescreen of my judgments about her were stories about myself— that I was unintelligent, unlovable, and lacking in courage. I had been using her all along to prove them true.
Our brains are naturally wired for story. Stories are the way we think, orient, and regulate our biological presence in the world. There are two types of stories: the ones we choose to tell, and the ones that tell us, stories we’ve inherited from the past, and that now run habitually in the background of our attention—leading us into scenes, relationships, and outcomes that are predictable and contrary to what we say we want.
I often encounter people who say they are no good at telling stories. But when we claim to be no good at storytelling, we disempower ourselves and give away authorship of our life to out-dated, irrelevant, and default narratives that run the show.
Such stories are the very definition of artificial intelligence.
I stormed from the house that day in a swirl of mental chatter—the kind we’ve all experienced when faced with a threat to our identity. That process of frantic rumination is a database query. The conflict triggers an auto-prompt of our data vault. “How can I stay safe in this circumstance?” it asks. Our brain scans for all available information, searching for just one type of answer, the one most likely to ensure our continued existence. It extracts the match, and prioritizes it above all else. To complete its job it disables our sensory awareness of the immediate environment, elevates the recall of a past threat, and convinces us that this information is relevant to now.
Suddenly we’re saying things that bear no resemblance to reality. The possibility of authentic connection is banished. Not just with another person, but also with ourselves. We’re no longer anchored to the present moment. The potential for nuance, fluidity, and skillful means is eliminated.
Artificial intelligence is nothing new. It has its advantages in true emergencies. But indulged excessively over the long term, it’s disastrous for communication.
Our personal AI identifies weaknesses in our partner, retrieves stockpiled resentments, cites relationship experts that bolster our claims, and dredges up old history for evidence that we’re right and they’re wrong before it turns to the simple truth. “I’m scared.” “Please don’t go.” Or, “I see your pain.”
When it comes to communication, our fascination with the machine versions of AI is driven by the same compulsion to hide. The world is sprinting into the arms of large language models, soliciting words from all of humanity and all of time. Shielded by the silicon curtain, we feel finally free to write and publish with gleeful abandon. We can write an email, a story, an article, conduct a peer review, or sell something we don’t fully understand or believe in, and keep the truest expression of ourselves at a safe distance. We’ll call it productivity, and claim that we’re saving time for more important things, without ever admitting that true communication and connection is the longing in each of our hearts.
When we consult a LLM that allows us to say all things, we wind up saying nothing at all. The complaint that AI writing has no voice isn’t entirely accurate. On the contrary, its access to ALL voices is precisely what characterizes its lack of distinction. An economy of data and singularity of perspective is the very foundation of voice. Small language models are the source of authentic expression, an accurate and useful report from our corner of the universe. What we cannot say, what we do not know, our errors of omission, the holes in our arguments, and the shortfalls of our thinking bring more integrity to a human exchange than a polished vault of words on loan that we’ll struggle to recall or repeat in a moment that counts.
If we want to offer our unique strengths, convey our true character, or share our perspective—simple statements like, “I’m most at home in myself when I’m writing,” “I love horses,” “I want to do comedy,” “I have an idea for a business,” are invitations for connection that trump grand theories, expert opinions, and convoluted explanations.
If we run to machine learning to communicate on our behalf, we’ll find ourselves in an interview, facing a team, sitting beside a friend, or standing on the back porch with our spouse without well-earned access to language that reveals our confusion and pain, invokes a future that we’ve authored for ourselves, or describes a possibility that others might wish to inhabit.
The domain of language is a precious sanctum where self knowledge can be gained, conversations nourished, and communion fed. Words are the instruments that protect silence, deepen mystery, and preserve presence. When we access them from within, we amplify their meaning and magic.
If we extract them from a data center, deploy them as weapons of profit and agents of control, we’ll dream of winning arguments and lose sight of the garden that is flowering at our feet.
“Wherever the world might be headed
where is it that you are headed
and what provisions have you prepared?
If both worlds be filled with idols
what have you chosen as your beloved idol?
Suppose generosity dies and meanness prevails,
my heart and the very light of my eye
where lies your largess and charity?
We squeeze too many words out of our heads
Which only deserve to fall on deaf ears.
Enough repeating what others say.
Where are your statements, what is your state?”
Rumi
P. 25, Sweet Lunacy, Divine Intoxication in Sufi Lore, Renditions by Vraje Abramian