The problem with always having an answer

A client recently said something to me that made me pause. “ChatGPT knows more than my Dad.” It was said almost in passing, but something about it felt profound.

Not necessarily because it was true, and not because I think we should be frightened of artificial intelligence, but because it raises a rather uncomfortable question: What happens when we become accustomed to always having an answer?

We are living through a remarkable change in the way we access information, advice and even emotional support. If we don't know something, we can ask. If we're confused, we can ask. If we're worried about a relationship, we can ask. If we've had an argument, we can type out exactly what happened and ask a machine what it thinks.

And within seconds, we can receive a thoughtful, articulate response. There is something wonderfully convenient about that, but perhaps we also need to be careful not to lose something.

We have become remarkably uncomfortable with not knowing

Think about how little uncertainty we tolerate. We check the weather rather than looking out of the window. We look at reviews before choosing a restaurant. We use satnav rather than learning a route. We Google symptoms rather than sitting with the uncertainty of not knowing.

We can ask our phones where we are, where we're going and how long it will take to get there. And now we can ask AI what we should think, what we should say and sometimes even what we should feel.

The technology isn't necessarily the problem. Our relationship with uncertainty might be. Because psychologically, not knowing is not always something that needs fixing. Sometimes not knowing is where thinking begins.

The space between the question and the answer 

As a counsellor, I'm interested in what happens in that space.

Someone might come to therapy saying:

• “I don't know why I keep doing this.”
• “I don't know what I want.”
• “I don't know whether I should leave.”
• “I don't know why I feel like this.”
• “I don't know what's wrong with me.”

There can be a tremendous temptation to provide an answer. But sometimes the most useful response is to stay curious. What happens if we don't rush to resolve the uncertainty and explore it instead?

What if we ask another question? What if we notice a contradiction? What if we allow ourselves to say, “I don't know yet”? That small word yetcan be surprisingly important. It turns uncertainty from a failure into an invitation.

AI can give us answers, but what does it give us to think about?

AI can be incredibly useful. It can explain complicated subjects, help us organise our thoughts, generate ideas, and provide information that might have taken hours to find. It can also offer a seemingly endless supply of perspectives. But there is a subtle difference between being given something to think about and being given something to think.

The first invites us into our own thinking. The second can gradually replace it. And perhaps this is where the psychological question becomes more interesting than the technological one.

If I ask AI what my partner's behaviour means, I might receive ten possible explanations. If I ask what I should say to my parents, I might receive a carefully constructed response. If I ask whether I am being unreasonable, I might receive reassurance.

But what happens if I stop and ask myself first? What do I think? What do I feel? What am I frightened might be true? What might I be missing? Those questions are slower, harder and much more personal.

Human beings are inconvenient

One of the great attractions of AI is that it doesn't have many of the characteristics that make human relationships difficult. It doesn't get bored. It doesn't have a bad day. It doesn't misunderstand your tone in quite the same way.

It doesn't interrupt because it has something more important to say. It doesn't bring up something you did three years ago. And if you don't like the response, you can simply ask again.

Human beings don't work like that. Your partner may disagree with you. Your friend may misunderstand you. Your parent may give you an answer you don't want. Your child may challenge you. And sometimes, someone who loves you may tell you something about yourself that you would rather not hear.

This can be frustrating, but it can also be incredibly valuable. Relationships aren't simply places where we receive reassurance. They are places where we encounter another mind. Someone who doesn't necessarily see things as we do. Someone who has their own history, needs, fears and perspective. Sometimes we learn about ourselves precisely because another person sees something differently.

What happens when we only hear our own version of the story?

Imagine arguing with your partner. You go away and type the whole thing into an AI chatbot. You explain what happened. You explain what they said. You explain why you were upset. You explain what you think they meant. The AI responds thoughtfully. 

It may help you understand your emotions. It may help you formulate a response. It may even identify patterns worth considering. But there is one person missing. Your partner.

Not because their perspective is necessarily right, but because relationships involve more than one mind. There is a danger in becoming too comfortable with explanations that begin and end with our own account of events. Sometimes we need another person to say: “I'm not sure I see it that way." And sometimes we need to listen.

Families are complicated for a reason

Perhaps this is also why the comment about ChatGPT and my client's dad stayed with me. Our families can be incredibly frustrating. They don't always understand us. They can hold on to old versions of who we were. A parent may still see their adult child as the teenager who lived at home. A sibling may remember every childhood argument. Someone who has known us for years may think they already know what we are going to say before we've said it.

AI doesn't have that same personal history. We can start again. We can tell the story in our own words. We can present ourselves exactly as we want to be understood. There is something very appealing about that. But there is also something important about being known over time.

Being known means being seen in different circumstances. It means someone has witnessed our contradictions. Our successes, failures, mistakes, and changes. Sometimes another person can say: “That's not really like you,” or perhaps: “Actually, you do this quite often." We might not like hearing it, but it might make us think.

Perhaps we are losing the art of conversation

There is another question worth asking: Are we becoming less willing to have conversations that don't have a predetermined outcome?

A conversation with another person can wander. It can become funny. It can become uncomfortable. It can go somewhere neither person expected. There can be silence. There can be misunderstanding. There can be repair.

Children once spent enormous amounts of time inventing things because they had nothing else to do. They were bored. They daydreamed. They created imaginary worlds. They argued over the rules and then changed them. Perhaps adults need some of that too.

Not every gap needs filling. Not every question needs answering immediately. Not every uncomfortable feeling needs an explanation. Sometimes the mind needs a little empty space in which to work things out.

Perhaps this is where therapy comes in

Therapy is sometimes misunderstood as a place where someone gives you answers. In reality, much of the work can be about creating enough space for someone to discover their own.

That doesn't mean a therapist never offers an observation, perspective or challenge. It means the objective isn't simply to produce the quickest possible answer. It is to explore. To become curious. To notice patterns. To think about relationships. To understand how the past might still be influencing the present.

And sometimes, simply to sit with something that doesn't yet make sense. There can be enormous value in saying: “I don't know,” and then not immediately trying to escape it.

Considering the role of AI

I'm not suggesting we return to a world without technology. Nor do I think we should pretend that AI has no value. Quite the opposite. AI can be extraordinarily useful. The question is what place we give it.

Perhaps AI can help us prepare for a difficult conversation, but we still need to have the conversation. Perhaps it can give us information, but we still need to decide what that information means to us. Perhaps it can help us organise our thoughts, but we shouldn't become so dependent on it that we stop having our own. Perhaps it can provide an answer, but we should still ask ourselves whether it is our answer.

The importance of having our own minds

There is a phrase I keep coming back to: We shouldn't outsource our minds simply because something else can think faster. The ability to pause, wonder, question, reflect and tolerate uncertainty is part of being human, and perhaps in a world increasingly capable of giving us instant answers, those abilities become even more important.

So maybe the question isn't: “Will AI replace human relationships?” Perhaps it's also worth asking: “Will we still value the things about human relationships that AI can't easily reproduce?”

The disagreement. The awkward silence. The unexpected laugh. The person who knows our history. The friend who challenges our assumptions. The parent who doesn't quite understand us. The partner who sees something we cannot yet see ourselves. And the therapist who doesn't rush to tell us what to do.

Because sometimes the purpose of a relationship isn't to give us the answer. Sometimes it is to give us someone with whom we can work out the questio And perhaps that is something worth protecting, because being given an answer is not necessarily the same as being understood. And being understood is not necessarily the same as understanding ourselves. Maybe we still need each other for that.