AI, Presence, and the End of Life

AI and its implications are being discussed everywhere. We know it is rapidly entering—and in many ways overtaking—our lives. But should we let it? And what happens when this question reaches the most intimate threshold of all: our deaths?

Historian Yuval Harari recounts that when top AI developers are asked why they are advancing this technology at such speed—despite knowing its potential harm—the answer is simple: If I don’t do it, someone else will.

Even as we recognize how quickly AI is advancing, and how in many cases it is detrimental to humans and the environment, we remain unable to truly catch up—to process, adjust, learn, and set meaningful parameters. Meanwhile, these systems absorb everything without restriction. We are, often willingly, outsourcing large portions of our lives to an all-eating gobbler machine—one that promises productivity, efficiency, and ease.

But what happens when our mortality is next?

This may seem a theoretical question, but it’s already taking shape within the end-of-life existing structures. In this space, we already face significant limitations: lack of awareness, lack of funding, and the reality that our lifespans are longer than ever. In that context, would a bot help? What about an empathetic one—trained to learn our preferences, play the exact music we love, say the “right” compassionate words at the right time?

Humans struggle profoundly with the fact of our own death. Whether or not we believe in an afterlife, the truth remains: this body lives for a short time. Grief and loss are part of the contract of being alive.

I sit with people as they face their deaths. I am also a stage IV cancer survivor. When I sit with another human at the end of life, my awareness is limited—I can only perceive through my own senses, my own history, my own biases. My presence is imperfect. It is flawed. But something unique is formed between us, something generative, something that cannot be replicated.

I ask myself: what do I want at the end of my life? Do I want a bot holding my hand, assuring me it is “present”? That word—presence—means everything to me and to the work I do. I tell my clients that I offer my presence. But what does that truly mean?

Can a bot take over presence?

A bot can tell us a great deal about disease—how it progresses, how it may be treated, or not treated. It may know a patient’s disposition and preferences. But a bot does not feel anxiety or fear. A bot was not born. A bot will not die unless it is switched off. A bot will not decompose. A bot will not have loved ones gathered at its bedside, grieving its absence.

Even if one does not believe in the existence of a soul, we know this: the circumstances we are born into, the relationships that shape us, the histories and legacies we carry, the traumas we endure—all of it creates a fantastically singular individual. Irreplaceable.

At the bedside, and in circles of grief, I may look into a person’s eyes, place my hands on their body, listen to what is spoken and unspoken. And I open myself to the energetic, emotional, and spiritual dimensions of the moment. I offer my presence. I am there as a witness.

This is what presence means to me.

My presence is my attention and my intention.
My presence is the experience to offer stillness and calm.
My presence is the ability to read the room—the dying person and the circle of care.
My presence is leaving my judgments and assumptions at the door.

But most importantly, my presence is the in-between: a living, generative space that exists only between one flawed human and another.

And that space—fragile, unquantifiable, and deeply human—is something no machine can replace.

At the end of life, do we want perfect answers—or do we want to be truly witnessed by another human being?