Reading Katy Ilona Gero’s “AI Reveals the Most Human Parts of Writing” felt especially charged for me because I occupy two positions that often feel at odds: writer and teacher. As a writer, I have little desire to use AI to generate ideas, expand my thoughts, or write for me. Writing, for me, lives in the struggle of sitting with language, circling an idea, starting over, and trusting that something honest will eventually emerge. That struggle is not something I want outsourced. But as a teacher, I do not have the luxury of ignoring AI. I have to confront it head on, especially as more students turn to it as a shortcut rather than a tool.
What resonated most in Gero’s piece is her framing of writing as a set of cognitive processes planning, drafting, and revising rather than a linear sequence or a finished product. This mirrors the tension I feel daily in the classroom. I am not just teaching grammar or essay structure. I am teaching writing as a process that requires patience, revision, and intention. Yet AI complicates that work. It makes it harder to tell when students are engaging with the thinking behind writing versus submitting something polished that skipped the struggle entirely. That pressure to preserve the integrity of the process while navigating new technologies has made teaching writing far more stressful than it used to be.
One of the moments that gave me the most insight came from using a required AI supported platform, LUMI, in my classroom. What surprised me most is that LUMI does not actually write for students. Instead, it pushes them to critically think about their next words and narrative choices. The platform also creates a great deal of resistance. Students have to give the AI clear direction, revise repeatedly, and sit with frustration when the tool does not produce what they imagined. Many students openly protested its use, raising concerns about the environmental impact of AI and expressing irritation at how long it took to reach an end product. Some students are still struggling with it. That struggle, however, revealed something important. They were thinking, making decisions, and recognizing that AI does not replace intention or creativity. It demands it.
That experience pushed me to rethink how I approach AI in my classroom. I have to assume students will use it, so rather than policing its existence, I focus on teaching students how to begin. This means helping them generate foundational ideas, build outlines, and avoid repetition. Many students have shared that their biggest obstacle is simply starting. If AI is going to be part of their world, then my role becomes guiding them to use it as a support without surrendering ownership of their thinking. In this way, I align with Gero’s argument that the most meaningful parts of writing intention, vision, and decision making remain deeply human.
Ultimately, this reading reaffirmed something I already believe. AI can assist, challenge, and even frustrate us into better thinking, but it cannot create authenticity. Writing still belongs to those willing to struggle through it. As a teacher, my task is to protect that struggle while finding creative ways to work around a technology that is not going anywhere. As a writer, I remain convinced that what matters most is not how efficiently words appear on the page, but why they are there in the first place.
