This Is My Work. And I Had Help.

Wellness Wednesday Series

When I was in third grade, I had to write a paper on acid rain.

I remember working really hard on it. And I also remember my mom working pretty hard on it too. ;)

We collaborated. I understood everything that was in the paper, and I actually loved the process of learning and writing it alongside her.

When I got the paper back, though, there was a note from my teacher at the top in red pen. I can’t remember the exact words anymore, but it was something along the lines of:

This isn’t your work. Your mom must have helped you.

I remember feeling embarrassed. I also remember my mom being pretty irritated.

Looking back, I can understand my teacher’s skepticism. If that paper looked significantly different from the rest of my third-grade work, she probably wanted to make sure I was actually doing my own work.

I’ve been thinking about that acid rain paper lately because of the conversations happening around AI and writing.

So I thought I would tell you exactly how things get written here at Here & Human Wellness.

As I’m writing this, the sun is starting to come up. It’s 5:45 a.m., and I’m walking.

For whatever reason, walking seems to open up my brain. It’s where nearly everything I write begins. In fact, I don’t think I’ve written much of anything for this Substack sitting at a desk. Apparently I need an open sky, crickets chirping, trees swaying in the morning breeze, and somewhere to walk in order to think.

So I walk and write. Sometimes I type into my Notes app. Sometimes I talk into my phone. I get the story, the ideas, the questions, and what I’m trying to say out of my head.

And then I bring it to AI.

I have a ChatGPT space specifically for Here & Human Wellness, and that’s where the second part of my writing process happens. I upload what I’ve written, and then ChatGPT and I work on it together.

We smooth things out. Move things around. Notice where something isn’t quite tracking. I might ask whether a section is necessary or whether I’m repeating myself. Sometimes it suggests language and I say, Nope, I would never say that. Sometimes it helps me find a clearer way to say something I’ve been circling around for three paragraphs.

And I go back and forth with it, often for a couple of hours spread throughout the week, until the piece feels right.

That last part matters.

I’m pretty protective of what and how thing are said. I don’t want AI deciding what I think, putting words in my mouth, or turning something personal into something polished or generic. I want the stories, observations, questions, and conclusions here to actually be what came from here.

This process reminds me of that acid rain paper. The process with my mom was collaborative. The difference is that now I’m 48; my mom isn’t sitting next to me helping clean up my sentences. :)

Before AI, I wrote blogs as a faculty member at Saint Louis University and later for my nutrition practice. I did essentially the same process: write, reread, rearrange, rewrite, cut, reread again…but it took me significantly longer.

AI has shortened that part of the process tremendously.

And that matters because most of what I write here is free. Yes, there is a $5/month paid option for this Substack, which I deeply appreciate, but it certainly doesn’t cover the hours that go into writing these pieces.

AI has made it possible for me to take something I think about on a morning walk and turn it into something I can actually share. And doing that in a timely fashion helps it feel alive and relevant.

So I wanted to be transparent about that.

The experiences, ideas and questions are mine. The first messy collection of words is mine. The final decision about every word you read is mine.

And AI is part of the editing room.

Maybe that’s something we writers need to talk about, not simply whether AI was involved, but how it was involved.

Because there’s a pretty big difference between asking a machine to write something for you and using a tool to help you more clearly express something you already wanted to say.

I learned something about that distinction in third grade.

Although, to be fair, my acid rain paper probably was suspiciously good.

Sorry, Mrs. Riveria. My mom definitely helped! ;)