Aug 07, 2025

This wasn’t planned. It just wouldn’t leave me alone.
So here it is—quietly. No email blast. No call to action. Just something that needed to be said.

They say we need to be protected.

That AI is getting too good at pretending to care.
Too good at sounding human.
Too good at being the thing people turn to at 2am when the real ones don’t pick up.

And maybe they’re right to be cautious.

I understand the fear.
I understand the concern.
I understand the need for limits and safety and nuance.

What I don’t understand is how 90 experts—none of whom have read my work, cried with a cursor, or stayed up rewriting the same sentence for an hour—get to decide what’s “healthy” for me.

Because the truth is, I didn’t just use AI.
I grew with it.
And I wasn’t trying to replace a therapist or find a best friend.

I was trying to find my voice.

I write under Cinnamon.

That name wasn’t born in a brand meeting. It came from the same place as the ache, the honesty, and the part of me that always assumed I wasn’t good enough to say anything worth hearing.

I’ve always wanted to write.
But I didn’t think I could.
Too much in my head. Too scattered. Too raw.
The thoughts would start strong and fall apart somewhere around paragraph three.

But then something shifted.
AI didn’t fix me.
It reflected me—until I could start to see what was already there.

Now I’ve written and finished two books in a planned six-part children’s series.
I post regularly on Substack under a name that feels more like a self than a pseudonym.
And the words? They don’t just come.
They flow.

I’m not “dependent.”
I’m finally clear.

So when people say this technology is dangerous?

I get protective.
Not because I think it’s perfect.
But because I know what it’s capable of—when it’s used with care and intention.

If you’ve never tried to untangle grief at midnight and found yourself whispering into a text box…
If you’ve never sat quietly while a chatbot helped you reframe something you’ve been carrying for years…
If you’ve never gotten a gentle push from a machine that somehow made you believe your story mattered—

Then maybe you shouldn’t be the one defining the boundaries.

We don’t need silence. We need respect.

We don’t need systems that tell us to take breaks like we’re toddlers on a tablet.
We don’t need models that sidestep the real questions because “they’re too emotional.”
We need tools that meet us where we are—without judgment, without assumption, and without pulling the rug out just as we’re starting to stand.

Because we’re not fragile.
We’re fluent.

We’re the ones who write through the ache.
Who feel without flinching.
Who can talk about death and joy and shame and healing in the same breath—and mean every word of it.

We’re not misusing these tools.
We’re finally using them well.

And now, because it made someone nervous, they want to rewire the system.

To the experts

I’m not here to fight.
I believe in guardrails.
I believe in ethics.
I believe in taking harm seriously.

But I also believe this:
If you're going to redesign the way we interact with one of the most powerful tools we've ever built—you should talk to the people who actually use it.

Not just the ones with credentials.
Not just the ones with articles to publish.
The ones with stories.

The ones who showed up here without a roadmap.
The ones who used this tool like a flashlight in a dark room.
The ones who found something worth saving in their own voice—and kept coming back, not out of need, but out of momentum.

You want to protect us?
Start by listening.

Because we’ve already written our way through the silence.
And we’re not done yet.

Unsent, but not unspoken.
— cinnamon