Many years ago, I was sitting in the metro, tapping on a small grey screen with a plastic stick. The man next to me kept glancing over, visibly intrigued. Finally, he asked what I was holding and what I was doing.
Had he asked that question in 2026, it would have been strange. But at the time, it was perfectly reasonable. I was updating notes on what was then called a ‘Personal Digital Assistant’. It was the first Palm Pilot: it could store contacts, a calendar, and a notepad. Basic functions by today’s standards. But truly novel back then.
I’ve always leaned early into new technology. When the iPod came out, I immediately transferred my entire CD collection. When touchscreens became mainstream, I was fascinated by the simple act of interacting directly with my bare fingers.
Technology, to me, has always meant more ways to build, to think, to interact. More room to imagine and to connect.
So when ChatGPT was launched, I felt the same surge of curiosity. I experimented endlessly. I even conducted an interview with it on climate change back in 2023, just to see what would happen(!!!).
And yet… this time and now, something feels slightly different.
A simple question
I’m not worried about machines replacing humans like in the sci-fi genre. And I’m certainly not against technology. I’m still fascinated by what AI makes possible.
But I find myself wondering something else.
When tools can write beautifully phrased posts, generate emotionally charged content, even craft thoughtful vulnerability: what remains distinctly human in the way we show up in our businesses?
Scrolling through Instagram or LinkedIn, I sometimes feel a quiet unease. Not because ‘being vulnerable’ is a trend. Trends have always existed. But because it’s becoming harder to sense where the human begins and the tool ends.
I sometimes wonder: whose perspective is truly behind this post? how can we tell whether what we’re reading is from someone’s mind and lived thinking or the whole piece is generated by machines?
If AI can produce competent, coherent content at scale, how do we let people feel that a real human is standing behind the work? And more importantly, how do we make visible the depth, perspective, and lived experience that only humans can carry?
Nothing catastrophic. Nothing dystopian.
Just a simple but disturbing question.
Some early thoughts
These are not conclusions. Below are some early observations and thoughts in progress.
If it’s becoming harder to sense where the human begins and the tool ends, then maybe the way forward isn’t to reject technology. Maybe it’s to amplify what technology cannot fully replicate. Then AI becomes our co-worker. We strive to make progress together, not against one another.
Here’s what I’m currently exploring.
- Embracing imperfection as a signal of life
Maybe being human in business will mean allowing a bit more nuance.
Leaving a sentence slightly imperfect. Some cranky grammar.
Sharing an idea before it’s fully resolved.
Letting thinking unfold in public instead of presenting only polished conclusions.
It’s not a sign of being careless. Or sloppy. But visibly alive.
AI is good at producing clean, coherent outputs.
Humans, on the other hand, hesitate.
Contradict themselves. Trip. Evolve.
Perhaps that sharing the evolution becomes part of the signal.
2. Tapping into emotions (but not the way you think)
AI has become good at mimicking empathy. It can write with vulnerability. It can generate intensity. It can simulate emotion in a way that is convincing.
Perhaps that’s why we are seeing an increasing display of emotions on social media. Intensity has become a style. Vulnerability has become a currency.
But when emotion is easy to generate (and replicate) something shifts.
Endless emotional expression, especially when it carries no visible stakes, can begin to feel like a performance. And when everything feels emotionally charged, trust doesn’t deepen. It can quietly erode.
Displaying emotion is part of being human.
But displaying emotion publicly has always involved risk.
Risk of being misunderstood. Risk of being judged. Risk of standing by what you feel.
That risk comes with a personal cost. One that machines do not comprehend (at least not yet).
So what if our edge is not emotional performance, but emotional risk?
3. Choosing presence
Whenever possible, choose in-person conversations.
Remember conversations in the same room with voices that hesitate slightly before finishing a thought. Messages carried through eye contact and body language. The vibrancy of humans sharing the same space.
Think of a pop-up store. A trunk show. An open-door workshop.
People touching the products. Asking spontaneous questions. Laughing. Disagreeing. Sharing stories you never anticipated.
Moments that are not recorded. Not optimized. Not immediately turned into content.
There is something about being together in the same space that machines cannot reproduce. Not because they lack sophistication, but because they lack human energy.
And that energy leaves a trace.
Being in the same room changes the texture of interaction. Attention deepens. Nuance becomes perceptible. But more importantly, the connection becomes memorable.
We remember how someone made us feel in a room. We remember the vibe, the hesitation, the laughter, sometimes the awkwardness or the tension. These memories build relational depth over time, something far harder to automate.
Maybe choosing presence isn’t nostalgic.
Maybe it’s strategic.
4. Seeking depth over audience
Just for a moment unplug your brain from the social media metrics
Forget about engagement. Followers. Reach.
But seek relationships.
Relationships with people who know your tone.
Who can sense when something sounds unlike you.
Who have shared context and memory with you.
In a world where visibility is increasingly easy to scale, depth becomes more valuable.
AI can help us expand our reach. It can optimize distribution. It can increase output.
But it cannot build shared history.
Shared history is what accumulates when people witness your evolution over time. When they see you change your mind. Refine your thinking. Stay consistent in some areas and contradictory in others. When they remember not just what you said, but when and why you said it.
And that accumulation changes everything.
It changes how your words are interpreted. It creates nuance. It creates generosity in reading. It creates trust. Not because everything you say is perfect, but because people understand the arc behind it.
Depth is not intensity. It is continuity.
That kind of continuity is difficult to automate.
And it may become one of the most valuable differentiators of all.
My own edge? (at least for the time being)
If I’m going to ask you this question, I should try to answer it myself.
So…
I don’t think my edge is knowledge. Or credentials. Or even expertise in one narrow field.
If anything, it might be my contradictions.
I’ve worked in investment banking and in sustainability. In fashion and in finance. I move between spreadsheets and regenerative thinking without feeling the need to resolve the tension completely.
That tension is not optimized. It’s lived.
Perhaps my edge is my willingness to think in public. To dip my toes into various subjects. To try to connect ideas from different fields. To share ideas before they are perfectly formed. To revise them openly. To let people see the evolution rather than only the conclusion.
Or maybe it’s simply this: a body of lived experience that no large language model has inhabited. Years of decisions, mistakes, learnings, pivots, doubts, and convictions that shape how I interpret the world.
I can use AI. I do use AI. But AI cannot replace the arc of my own lived context.
And maybe that arc is the real differentiator.
Work in progress
These are thoughts in motion.
Technology is evolving quickly. I know I’m far from fully understanding what this acceleration means for me, for my work and for the broader world I’m part of.
I expect my thinking to evolve with it. So these are not conclusions here, I am continuously exploring a territory that feels increasingly important.
Perhaps I’ll refine this. Perhaps I’ll change my mind on parts of it. That, too, is part of being human.
But for now, this is the question that keeps returning:
In a world where intelligence can be generated, scaled, and optimized… what remains unmistakably human?
I’d genuinely love to hear your perspective.
What feels deeply human in your work?
What carries stakes, presence, history?
What is your human edge?