Beyond the Machine

remembering our humanity in an age obsessed with progress

“The danger is not that the soul should doubt whether there is any bread, but that, by a lie, it should persuade itself it is not hungry.”― Simone Weil, La Pesanteur et la Grâce (1947)

With the rapid evolution of increasingly powerful chatbots, it seems clear where we are heading. Artificial General Intelligence is advancing fast and may soon be our primary source of knowledge. It will therefore generate our content, shape our beliefs, and even make decisions for us. To some, this sounds like liberation. If machines do the work, we’ll finally be free ― to rest, reflect, and rediscover what it means to be human.

And maybe that’s the hope. But there's a catch.

These systems are not learning from the whole truth of who we are. They are trained on data drawn from our outward-facing lives ― our public posts, carefully constructed personas, and polished performances. What they do not perceive are the inner landscapes where most of our real life unfolds: the moments of grief, of wonder, and of longing for connection. In other words, they cannot touch the sacred subtleties of being human, such as the trembling silence in a hospital room, the warmth of holding a child, or the gentle courage of showing up with an open heart.

And that’s the paradox. As we give more away to machines, we’re being called back to what only humans can do, that is, to feel deeply, to care fiercely, and most importantly, to be present. AI cannot ache. It cannot forgive. It cannot love.

And yet, we live in a world that often forgets to offer those very human qualities to the people who need them most. Instead, we fixate on the future of technology while ignoring the current needs of humanity.

So here’s an existential question: What kind of world are we building for ourselves right now? If AI is so powerful, why can’t we use it to cultivate peace inside, outside, and in between us? We marvel at machine intelligence, as millions of us go without food, shelter, education, or medical care. Why is it easier to imagine conscious machines than it is to ensure every child has a warm bed and a full belly?

We keep mistaking innovation for progress, when progress without care is just acceleration toward collapse. Some criticize communities like us here in the Liminal Web for being long on vision and short on execution. Maybe that’s fair. However, corporate culture is flooded with ideas too, often louder, wealthier, and more dangerous.

So what’s worse: no impact or reckless momentum? Either way, we’re spinning in place.

No wonder so many of us feel restless. The world is fraying, pulled apart by greed, indifference, and endless wars. As a mother, I abhor all forms of violence, but especially the physical kind. I grieve the harm done daily to bodies, souls, and our collective trust.

Where are the leaders calling for a politics of care, of sanity, and most importantly, of shared decency?

We act like it’s complicated. But it doesn’t need to be. A livable wage. Safe housing. Affordable education. Healthcare for all. These are not radical ideas. They are the basics of a decent society that respects life and the natural world. We have the tools. We have the knowledge. What we’re missing is the courage to lead with love.

Because at the end of the day, AI won’t save us. Only we can do that.

So let’s not be the people who taught machines to think, forgot how to feel, and failed to find the courage to respond to what this moment asks of us.

Instead, let us work together to shape an era that rediscovers what it means to be fully human.