“AI accidentally made me believe in the concept of a human soul by showing me what art looks like without it.” ~Unknown
What is intelligence?
I’ve asked this question all my life—as a teacher, a filmmaker, a researcher, and now, as someone losing my vision to macular degeneration.
I ask it when I watch students find their voice.
I ask it when I listen to a close friend of mine, a world-renowned cosmologist, whose knowledge seems limitless but whose humility runs even deeper. He can discuss black holes one minute and quote the Tao Te Ching the next. He doesn’t just know facts—he knows how to listen. He knows how to explain something complicated without making you feel small. That, to me, is real intelligence.
And yet… I’ve started to notice something strange.
Artificial Intelligence is beginning to resemble people like him. It can write fluent sentences. It can summarize books I haven’t read. Sometimes, it surprises me. And I find myself wondering: is this also intelligence?
What AI Gets Right—and What It Will Never Feel
Let me say this clearly: I’m grateful for AI. This very essay was shaped with its help. I have advanced macular degeneration. Proofreading my own writing is difficult—sometimes impossible. Tools like this are not a luxury for me. They are a gift. A lifeline. Without them, I wouldn’t be able to keep writing. For that, I’m thankful.
But there is a kind of intelligence that AI will never know.
It won’t feel the panic of forgetting your lines onstage, or the rush of remembering them mid-breath. It doesn’t lie awake at night wondering whether your work matters. It doesn’t weep when your mother no longer remembers your name. It doesn’t get nervous before a job interview. It hasn’t failed, or recovered, or loved.
It can help express a feeling, but it cannot have one.
A Tool, not a Mind
We call it “artificial intelligence,” but it’s more like artificial fluency. It’s fast. It’s competent. It can impress you. But it doesn’t know in the way we know. It hasn’t spent years practicing an instrument in the dark or teaching a student who doesn’t believe in themselves—until one day, they do. It doesn’t grow from experience.
It doesn’t grieve. It doesn’t heal. It doesn’t change.
So when people say, “AI is going to replace us,” I always wonder—which part of us? The part that fills out forms and writes reports or does other rutinary tasks? Maybe. But the part that authentically and honestly tells a story no one else can tell? Never.
Teaching Students to Show Up
In every class I’ve taught, I’ve said some version of this:
“Don’t stop at the research. Don’t stop at what AI gives you. Learn to show up in your work.”
Some students hide behind information. It’s safer. But I tell them: you are the meaning. You are the insight. You are the risk.
I once had a student who wrote a technically flawless paper. But it had no voice. When I asked her what it meant to her, she hesitated. Then she told me about her father, who had lived through the war the paper was about. Her entire relationship to the topic shifted in that moment. That was the real intelligence. Not the citations. Not the syntax. The courage to speak from the heart.
When Sight Fades, Something Else Comes into View
Losing your vision is not just about reading less. It’s about seeing differently. It’s about slowing down. Listening more. Learning to trust what you can’t verify with your eyes.
It has also deepened my appreciation for tools like AI. I rely on them every day. But I also notice their limits. They help with form, but not with essence. They clean the window, but they can’t show you what’s outside. That still requires you.
Intelligence Is Not the Same as Wisdom
My brilliant cosmologist friend once told me, “The more I learn, the more I realize how little I understand.”
AI doesn’t say things like that.
It doesn’t know humility. Or mystery. Or awe.
Intelligence, in the deepest sense, is not about control or answers. It’s about how we carry ourselves in uncertainty. It’s about grace under pressure. Presence in pain. Humor in despair. Kindness without reward. None of that shows up in a prompt.
The Final Lesson: Tools Don’t Replace Soul
If there’s one thing I’ve learned—through teaching, through vision loss, through using AI—it’s this:
A tool can help you build something. But it can’t tell you why it matters.
So yes, use the tools. Use AI. Let it support you. I do.
But never forget: you are more than the tool. You are the story behind the sentence. The silence between the notes. The reason the work matters at all.
That’s not artificial. That’s real.
And it’s irreplaceable.
About Tony Collins
Tony Collins is a documentary filmmaker, educator, and writer whose work explores creativity, caregiving, and personal growth. He is the author of: Windows to the Sea—a moving collection of essays on love, loss, and presence. Creative Scholarship—a guide for educators and artists rethinking how creative work is valued. Tony writes to reflect on what matters—and to help others feel less alone.
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