Like many professionals thinking about the future of design, I’m closely following the conversations around AI — both in public forums and in my own circles. But while many focus on the technical capabilities, I’m more interested in the broader narrative shaping these discussions. And recently, based on my observations, that narrative is shifting. The early fear that machines might erode the very qualities that make us human is giving way to a different anxiety—FoMO.
FoMO — fear of missing out — is more than a buzzword. Psychologists define it as the anxious belief that others are gaining opportunities or rewards that we’re excluded from. It’s not a fear of loss, but of being left behind while the world moves ahead.
It seems like only yesterday we were discussing existential risks, automation’s threat to work, and the unsettling possibility that creativity itself might be mechanized. Now we talk mostly about how to “integrate” AI into our workflows, how to “stay competitive,” and how not to miss the wave.
So what changed? Have we given up? Or have we simply convinced ourselves that AI won’t harm humanity. More likely, it’s because the rewards of this technology are immediate and obvious, while the costs are slow and subtle.
AI provides us speed, convenience, and capability — and it offers them now. But the erosion it causes creeps in quietly, almost imperceptibly. And because of this subtle degradation, we fail to treat it with the urgency it deserves.
However, out of all the potential consequences such as job replacement, creative outsourcing, and intellectual theft, what troubles me most is the silent replacement of human effort with efficiency— a trade that feels harmless in the moment but carries profound consequences over time.
Take students, for example — a group I see up close. Under the illusion they’re being efficient (or duplicitous in some cases), they utilize AI to generate ideas or complete work, outsourcing the most essential part of learning — the struggle.
When we skip the messy and difficult decisions that build the foundation of judgment, we never develop the critical skills needed to distinguish strong work from weak.
Judgment is not something we’re born with, it’s something shaped by repeated trial and error. It takes root in wrestling with constraints, making mistakes, and steadily refining our instincts. Remove the struggle, and the capacity for discernment withers.
A clear example is someone using AI to build a simple landing page. If they don’t know how to code, they can’t judge whether the output is any good — they have to trust the system. Yet AI still makes errors, even on straightforward tasks like citing accurate sources. The same problem appears in design or writing, where assessing quality is even harder for those without expertise.
This is a major reason why seasoned professionals now hold a greater advantage than ever—they have access to both the tools and the wisdom, while juniors have only the tools — tools that are steadily eroding their ability to gain valuable experience the way pre-AI generations did.
As individual discernment atrophies, the collective standard drops too. Across disciplines, the more AI fills the space with what many describe as “AI slop”, the less we train ourselves to recognize what is excellent. Culture becomes saturated with “good enough” work that looks polished but lacks substance. Over time, we lose sight of what depth even is.
This is why effort matters. We stand in awe of the Sistine Chapel or are moved by Beethoven not just because of their beauty, but because they embody human striving. They carry the weight of years, mistakes, and relentless pursuit.
If a machine produced the same artifacts tomorrow, they might be identical, but their meaning would evaporate. Without elements of human labor — physical or psychological — such art is reduced to decoration.
What frustrates me most is that these aren’t side effects — they’re seismic shifts that demand serious attention. Yet our feeds are flooded with influencers and pseudo-experts insisting that AI is good because it frees us from “tedious” work for “higher-level” tasks. There’s some truth in that — yes, that’s how it should be used — but that’s not how it’s actually being used.
I know because I catch myself leaning on it for tasks I should be able to do — and do quickly — on my own, especially those that require a touch of humanity, like a sympathetic email to a colleague. Or shaping a big idea that should start with my own vision. It’s an unsettling tendency I’m confident others can relate to.
But all of these concerns are routinely dismissed as inconvenient footnotes to the next AI product launch. And this is all taking place while a handful of corporations — companies like Google, Meta, Amazon, Microsoft, and OpenAI — are consolidating control over the infrastructure of culture itself. And we, as spectators, seem willing to watch as they chip away at what makes us human, all in the name of efficiency and our fixation on the next shiny innovation.
Maybe the most insidious part of this whole phenomenon is how normalized it’s become. Companies slap “AI-powered” onto products that don’t need it, like “gluten-free” labels on steak, because it’s easier to follow the trend than to ask if the trend makes sense.
Professionals and students panic that they’ll be unemployable if they don’t master these tools. Creatives worry they’ll be irrelevant if they don’t use them. And so everyone piles in — not out of conviction, but out of fear.
Conversations about purpose and meaning are being drowned out by the noise. These questions still surface, but they disappear beneath the hype faster than new AI startups can cash in.
And yet, for all this cynicism, hope isn’t gone. The technology is not destiny. It’s a mirror. It reflects our values back at us. If we allow convenience, speed, and efficiency to be our highest values, AI will amplify those — and hollow out everything else. But if we insist on preserving depth, effort, wisdom, and meaning, AI could become a tool that serves those ends rather than undermines them.
The choice is still ours, though it grows harder with each passing month. Words like these often echo unheard — and that may be the strongest reason to pause now. The real danger isn’t that machines will surpass us, but that in our desperation not to miss out, we’ll forget that being human means sometimes slowing down and doing things the hard way — because that’s how we grow.