The three things AI will never have

I got off the subway, and it was following me…

Every turn, every corner, every exit — the same yellow-orange ad, tiled across the stairs and walls like wallpaper.

"Midnight thoughts don't wait for your therapist to wake up."

Another AI therapy tool (sigh). It felt unsettling. Like it was hunting me. I thought about the times I catch myself saying "Claude says..." — and last week, when I asked my mom for advice, and she replied, "Well, ChatGPT thinks..."

Ten years of showing up for people in their hardest moments as a therapist. And for a second, standing in that station, it felt like an ad could wash all of it away. And then I took a breath (And Claude cannot do that). And I remembered three things.

Three things that cannot be coded, trained, or scaled.

Three things that ground me — and maybe you Test — as we navigate the current world.

1. It has no heart.

It cannot feel you. It cannot sit with you in the dark. It can generate warmth — but it cannot offer it.

2. It has no nervous system.

Coregulation — the felt sense of safety that comes from being near a calm other — requires a body. There is no shortcut for that.

3. It cannot truly say "I don't know."

AI fills the silence. Every time. That certainty, placed where uncertainty belongs, is its quiet arrogance — and our quiet loss. Test, take a moment to take this in. Some things live only in the body. Some things live only between bodies.

To be clear: AI can be of support. It can expand emotional vocabulary, make information more accessible, and help us find words for things we couldn't name. I don't want to dismiss that. But there are thresholds it cannot cross — in nervous system regulation, in the n'between spaces, in the untranslatable work of being truly seen by another person.

What we need right now — as n'betweeners navigating a disorienting world — is each other. Not a proxy for each other. We need our hearts to open. Our nervous systems to coregulate. And we need to practice — now more than ever — the humble, disarming act of saying I don't know.

Let's come home to one another. With our beautiful hearts, our tender nervous systems, and our willingness to not know.

Join us at RISE - the homecoming for our community of n'betweeners.

A connective space where all parts of you get to be seen — heart, nervous system, and the places you're still figuring out.

Reserve your place → Limited spots.

Real humans only.

Sending you a real hug.

Nora