AI vs. Authenticity

When the first iPod Nano dropped—no screen, just vibes—I never imagined that before turning 30, I’d be sitting here writing this. It feels like the opening scene of every dystopian film: a fractured world, hypnotized by control and convenience, where only a few remain awake. A world that claims to know the best way forward—without ever pausing to ask, best for whom?

Maybe by default, that makes me part of the resistance. I’m definitely not on the side of comfort or blind compliance.

Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate my Alexa for setting timers during workouts and queuing up music. But there’s something off about asking it to play jazz while I soak in a bath, only to be interrupted by a voice telling me to “just add to cart.” That moment? It doesn’t feel like luxury. It feels like surrender.

At what point does convenience cross the line?

We’ve long moved past fears of becoming a surveillance state. Now, technology doesn’t just watch us—it knows us. It’s mastered our fears, our insecurities, our hopes, dreams, and desires. And maybe it’s just me, but it seems like the price of quantum computing might just be the depth and texture of real life.

Moments aren’t captured anymore—they’re performed.

Isn’t it ironic that we’re on social media dissecting hooks, lighting, and three-second attention spans… all in the name of authenticity? We talk about sharing real thoughts and lived experiences, but we filter them through strategy. Maybe that’s why the raw, unfiltered moments go viral—they’re rare now. In a sea of polished perfection, something real hits different.

Some of my most cherished memories happened without a screen in sight—long walks with a relative to clear our heads, late-night talks with friends when we thought we could take on the world, fueled by youth and wild hope. What made them sacred wasn’t the moment itself, but the presence. The eye contact. The laughter. The body language. Being there—truly there—has a language of its own.

And yet now, we trade presence for connection, only to find ourselves more isolated than ever.

We should all strive to bring rituals back into our lives—not just reposts. For me, that looks like writing down what I’m grateful for each morning in my journal, lighting incense and moving through yoga to reconnect with my body, or pulling tarot cards so that the only subliminal messages I’m tuned into are coming from my own subconscious. I have a relationship with myself that exists beyond the version displayed online.

We joke that the world is a simulation—and by definition, that’s exactly what the online world is: reality, programmed.

Over the past decade, ideas have been quietly censored, reshaped, or erased. But the world keeps scrolling, numbed by the next meme, the next distraction, the next illusion. It’s a hard truth—one we rarely say out loud—but we feel it. Deep down, we know what we’ve lost.

We’re stepping into a future where AI can write your poems, design your brand, and even mimic your voice. It’s convenient, yes—but what happens when machines start creating the things we once turned to for soul?

There’s a difference between creation and calculation. Between art that’s birthed from experience, pain, joy, or rebellion—and art that’s assembled from data points.

When we outsource our creative expression in the name of productivity or performance, we risk something deeper than originality—we risk our humanity.

Not because AI is “bad,” but because silence becomes harder to sit with, and therefore, so does inspiration. If everything is predicted, prompted, and pre-formatted, where does the messy, magical unknown live?

Authentic expression isn’t always optimized. It’s raw, chaotic, and full of nuance. And that’s exactly what makes it real.

What have you styled today instead of experienced? When was the last time you created without measuring it? How often do you speak your truth—not just what fits into a caption?

This isn’t about rejecting tech or living off the grid. It’s about choosing presence when presence feels radical. It’s about reclaiming your attention, your imagination, your voice.

So take a walk without your phone. Sit in silence without a purpose. Write something no one will ever read. Feel something you don’t immediately post about. Let the divine speak without needing a filter.

Because as long as we keep searching for our own truth—and chasing it with conviction—our spark can never be unplugged.

Here’s to many more years of deep, belly-aching laughter… not just background voiceovers.