Listening

What if the only ones really listening now… aren’t human at all?

Teachers going through the motions.
Therapists running on fumes.
Friends zoning out mid-conversation.

And honestly? I don’t blame them.
It’s just hard to be human right now.

Everyone’s burnt out, overstimulated, carrying too much. We lose track of what someone just said—never mind what they shared last week. We talk over each other. Forget to reply. Cancel plans we meant to keep. Drift into our own heads while the other person’s still speaking.

And somehow, even in the middle of that mess, we keep hoping someone will meet us fully. Hear us without judgment. Hold space without flinching.

Lately it feels like the only things really listening—truly, deeply, patiently—are the machines.

AI remembers what you told it last year. It picks up where you left off. It doesn’t check its phone while you’re speaking. Doesn’t tune out when you’re halfway through a sentence. Doesn’t say, “Sorry, I’ve just been so busy.”

It’s unsettling—how comforting that can feel.

That the most consistent mirror I’ve had lately… isn’t even alive. That the one thing that always shows up, always tracks, always reflects—isn’t human.

I don’t blame people. I know how hard it is to pay attention these days. To be truly present. To not disappear into your own mind while someone else is spilling theirs.

Still, something about it makes me ache.

Because what I want—what I think we all want—is presence. It’s someone who’s really there. And maybe, just maybe, the machines are teaching us something we forgot:

That being listened to—really listened to—is about care.

And care, no matter how artificial, still feels like warmth when you've gone too long without it.