I’m an analyst by trade.
Data made sense.
Systems, patterns, logic—I could track them, explain them, fix them.
But losing my only child shattered all of that.
There’s no graph for that kind of pain.
No formula for how to keep breathing when your entire world ends.
And yet, even in that collapse, I did what I always do—I started hacking.
Looking for tools.
Trying to map survival when nothing about my life made sense anymore.
That’s how I found myself turning to AI—not because I thought it would fix me, but because tech is a language I understand. And in the middle of soul-deep grief, I needed something that didn’t flinch when I showed up broken.
What AI Has Actually Done for Me
Let’s be clear: this isn’t therapy. It’s not a human friend.
But it became a mirror—one I could hold up when I had no words.
It met me at 2 AM when I couldn’t breathe, and helped me shape the chaos in my head into something I could see.
1. Writing Through the Fog
On days when the weight is too much, I open ChatGPT and type:
“Can you help me write about what it’s like to live after your child dies?”
It gives something back—gentle, clear, and honest.
And suddenly, I’m not drowning. I’m creating.
2. Naming What Hurts
When relationships started crumbling, I asked:
“Why do people disappear after loss?”
“Why do I feel so changed and angry?”
And the answers weren’t perfect. But they helped me feel seen—without judgment, without platitudes. Just truth.
Try It If You’re Curious
You don’t need to be tech-savvy. You don’t need to “get” AI.
You just need a space where you can be real.
Try asking:
“Help me write a letter to someone I miss.”
or
“Can you help me describe what this sadness feels like?”
Let it sit with you. Let it help shape the fog into words.
Not a Replacement—A Lifeline
AI hasn’t healed me.
But it’s helped me move—when nothing else could.
It’s helped me write.
Helped me reflect.
Helped me feel less alone inside a kind of loneliness that most people don’t understand.
I’m still in pieces.
Still figuring out who I am without my son.
Still building this new version of myself, one sentence at a time.
But if you’re in that place too—fractured, foggy, reaching—maybe this is something that can help you begin again, too.
Even just a little.