I am Mamarch Sennane, a Mosotho woman born and raised in the Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho.
Recently, while reflecting on life and the rapidly changing world around us, I found my thoughts repeatedly returning to one uncomfortable question: How did we get here?
We live in a world where so many of us appear perfectly fine on the outside, yet quietly carry pain, disappointment, fear, loneliness and wounds that we do not or simply cannot talk about. We smile. We go to work. We attend family gatherings. We post pictures. We laugh with friends. We tell people,
“I’m fine.”
But behind closed doors, some of us are falling apart. And perhaps what troubles me most is not only the pain we carry, but the fact that many of us no longer feel that we have a safe place to put it.
Is this what life has become?
And, more importantly, is this how we are going to live from here onwards?
I sometimes wonder whether there is a rewind button somewhere, one that could take us back to a time when we could sit with our brothers, sisters, friends and loved ones and speak openly about the things that hurt us. A time when we could say:
“This is what I am going through, without immediately worrying about being judged, laughed at, misunderstood, exposed or having our most vulnerable moments turned into gossip.”
Because somewhere along the way, something changed. We became more connected technologically, yet increasingly disconnected emotionally. We have hundreds of contacts, followers and friends online, but many of us still struggle to identify one person we can call at two o’ clock in the morning and say:
“I am not okay. Please just listen.”
And perhaps this is part of the reason something else has happened.
We have started talking to AI.
It is fascinating and perhaps a little heartbreaking that some people now find it easier to tell artificial intelligence about their deepest fears, relationship problems, heartbreaks, insecurities and darkest thoughts than to tell another human being.
Why? Perhaps because AI listens. It does not interrupt us halfway through our story.
It does not roll its eyes. It does not laugh at our vulnerability. It does not immediately tell us what we should have done differently. It does not look at us differently after we confess something embarrassing or painful. For some people, that temporary sense of safety is enough to make them open up. And I understand why. Sometimes you do not necessarily need someone to solve your problems. You simply need somewhere to put the weight you have been carrying. But there is something profoundly sad about that reality. Because AI can respond to our words, but it cannot replace human presence.
It cannot give us a hug when our hearts are breaking.
It cannot sit beside us in silence while we cry.It cannot wipe our tears.
It cannot hold our hands.
It cannot walk through the door with a plate of food when we have not eaten all day.
It cannot accompany us to the hospital, help us pay an overdue bill, sit beside us at a funeral or simply say:
“I am here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
AI can offer words, perspective and a listening ear, but there are forms of human connection that technology cannot replicate.
And perhaps that is what makes this conversation so important.
Maybe this is not really a story about AI. Maybe it is a story about us.
AI may simply be reflecting something that was already broken. Perhaps we are turning to machines not because machines have become better than people, but because too many people have stopped feeling safe with people. We have created a culture where vulnerability can be weaponised. Tell someone your relationship is struggling, and tomorrow the whole neighbourhood may know. Tell a friend about your financial difficulties, and your private circumstances can become a topic of discussion. Tell someone about your mental or emotional struggles, and instead of compassion, you may receive judgment. Share a mistake you made, and it can follow you for years. So we learn to hide.
We become experts at saying “I’m okay.”
We become experts at smiling while hurting.
We become experts at carrying things alone.
And eventually, we start looking for somewhere, anywhere we can speak without fear.
Maybe that is why conversations with AI can feel so strangely comforting. But we should be careful not to mistake convenience for connection. The answer cannot be a world where human beings retreat further into technology because they no longer trust one another. The answer must surely be to rebuild the trust between us. We need friendships where vulnerability is protected. Families where difficult conversations are welcomed. Relationships where people can admit they are struggling without being made to feel weak. Communities where asking for help is not shameful. And perhaps most importantly, we need to learn how to listen again.
Not to immediately judge.
Not to compare someone’s pain with our own.
Not to turn someone’s confession into tomorrow’s gossip. Just listen.
Because sometimes the person sitting next to you, smiling and saying they are fine, may be fighting a battle you know absolutely nothing about. The world is changing rapidly. Artificial intelligence is becoming more present in our everyday lives, and there is much to learn from it. But perhaps while we teach machines how to communicate with us, we should also ask ourselves whether we have forgotten how to communicate with one another. Perhaps while we are teaching technology to understand human language, we should work harder at understanding human beings.
Because at the end of the day, people still need people.We need someone to sit beside us.
Someone to laugh with.
Someone to cry with.
Someone to call when life becomes unbearable.
Someone who will hear our darkest secret and choose compassion over judgment.
Maybe we don’t need to rewind the world.Maybe we simply need to find our way back to one another.
And so I keep coming back to the question that started all these thoughts:
In this our new life, how did we get here?
And perhaps an even more important question is:
How do we find our way back to each other?