Is AI Exposing Flaws In How We Define Our Value?

As artificial intelligence challenges what we do, perhaps it's time to reconsider how we determine what we're worth.

I recently listened to an episode of The Daily exploring the impact of artificial intelligence on mathematics. What struck me wasn't simply the extraordinary capability of the technology, but the existential questions it raised for people who have devoted their lives to mastering something that machines may soon be able to do better. If you've spent decades developing a skill, building expertise, and establishing an identity around your intellectual contributions, what happens when a machine can replicate much of that work?

Who are you when the thing you've always been exceptional at is no longer particularly exceptional?

It's an unsettling question. And I suspect it's one more and more of us will be confronting.

Much of the conversation surrounding AI has understandably focused on employment. Which jobs will disappear? Which industries will change? How will people support themselves when technology can perform work that previously required years of education and experience? These concerns are legitimate. The economic disruption could be enormous, and we have good reason to question whether the benefits will be shared fairly.

But I wonder if there's another question we should be asking: What if the problem isn't that AI is threatening our value as human beings, but that we've spent too long measuring human value by the very things AI is learning to do?

Americans have a complicated relationship with work. We don't simply work to support our lives. For many of us, work has become the organizing principle around which we construct them. We introduce ourselves through our professions. We measure progress through promotions, income, credentials, and accomplishments. We often understand our place in the world through what we contribute economically. Even the seemingly harmless question, "What do you do?" reflects how instinctively we associate identity with occupation.

And there's nothing inherently wrong with that. Meaningful work can offer purpose, connection, intellectual stimulation, and a sense of contribution. But there's a difference between finding meaning in what we do and depending on what we do to establish our worth.

I think that distinction has become increasingly difficult for many Americans to maintain. We talk about wanting balance, connection, and presence. We want to be intentional about how we spend our time. We want meaningful relationships and lives that feel fulfilling.

But we're also trying to advance professionally, meet financial expectations, maintain our lifestyles, and keep pace with a culture that rarely seems satisfied with enough.

For some, this pressure is driven by ambition. For others, it's driven by economic necessity. And for many, it's some combination of the two. Either way, we live in a society where productivity is rewarded, achievement is celebrated, and rest often feels like something we have to earn. We've become remarkably skilled at optimizing our lives without necessarily asking whether the lives we're optimizing are the ones we want to be living. And now we're developing technology that may fundamentally change what human productivity is worth. Perhaps that disruption is revealing just how much of our identity we've invested in something that was never a particularly stable measure of human value.

I spend a great deal of time thinking about the relationship between the environments we live in and the ways our nervous systems respond to them. Human beings have developed extraordinary technological capabilities, but our fundamental biological needs haven't changed nearly as quickly. Our nervous systems evolved to help us identify threats, maintain safety, and navigate relationships with other people. The same stress-response systems that helped our ancestors survive physical danger can be activated by modern experiences that threaten our sense of security, belonging, or status. We no longer need to worry much about saber-toothed tigers, but an uncomfortable interaction with a colleague, a critical email, or even a snarky waiter can trigger a surprisingly powerful physiological response.

Our bodies aren't incapable of distinguishing between these experiences. But perceived social threats can still activate real stress responses.

Now consider the environment we've created. We're constantly accessible. We're exposed to an endless stream of information. We're comparing our lives with other people's carefully curated versions of theirs. We're navigating economic uncertainty while trying to meet professional, familial, and social expectations. And we're doing all of this while trying to be good partners, parents, friends, neighbors, and members of our communities.

It's a lot. We talk frequently about mindfulness, intentionality, boundaries, and self-care. But we often approach these things as additional tasks to accomplish within systems that leave us chronically overwhelmed. We're trying to regulate ourselves without necessarily reconsidering the conditions contributing to our dysregulation. Perhaps the issue isn't simply that we need better coping strategies. Perhaps we also need to reconsider what we're asking ourselves to cope with.

There's something particularly interesting about the fact that AI is becoming increasingly capable of performing tasks we've historically associated with human intelligence. It can write, reason through problems, analyze complex information, and generate creative work. And as those capabilities expand, we may find ourselves questioning whether the things we've traditionally celebrated as evidence of human exceptionalism are quite as uniquely human as we imagined. But intelligence and productivity are only parts of the human experience. We are relational beings.

Human connection can activate our stress responses, but it can also help regulate them. Our relationships influence how safe, understood, supported, and connected we feel. The experience of being comforted by someone we trust, laughing with a friend, feeling understood by a partner, or sharing a meaningful experience with another person is not simply an exchange of information. It is a biological, emotional, and relational experience.

Research has consistently demonstrated the importance of social connection to our physical and psychological health. The U.S. Surgeon General's 2023 advisory on loneliness and isolation emphasized that meaningful relationships are fundamental to human well-being.

And yet, despite our extraordinary technological connectivity, many people struggle to experience the kind of connection they need. We've developed remarkable tools for communicating with one another, but those tools haven't necessarily made us feel more connected.

AI may eventually become extraordinarily convincing at simulating human interaction. It may provide comfort, companionship, and meaningful support in ways we're only beginning to understand. But there remains a meaningful distinction between interacting with technology and participating in the mutual vulnerability, responsibility, and lived experience of a human relationship. Perhaps as machines become better at doing the things we've historically valued for their productivity, we'll begin to appreciate more fully the parts of life that aren't about producing anything at all.

Of course, none of this means AI will automatically improve our lives. In fact, it could make many of the problems I'm describing considerably worse. If technological advancements result in widespread job displacement, greater economic inequality, and increasing pressure on those who remain employed, we may find ourselves even more anxious, isolated, and overwhelmed. A person struggling to pay their mortgage isn't likely to find much comfort in being told that losing their job offers an opportunity to reconsider their identity.

Economic security matters. Meaningful employment matters. And the consequences of technological change deserve serious attention. But I think we should be careful not to confuse protecting people's livelihoods with preserving every assumption we've made about the role work should play in our lives.

If AI allows us to accomplish in two hours what once required eight, what will we do with the other six? Will we simply expect people to produce four times as much? Will we continue measuring success primarily through economic output, even as human labor becomes less central to producing it? Or could we begin to reconsider what progress actually means? Could increased productivity translate into more time with our families, greater participation in our communities, more opportunities for creativity, and less chronic stress? Could we create economic systems that allow people to benefit from technological advancements without requiring them to remain constantly productive to justify their security? Could we begin to value caregiving, community participation, mentorship, and the work of maintaining relationships with the same seriousness we assign to more easily measurable economic contributions?

These are not inevitable outcomes of artificial intelligence. They're choices. And they will require thoughtful public policy, economic protections, and a willingness to challenge some deeply ingrained cultural assumptions. Technology alone cannot create a society that values human well-being. But it may force us to decide whether that's actually what we want.

I don't know what the future of AI will look like. I'm not an artificial intelligence expert, and I'm certainly not suggesting that we should dismiss the very real threats associated with rapid technological change. But I do spend much of my professional life helping people examine the beliefs, expectations, and patterns that shape how they experience themselves and the world. And one thing I've learned is that people can become deeply attached to ways of understanding themselves that no longer serve them particularly well. We develop ideas about who we're supposed to be, what we're supposed to accomplish, and what it means to be successful. Over time, those ideas can become so familiar that we stop recognizing them as assumptions. We experience them as facts.

Maybe the arrival of AI is challenging one of our most deeply held cultural assumptions: that our value is closely tied to what we can accomplish. And maybe that challenge, while uncomfortable and potentially disruptive, is worth examining. Because if our worth depends on being smarter, faster, more productive, or more capable than the alternatives, we're building our sense of identity on an increasingly precarious foundation.

But what if our value isn't something we have to continually prove through achievement?

What if being human is enough to establish our worth, and our accomplishments are simply one of many ways we experience meaning and contribute to the world? That doesn't mean abandoning ambition or dismissing the importance of work. It means allowing work to be part of a meaningful life rather than the primary evidence that we've earned one.

Perhaps AI will give us an opportunity to revisit that distinction. And perhaps, if we're intentional about how we navigate the changes ahead, we might begin to create lives that are less organized around proving our value and more organized around experiencing it.

Lives with greater connection, more meaningful participation, and less pressure to constantly demonstrate that we're doing enough. I don't think AI will save us from ourselves.

But I wonder whether it might help us recognize something we've been overlooking. Maybe the most important question isn't what humans will do when machines can do so much of what we do. Maybe it's who we might become when we stop defining ourselves primarily by what we produce.