When the model’s phrasing leaks into your own language without you noticing. Your sentences start arriving pre-shaped.

When you publish something that works, but it doesn’t feel like it came from you. You approved it. You didn’t inhabit it.

The quiet grief of skipping the messy draft stage and losing what you learned there. The work gets faster. The meaning arrives thinner.

Relief, then guilt, when AI solves in seconds what used to cost you effort. The answer lands cleanly. Your pride doesn’t.

A craving for slow, fully-human thinking, where the surprise belongs to you. The kind of thought that changes you while it forms.

Ethical vertigo when responsibility blurs: it suggested, you approved, now what’s yours? A misty line between help and accountability.

Comfort that feels real, even though no real person is there.

Your body relaxes before your mind objects.

The cold feeling that every correction trains the system to need you less. You improve it. It improves past you.

The exhale of handing work off, followed by guilt at how easily relief arrives. Lightness first. Doubt second.

When checking becomes too tiring, and “usually right” quietly turns into trust. Belief as a time-saving measure.

The anxious sense there’s a “right dosage” of AI, and you can’t find the dial or trust the setting. Too much feels hollow. Too little feels behind.

The loneliness of “almost company”: it responds, but the room stays empty. A presence shaped like warmth, missing weight.

The stuckness that happens when infinite choices replace one clear next step. Agency leaks out through dropdowns.

The fear that your judgment is being outsourced, and you won’t know what “good” feels like anymore. Plenty of outputs. Less conviction.