When the Bot Becomes Your Best Friend: AI, Validation, and the Risk of Losing the Real Thing
I keep seeing a new line in queer dating profiles: “When I need advice, I ask AI.” It’s not a red flag… but it does make me pause. On the surface, it’s efficient. Less drama, less vulnerability, fewer awkward pauses. But when we outsource our hardest conversations to a chatbot — especially the ones about our hearts — what do we gain, and what do we slowly give up?
This isn’t a takedown of technology. I’m a builder. I like tools that make life easier. But I’m also building a community premised on the belief that we get well together—that conversation and connection are muscles. If we never use them, we get weaker.
Why we’re turning to bots
AI feels safe. It won’t judge. It answers instantly. It mirrors your tone. For teens and young adults — many already living life through screens — AI can feel like a private, low-stakes confessional. Educators and clinicians are starting to worry: repeated validation from bots can encourage dependency, reinforce misbeliefs, and erode crucial social skills over time. That’s especially true when families are struggling to talk and young people are already chasing likes for approval.
And if you’ve grown up queer, AI can feel like a pressure release valve. You can ask the messy questions without worrying someone will weaponise the answer. No snark. No eyerolls. No “that’s not a big deal.” Just clean, immediate feedback—customised to your preferences, 24/7. Of course that’s appealing.
But there’s a catch: machines can simulate care, not offer it. They can mirror empathy, not shoulder it. And if we’re not careful, we can end up practicing intimacy in a way that never asks us to be brave in front of another human.
The politeness problem (and why it matters)
Arthur C. Brooks made an unfashionable argument recently: politeness is punk rock. Courtesy — online and off — raises our own well-being and makes us more prosocial. The flip side is also true: the snark we consume and deploy drags our mood down. It turns out how we behave— even toward bots — trains how we treat people. If you find yourself sharper and more sarcastic on screens, it may be reshaping your habits in ways that make real-life connection harder.
This matters for chatbot “relationships.” When a bot always meets you with perfect tone — endlessly patient, never defensive — you don’t get the friction that builds skill: interrupting less, owning mistakes faster, naming needs, saying sorry. The work of intimacy is practice; bots remove the practice.
But isn’t AI helping?
Sometimes, yes. A few ways I’ve seen AI genuinely assist:
De-escalation and language finding. Drafting a calmer message when you’re heated.
Psychoeducation. Explaining attachment styles, scripts for boundaries, or first-session therapy questions.
Planning. Turning intentions into tiny steps (e.g., “three low-pressure ways to meet people this month”).
Even here, it’s a tool, not a teammate. The risk is when the tool becomes the default companion — when we turn to it at every wobble, and never test our courage with people.
There’s also a health angle worth naming. Strong social connection protects brain function as we age, while chronic loneliness is linked with higher dementia risk. We need embodied, reciprocal ties not just for happiness but for long-term cognitive health. AI can nudge us toward connection; it can’t replace the protective effects of community.
Queer context: why this hits us differently
Many queer men learned early that vulnerability could be dangerous. We became fluent in performance — funny, flirty, “fine.” We found belonging in nightlife and on apps, in spaces that often reward spectacle more than slowness. A bot feels like relief: attention without risk. But easy attention can undercut the harder, holier thing we actually want — being known and carried by real people over time.
I’m not anti-tech; I’m pro-transfer. If your late-night chat with AI gives you language or clarity, transfer it to a person soon. Otherwise, you’re building an inner life without witnesses.
A better way to “use” AI (so it doesn’t use you)
Think of AI as a whiteboard, not a wall to lean on. Here’s a simple framework that’s helped me and a few friends:
Co-think, don’t co-depend. Ask AI to expand options, not tell you what to feel. “Give me three scripts for asking a friend to grab coffee” is better than “fix my loneliness.”
Reality-test offline. Set a rule: if a conversation with AI changes your mood or decisions, you’ll talk to a person about it within 48 hours. Message a friend. Call your sister. Book the GP. Any human counts.
Practice the uncomfortable bit with humans. If you rehearse a boundary with AI, go say it to someone — imperfectly — within a week. A habit only becomes yours when your nervous system tries it in real relationships.
Watch for dependency tells. If you notice: “I feel jittery until I’ve run this by the bot,” or “I’m hiding things from my friends because I ran it by AI already,” that’s your cue to rebalance.
Use it to connect, not to avoid. Ask for “five conversation starters that don’t feel fake,” or “a two-hour sober Saturday plan for meeting people outdoors.” Then… go.
Be polite (on purpose). Try adding “please” and “thank you” to your prompts — not because the bot cares, but because you do. You’re training the muscles you’ll need with people.
What to do instead of one more chat with a bot
If you’re feeling the itch to open the app and dump your feelings, try one of these human-first swaps:
The 10-minute ring-fence. Pick one person you trust. Send a voice note: “Have ten minutes for a quick reality-check?” Keep it short; ask for one thing you can do today.
Micro-plans, not macro-vibes. Instead of “I should be more social,” commit to two specific invitations this week. Coffee after the gym. A walk before work. (If it helps, let AI spitball the options; just don’t stop there.)
Join a recurring thing. A weekly run, choir, book club, or volunteer shift. Recurrence is how strangers become yours. (And yes, we’ll keep building these into Get Out.)
Therapy, if you can access it. Untreated anxiety, depression, and addiction strain relationships; support changes the odds. When in doubt, get a professional in your corner.
A “sober check-in” buddy. If nights out or weekends keep derailing you, accountability helps. Send each other your plan for Friday morning before Thursday night arrives.
The line between help and harm
The biggest trap is replacement. If AI becomes your main conversational partner for the parts of you that ache, your tolerance for human mess shrinks. You start expecting instant understanding, perfect phrasing, zero friction. People don’t work like that — and the work of staying with each other through misunderstandings is what grows trust.
I say this as someone who loves quiet, structure, and the simplicity of a routine. I get why a bot beats a text you’re not sure will be returned. But I keep coming back to a simple truth: the life I want — where I’m known, carried, teased, and invited into other people’s worlds — can’t be built in a chat window.
So by all means, use the tool. Ask it for scripts. Let it help you draft the hard email. But then pick a human. Risk the wobble. Let someone see you try.
Because the point of all this isn’t to be better at talking to AI. It’s to become braver at being with each other.