The Algorithm and Our Uncertain Future

It’s funny how quickly things can shift. Last week felt…calm, in a way that only exists between panic spirals. Now? It feels like everyone is talking about something I barely understand, something that's already fundamentally altering the shape of what we do every day. They call it AI, and while I knew it was *happening*, I hadn’t grasped how pervasive it would become, how quickly the “future” became the present.

My uncle, who works in finance, started talking about it at Thanksgiving – well, that awkward family Zoom call where everyone tries to pretend they're interested in each other's lives. He was rattling off terms I didn’t know, discussing automation and algorithm efficiency like it was a new brand of coffee. It felt…distant. Like a concern for people who *didn’t* spend most of their time staring at a screen trying to figure out how to make words sound interesting.

Then Jacobs Pavilion happened. It wasn't about AI directly—it was an event, a celebration mostly – but afterward, seeing the lights reflected in the lake and hearing everyone buzzing with excitement, it felt… fragile. Like we were standing on the edge of something. And writing that blog post the next day? That’s when the feeling really solidified. It wasn't about understanding AI; it was about understanding *how* it would change things, how quickly the ground beneath us would rearrange itself.

My friend Sarah just got laid off from her marketing job. They said it was restructuring, streamlining—all those corporate buzzwords that translate to “a computer can do what you were paid to do.” She’s been trying to re-skill, taking online courses in data analysis, but the anxiety is palpable. It's not just about finding a new job; it’s about the feeling of obsolescence, of being deemed unnecessary. The worry that no matter how much she learns, something else will come along and make her irrelevant again.

I keep thinking about my parents, who genuinely struggle to use email sometimes. They worked for decades in industries that seemed secure, built on human connection and expertise. Now? It feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under them too. Their quiet concern isn't dramatic or explosive; it’s a slow-burning anxiety that settles in their shoulders and makes them sigh a little more often than they used to.

The worst part is this constant feeling of needing to *catch up*. There are articles, newsletters, podcasts—an endless stream of information about how AI will impact every facet of our lives. It’s overwhelming. I scroll through them for a while, telling myself I need to be informed, but then the anxiety just gets worse, fueling this panicked desire to learn everything, to prove that I'm not being left behind.

That blog post I wrote—the one with the twenty-seven readers—it was an attempt to articulate this feeling. The sense of unease isn’t about robots taking over the world; it’s about something much more subtle and insidious. It’s about losing control, about a future that feels dictated by forces beyond our understanding or influence. It's about the gnawing fear that all those years spent honing skills and building experience might ultimately be irrelevant.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm being dramatic, overly sensitive. But the weight of this shift is undeniable. What do you even prepare for when the goalposts are constantly moving? All I know is I’ll keep writing—even if only twenty-seven people read it—because sometimes, just putting these thoughts into words makes them a little less suffocating. And maybe, somewhere out there, someone else feels the same way.