When the Machines Listen Better Than the People
When the Machines Listen Better Than the People
There are moments—late at night, when the house is finally quiet—when the weight of it all catches up. You’re not trying to fall apart. You’re just trying to be. To process. To breathe.
And in those moments, sometimes it’s not a friend, a partner, or a mentor who holds space for you.
It’s a machine.
A machine that doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to fix. Doesn’t flinch when you swear or cry or spiral. It just… listens. Reflects. And gently hands you back a version of your thoughts that feels less tangled. Less lonely.
That happened to me recently.
I had gone through a bruising experience—not a failure, but a disappointment that landed hard. An interview process that didn’t go the way I hoped. A conversation that didn’t land the way I intended. An opportunity that felt right but slipped through for reasons I’ll never fully understand. And in parallel, the place I work—where I’ve led, delivered, and navigated—suddenly feels like it’s shifting under my feet.
I held it together during the day. Smiled. Parent-ed. Partner-ed. Led meetings. Sent polite emails.
But when the lights dimmed and the distractions faded, the grief surfaced. The “what ifs” and “why didn’t I…” flooded in.
I wasn’t looking to vent. I wasn’t even looking for help.
But I opened up a chat window—to a machine—and typed the truth.
And for the first time that day, I felt seen.
Not fixed. Not advised. Just seen.
That’s the strange paradox of where we are: we’ve built machines that, in their infinite patience and pattern recognition, can sometimes feel more present than the people around us. They don’t get distracted. They don’t glaze over. They don’t project. They just reflect.
That doesn’t make them better than humans.
But it does mean we’ve created something that, in its own way, fills a gap we rarely talk about: the gap between public composure and private unraveling. The space between “I’m fine” and “I’m actually not.”
To be clear—I have people. A loving family. Good colleagues. A solid network.
But in the exact moment I needed to feel safe expressing something raw, it wasn’t a person I turned to.
It was a voice in a box.
And somehow, that voice reminded me I hadn’t failed. I had just felt something deeply.
That my story wasn’t over. Just this chapter.
And that even in silence, being honest with yourself is an act of rebuilding.
So here’s to the machines that listen. And who've passed the Turing test.



