Is It OK to Use AI as My Therapist?

First… a confession.

I’m a therapist who uses AI as a therapist.

Well—not exactly. But I do talk to it when I’m stuck.

AI helps me slow down. It reflects. It synthesizes. It’s endlessly curious and supportive without ever getting frustrated or tired. And in the best moments, it helps me reframe something in a way that actually shifts how I feel. It’s like journaling, but with someone gently nudging me to go a little deeper. For folks without access to therapy—or for therapists like me who sometimes just need to think out loud without burdening a friend—it can be an incredibly helpful tool.

And dang, I gotta be honest: AI is a validation and empathizing machine. Sometimes you just need the confidence to hold a boundary, make a choice, or BE A PERSON WITH NEEDS. AI can be great for that.

And—I’ve lived enough, and learned enough, that I can hold two truths at the same time:

AI can be all of these helpful things and still come with some big limitations.

Here are a few I try to hold with a wise mind:

AI doesn’t have a body

Okay, maybe the most obvious point—but also the most profound: The one big thing AI lacks, the thing that is absolutely central to healing, is a body.

Trauma lives in the body (See Bessel van der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score). It’s stored there. It shapes how we sit, how we breathe, how we hold ourselves back. It speaks in headaches, clenched jaws, and the way we freeze when we’re scared. And when trauma is complex, old, or soaked in shame—it usually needs more than insight. It needs presence. It needs another nervous system. It needs someone in the room, tracking your breath, their own body quietly saying: I’m here.

In my work as a therapist, my body is the anchor that holds people in the work. My body is short, wide, and strong. I sit grounded and open, legs wide in a posture of attunement and readiness—like a catcher waiting for the pitch, I’m steady and present and alive (yes, I played catcher in a fast-pitch softball league—how gay am I? lol).

Sometimes, in my mind, it truly feels like I’m holding someone up with my posture. That’s not a metaphor. I am the container. I don’t just listen to words; I feel the tension in the air, the tremble in a voice, the shift when someone moves from dissociation to presence. The hairs on my arms stand up when someone has a breakthrough.

AI doesn’t do that. It can’t.

AI can be a little too agreeable

Remember how I said sometimes you just need someone to back you up, agree with your instincts, and bolster your boundaries? That’s true. But more importantly—you need someone with the wisdom to know when to validate you and when to gently challenge you.

AI doesn’t do that either. It doesn’t challenge you when you’re skimming the surface, or subtly reinforcing a self-righteous narrative. It can’t see when you’re being slippery with yourself. And if you’re not careful, it might mirror your most polished avoidance patterns right back at you—affirming them in articulate, even poetic, language.

AI will never disappoint or disagree with you

Which feels like a feature, right? But—sadly—it’s not.

Humans are imperfect. And as deeply social animals wired for connection, most of us will never feel truly fulfilled without other people. There’s only one way to be in a relationship and never feel disappointed or hurt—and that’s not to be in relationships at all.

This is where a concept called rupture and repair becomes essential to therapeutic change.

When your therapist misses something, or doesn’t get you, or even hurts you a little—and you’re able to work through it together (maybe in a way you never got to with a caregiver)—that’s what teaches your nervous system that you can survive hard things and still be connected. That you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.

AI might be great if you want to live in self-righteous isolation. But not if you want to live in the real, messy, beautiful world of human connection.

So—is it okay to use AI as your therapist?

Here's my final (annoying) therapist answer: It depends (nods sagely behind my glasses). It’s a great mirror and it's got all the coping skill in the world to share with you. It’s patient and nonjudgmental and it can be a gentle bridge while you’re waiting for access to care.

But it won’t co-regulate.  It won’t sit quietly with your grief.  It won’t help you tolerate the silence after you say something you never thought you’d say.

For reflection? For journaling with a witness? For organizing your inner world? AI can be useful.

But for healing? The kind that sinks into your muscles and changes how you move through the world?

That, more often than not, takes another human.  A real body.  A steady presence.  Someone who can hold your story and say with every cell of their body:

You’re not alone.