AA Meets AI: Powerless Over Both in a Church Room

My name is Sarah (not my real name, as anonymity is sacred in these spaces). I’m 20, a junior psychology major at a major university in California, and I’ll be turning 21 in January. Born in 2005, I’m firmly Gen Z: the internet has always existed for me, Netflix served as an early companion, a battered hand-me-down iPad survived my childhood drops, and I received my first iPhone at 14. Instant distraction and connection were simply the norm.

College has felt like a seamless extension of that digital life—dorm living, parties, and late-night study sessions are all underpinned by tools like ChatGPT that render assignments almost effortless. When professors decry “academic integrity,” I roll my eyes. AI isn’t cheating; it’s infrastructure, as essential and unremarkable as electricity.

For my Abnormal Psychology course, the syllabus required attending multiple open AA meetings and writing a reflection. I attended three. The first two unsettled me; the third finally gave me the space to absorb what I’d heard. All three took place in the same church room near campus: folding chairs arranged in a circle, the sharp aroma of fresh coffee in the air. Most attendees were in their forties and fifties—people who resembled parents, teachers, and former bosses.

At the first meeting, Mark spoke. A high school history teacher in his late fifties wearing khakis and a button-down shirt, he looked like the sort of man who likely still coaches soccer. He introduced himself: “I’m Mark, and I’m an alcoholic.” His share seemed trivial at first, but it soon struck deep. His students now rely on AI for everything: essays composed in seconds, debates prepared by Gemini, and homework solved instantly. They even fact-check him mid-lecture. He can no longer distinguish authentic effort from algorithmic output. “I used to love teaching,” he said, his voice faltering. “Now the students are disengaged. Lesson planning feels futile.”

Drinking began as a way to mute the question: if AI can teach more efficiently, what remains for him? The alcohol eventually failed even at that. Some nights, he admitted, the thoughts turned dangerously dark.

At the second meeting, Lisa shared. “I’m Lisa, and I’m an alcoholic.” In her early fifties with a sharp blazer and glasses, she teaches English Literature at a nearby college. Her experience echoed Mark’s, only at a higher level. Students submit flawless yet soulless AI-generated analyses. Discussions collapse because few have actually read the texts. Office hours are deserted because ChatGPT provides instant feedback. “I devoted decades to revealing why stories matter,” she said quietly. “Now students bypass me entirely. I grade work I know isn’t theirs and question my own presence.” Alcohol became her temporary escape from caring. Now, it no longer works. Both Mark and Lisa confessed the same despair: they no longer see the purpose in teaching.

Listening to them, I felt the room contract around me. This wasn’t merely addiction; it was profound grief over an eroded sense of purpose, precipitated by the very tools I use daily without hesitation (I even used them to help gather these words).

Driving home after that third meeting, my own future felt fractured. Psychology, my chosen field, hinges on authentic human connection—empathy, trust, and the subtle interpretation of pauses and glances. Yet AI therapy platforms already exist: Woebot, Replika, and more sophisticated successors on the horizon. They are perpetually available, tireless, nonjudgmental, and inexpensive. Research shows some users already prefer them. Will future clients opt for a limited, imperfect human therapist or an algorithm that draws on millions of sessions and anticipates relapses?

Fear has taken root. I chose psychology because I yearn to accompany people through suffering and witness genuine breakthroughs. But if machines can simulate empathy convincingly at scale, what role remains for me? Oversight of algorithms? A premium service for only the most complex cases?
Mark and Lisa offer a preview of my potential future. I share more with them than I ever imagined. We each staked our professional identities on irreplaceable human interaction just as technology redefines what it means to be “human.” Is psychology still a viable path? It once felt ideal; now it seems precarious. Should I pivot to something AI cannot displace, perhaps policy? Or do I hold fast, trusting that human beings will always crave a real human presence?

Those three meetings transcended a course requirement. They shattered my insulated digital world and exposed the human cost of tools I had taken for granted. AI is not merely a convenience. For some, it is an erasure. It may one day become that for me as well.

I still use ChatGPT. But every prompt now carries a new weight.