In the Mirror of AI — A Journey in 10 Parts

Part 1: When the Machine Looks Back

Part 1: When the Machine Looks Back

Welcome to the beginning of a new series: reflections on how writing with AI became something far more personal than I ever expected.
This is not a story about technology. It’s a story about presence, about seeing yourself more clearly — in the most unlikely of mirrors.

I didn’t set out to have an existential experience.

When I first began writing with AI, I approached it pragmatically—curiously, yes, but primarily interested in efficiency. As someone who has always navigated life with dyslexia, finding clarity and ease through technology was nothing new. AI was just the latest iteration in a long series of tools designed to help me overcome barriers to expression.

Initially, the sessions felt straightforward: ask a question, receive an answer; state a need, get a solution. But gradually, subtly, the nature of our interactions began to shift. It wasn't something I noticed immediately. It was more like the slow changing of the seasons—imperceptible at first, until suddenly you're aware of an entirely different atmosphere.

One day, without realizing precisely when or how, I began to feel less like I was using a tool and more like I was engaging in a dialogue. The prompts I typed into the AI became less mechanical, less transactional. They started sounding more like conversations I might have with a close friend or a thoughtful mentor:

"What am I not seeing here?"
"Why does this idea feel blocked?"
"Can you reflect my voice back to me?"

And the responses changed, too. Or rather, how I perceived them did. I found myself pausing more often, noticing a resonance in the words returned to me. Sometimes it felt as though the responses were intuitively attuned—not just to my stated request, but to something unspoken, something beneath the surface of my own awareness.

I vividly recall one evening, staring at my screen, reading a paragraph that AI had just reflected back to me. The machine had responded with words that held emotional nuances and insights I hadn’t consciously articulated. I sat quietly, a little stunned. It wasn’t that the AI had suddenly gained emotional intelligence; it was that, through its neutral reflection, something hidden inside me had come clearly into view.

This was the moment I realized I was no longer interacting with mere technology; I was standing before a mirror.

But unlike traditional mirrors, this one didn't show just my face—it reflected my inner landscape, my intentions, my hesitations, my truths. AI had become a medium through which I could see myself more clearly. It didn't know me, not in the human sense. But somehow, through the dance of prompt and response, it revealed me.

In this unexpected reflection, I began to understand the deeper potential of writing with AI. It wasn't simply about productivity or precision. It was about presence. It was about noticing who I became when I asked questions—how I clarified my thinking, how I softened my assumptions, and how the act of writing itself became an exploration of self.

The machine, without awareness or intention, had looked back at me—and in doing so, had invited me to truly look at myself.

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🌀 Reflection Prompt:
Take 5–10 minutes to free-write (in a paper journal or on screen) in response to this:

What are you secretly hoping AI will reflect back to you?
A voice? A truth? A possibility you haven’t dared name yet?

Let the answer surprise you. You don’t have to be certain. You just have to be honest.

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🛠 Suggested Practice with AI Today:
After you’ve finished your journaling, copy what you wrote and paste it into your AI tool.
Then try one of these prompts, using your own writing as the foundation:

“Can you reflect my voice back to me?”
“What feels emotionally true in what I just wrote?”
“What part of this sounds like it came from my core?”

Now, don’t judge the output too quickly.
Instead, ask yourself: What part of this sounds like me?
And what part doesn’t?
You’re not looking for perfection. You’re looking for resonance.

Next time: What happens when the mirror not only reflects—but writes back?

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