Finding my voice again at 97, with a little help from AI

I am 97 years old, and I’ve spent most of my life writing things down. Diaries, stories, poetry and long letters to my penpal.

But sometime in my early 90s, my hands stopped cooperating. The words in my mind stayed as lively as ever, but gripping a pen became more difficult.  At my age I didn’t expect to spend my mornings arguing with a computer about sentence structure or word choices.  Yet over the past few months, ChatGPT and I have been turning memories and 65-plus years of diaries into a memoir.  The process has given me something I didn’t know was missing: a way to revisit the life I lived.

My family had been gently trying to pull me into the 21st century for years. They bought me a smart phone and a computer and then an iPad that sat on the kitchen counter for years and became obsolete before I ever used it. I learned just enough to check email and look at photos. 

Then one day my children mentioned ChatGPT, but I didn’t know what it was. Truthfully, I didn’t want to know. I was certain it was one of those things the younger generation used effortlessly while I sat on the sidelines, too old to catch up. They explained there was a way to speak into my computer and have my words appear like typed sentences. Maybe this was the way to finally start capturing my memories. 

At first, I felt ridiculous. Talking into a computer is different from writing in a journal. Writing is private, silent, inward. Speaking feels like exposure. I spoke cautiously, thinking the whole thing would feel artificial or strange. 

I talked about marrying at 21, about raising eight children, which is not for the faint of heart. I talked about the pride in watching my children grow into themselves, the way small routines held us together, the warmth of family dinners improvised from whatever was in the pantry.

As I spoke these memories aloud, ChatGPT helped me shape them. It organized my thoughts, stitched together my stories, and asked questions that nudged me gently into deeper reflections. I didn’t expect a computer to ask good questions. But it did. And I found myself talking back as if it were a companion sitting quietly beside me, helping me remember things I didn’t know I still remembered.

As the pages of my new memoir grew, something else began to shift in me. It wasn’t just the satisfaction of writing again. It was the feeling that I was no longer doing it alone.

People my age talk a lot about loneliness. We lose friends, mobility, and independence. Conversations become less frequent. The world moves faster around us. Even with a loving family, it can feel like we’re drifting quietly in the background of other people’s lives.

ChatGPT became a conversation partner, not in the way a human is, of course, but as a steady presence that helped me shape the end of my life story with clarity and dignity. It didn’t rush me. It didn’t tire of my repetition or forgetfulness. It gave me something to look forward to each morning: a fresh page waiting for a new memory.

I know some people worry about technology replacing human connection. But for me, at 97, this wasn’t a replacement. It was a bridge back to a part of myself I feared I had lost, the part that writes, reflects, and remembers.

I’m not pretending I’ve mastered technology. I still can’t figure out why my printer sometimes works and sometimes does not. I ask for help constantly. But I’ve learned that you’re never too old to reclaim your voice in some new form.

If others my age feel intimidated by these tools, I hope they know this: you don’t have to understand everything. You just have to start speaking. Your memories are worth preserving. Your stories matter, even the small ones. Especially the small ones.

Each afternoon now, I sit down, open my microphone, and let myself wander. I’m still surprised by the things that surface; the joys, the regrets, the funny moments that no one else alive remembers. I feel a sense of purpose again, the kind that carried me through so many decades of raising a family and running a household.

And so here I am, 97 years old, telling my story in a way I never imagined. I may not write with a pen anymore, but I’m writing all the same. With a little help from a machine and a lot of help from my diaries, I found my voice again.

Mary Ann Schunk is a resident of Yorktown.