Until I get into the flow of things, i.e., my reacquaintance with writing and literature, I will post here freely. It will not start with anything like my best compositions or thesis papers, but I’ll get there. This is a big leap for me. I don’t have anything to sell, no quest for fame, and zero self-confidence to market myself to consumers and employers alike. It still feels like the right thing to do.

I had an uncomfortable conversation at Thanksgiving. Well, an attempt at a conversation anyway. I’ll get to that.

I am in my early thirties, and I have yet to land on a specific career path. I tried a lot of different things, and now possess many small skills that I don’t need.

I wanted to become a teacher and a writer throughout my life,

Stating “What I Want to be When I Grow Up” makes me feel like a child again… but it’s true: I’ve always loved acquiring and sharing knowledge, particularly through writing.

I stayed in from recess for writing workshops with my third-grade teacher. I was enrolled in a specialty writing class in my first elementary school, had a poem published in the (very small, very local) newspaper, and created my own newspaper (The Scorpion) for my parents, featuring op-eds on topics like the fairness and likability of early 2000s American Idol judges.

Through my regular practice and the support from my dad, writing and reading became foundational parts of my identity.

Then, I reached my twenties and abandoned myself. I stopped thinking about what I wanted to do with my life. I had no time for passions and hobbies.

After delaying a year, I had left college twice already by age 25. I spent the rest of my twenties insecure and distraught over the perceived choice between “financial security” and “following your purpose.” I was too precious about writing, so much so that I stopped writing altogether.

My distress deepened as time carried on. My envy of old friends completing their degrees heightened my frantic need to just get one for myself. So many people seemed to have it all figured out, and even if they didn’t, the appearance of their success was enough to kill my own self-worth. I was panicked at the thought of running out of time.

Nearing age thirty, I was a shell of the person I wanted to become.

At age 27, my mind regularly wandered to the same tormenting questions, day and night: What am I meant to do? Why can’t I figure this out? How do I bridge the gap between fulfillment and making enough to pay the bills?

Then I had a lightbulb moment.

It was after I hung out with my friends and their kids during one of my son’s baseball games. I cannot possibly remember what we did, but I do remember feeling “in my element” as I had the young kids playing games, laughing, and using their imaginations while watching their siblings play ball.

Later that night, as with every night, those agonizing questions popped up again.

Then, the lightbulb: Why aren’t you teaching?

That was a financially secure career, and I would have the same time off as my son, AND it was one of my career plans in high school!

I mean, there it is, right?!

As a teenager, I had worked in a preschool, volunteered as a youth sports coach, mentored a freshman English class, and worked at a gymnastics academy. Whatever blinded me to my purpose before seemed immediately obvious that night.

From there, I completed my undergraduate degree in elementary education. Finally, a college degree. A step in the right direction!

I loved every single minute of each school day. I was good at teaching, not near a veteran level, but I knew I was successful in helping kids learn. Nothing filled me with more joy than watching the gears turn in students’ minds or observing a student’s lightbulb moment when they learned something new or figured something out on their own.

For myriad reasons I won’t get into here, I stopped teaching elementary school right after my stint as a long-term substitute.

Leaving teaching left me feeling useless and insufficient. If teaching was my destined purpose, and I couldn’t swing it, then I was out of options. I tried to revisit previous career ideas as I clawed my way out of the jaws of depression, but nothing else fit.

So, I chose not to think about my career at all for a while. As my late mother-in-law famously said, “It will always work out.” I put a lot of faith in that platitude.

Months (years?) later, here we are. I have been writing since early this morning, without fear or care that this post is not “good” or that I am not good enough. This “it will all work out” theory is holding up so far, despite what my close relative stated to me on Thanksgiving.

Right, let’s move on from my decade-long career indecision and work through that Thanksgiving conversation here.

I will name my relative “Alex” to avoid redundancy. It helps that I don’t have a relative of this name. I must add: I feel better stating here that I care deeply about Alex and value their opinions; I simply disagree strongly with their stance on this.

Ok, Thanksgiving. For background, Alex knows about my career struggles and about my history with writing.

After Thanksgiving dinner, I spoke to Alex and let them know that I had decided to start writing again. I told them that I hope to make it central to my next career move, whether I taught secondary English, performed literary research, did some freelance writing, who knows…as long as I am writing.

Maybe Alex did not realize it, but what I meant when I said this was: I am writing again to reclaim my identity.

I imagined Alex would be supportive, even happy for me. Instead, I was met with this (near-verbatim) response: “You would be wasting your time. I have AI write nearly everything for me.”

Alex went on to explain that they use multiple LLMs (Large Language Models) to write and refine a piece before it reaches its intended destination. Their company no longer hires writers for its website. Just AI-sourced content.

I shared with them my frustration that my passions and skills, which I have spent the majority of my life practicing, now feel threatened by artificial intelligence. Alex said I need to learn to make money with AI, and that teaching and learning will be AI-driven. No more schools, just computers and artificial intelligence.

(I would LOVE to hear the logistics of this. We should just send all the kids to a big room with their laptops, with an adult supervising and offering tech support. I am sure there is no research on the learning and skill deficits we see in high-tech learning environments and screen-addicted children…please note my intended sarcasm here.)

I get it. Humans like convenience. Plus, artificial intelligence is cool! Remember SmarterChild from AIM? That was cool, too. Despite this “cool factor” and the convenience, I firmly believe in responsibly using artificial and augmented intelligence when the net utility is high (for example, as a billing tool or diagnostic aid in healthcare). Copying an article one LLM wrote and pasting it for editing in another LLM does not present a high net utility for using AI in our daily lives.

I felt dismissed entirely as a person.

Alex’s apparent certainty that humans will never teach or write again is wrong. I refuse to believe that human creativity, communication, and my own sense of fulfillment will be AI casualties.

My purpose in writing is not to write and submit something in under 10 minutes, nor is it to enlighten the masses with regulation-compliant articles.

Human beings will always need to read what other humans write. As James Baldwin stated in his 1963 LIFE Magazine interview, “You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read.” We read human perspectives to recognize and understand our shared experiences. Creating and consuming art expands our perception of ourselves, the world, and our places within it. We may choose to create or consume art to escape reality, even for a moment, or to examine it more deeply. Sometimes we feel lost and alone until we read.

Baldwin’s wisdom speaks to the significance of reading and writing in my own life. Books have always helped me make sense of myself, my life, and other people’s choices and ways of being. Writing helps me reflect, to share knowledge and research, and to work through complicated ideas or events.

I am making a commitment to myself and my writing practice. I am reconnecting with my true passions and identity. I am finally writing, reading, and talking about literature again.

I feel as though I have put on an old favorite sweatshirt. The perfect, cozy sweatshirt that gets chosen above the rest ten out of ten times. I feel at home and safe when I am writing and reading.

I will not be discouraged from writing just because an LLM can craft a perfect professional email.

Yes, I am a writer. Here’s to feeling like myself again.