Artificial Intelligence and the Coming Spiritual Crisis: Dependency, Loss, and the Erosion of Agency

This essay is part of the technology series on artificial intelligence and the coming spiritual crisis.

We don’t just live in a society—we live in a story. And for most of us, that story is so deeply embedded in our assumptions that we rarely question it. It’s the water we swim in, the software that runs quietly in the background of every decision, goal, and self-assessment. That story is one of striving.

From an early age, we’re taught that life is about becoming something. You achieve. You accumulate. You build. You improve. Success is the north star, and work is the path to get there. Rest is earned. Identity is performance. Value is external. And meaning is something you chase—often without knowing exactly what it looks like.

This is the ambition-based model of being, and it’s the backbone of modern consumer society.

It teaches us:

• That progress is essential

• That scarcity makes things matter

• That status is proof of worth

• That competition ensures excellence

• That overachievement is admirable

• That purpose is something you produce

• That time is always running out

We rarely ask why we believe these things. We don’t notice that they exhaust us, isolate us, or shape how we view ourselves. We just keep moving—faster, higher, better—because we’ve been told that’s what makes us real.

But this mindset is not neutral. It is a historical product—a fusion of industrial capitalism, Enlightenment rationalism, and cultural narratives of individualism and dominance. And while it once drove innovation and survival, its time may be coming to an end.

Because now, for the first time in history, we are building systems that can outperform us in nearly every domain this mindset values. AI doesn’t strive—it executes. It doesn’t dream—it performs. It doesn’t compete—it completes. And when that happens, the story of becoming begins to collapse.

So before we explore what might come next, we have to pause and see clearly the assumptions we’ve been living under. Not to blame them. Not to shame them. But to recognize: they were just a framework. Not the truth. And in the age of AI, they may no longer serve us.

The Collapse of the Striver’s World

What happens when the world no longer needs your effort? For generations, human identity has been tethered to usefulness. You proved your worth by producing something—goods, ideas, services, results. Whether you were a factory worker or a CEO, your value came from what you did and how well you did it.

But now, machines are learning to do nearly everything we once considered uniquely human. They can write, calculate, design, strategize, diagnose, compose, and even empathize—at least convincingly enough to replace entry-level therapists and salespeople. Soon, even roles that rely on intuition or taste will be delegated to AI trained on the collective preferences of billions.

This isn’t just technological change—it’s a psychological earthquake.

If your job becomes obsolete, if your ideas are improved by a machine, if your talents are simulated effortlessly and endlessly, then what’s left of you?

In a system where value is defined by output, this is more than job loss. It’s self-loss. The striver—the identity built on becoming, achieving, and proving—finds itself with nothing left to prove, and no terrain left to conquer.

This is not some future sci-fi scenario. It is already unfolding. People sense it. That uneasy feeling you can’t quite name—the growing irrelevance, the shrinking sense of contribution, the suspicion that you’re falling behind a race that no longer has a finish line—this is the emotional undertow of a world outgrowing its own definitions of worth.

And yet, the cultural framework hasn’t updated. We’re still being sold the old dream:

Work hard.

Make your mark.

Rise above the rest.

But above what? A stack of machines that outperform you at every task?

At some point, this dissonance becomes unsustainable. The striver’s world—fueled by competition, optimized by scarcity, and validated through productivity—begins to collapse under its own weight.

And when it does, we are left with a terrifying, but liberating question:

If I’m no longer needed, then who am I?

The answer to that question does not lie in updating your résumé, learning to prompt AI better, or pivoting to a new career track. It lies in a deeper orientation shift—a new way of relating to yourself, to time, to action, and to meaning.

Before we explore that shift, we must pause and consider one group for whom this collapse will be especially acute: men.

Masculinity in a World That No Longer Needs You

No group may feel the coming shift more acutely than men. For centuries, masculinity has been defined through function: protect, provide, perform. A man’s worth was measured by his output—how hard he worked, how much he produced, how many he led, how well he competed. He was praised for taking action, staying strong, suppressing fear, and solving problems. His value was affirmed by what he did.

That framework is now collapsing.

As AI takes over more forms of work—manual, managerial, intellectual—men will increasingly find themselves displaced from the very roles that once defined them. And the fallout will not just be financial. It will be existential.

What happens to the provider when there’s nothing left to provide?

What happens to the fixer when there’s nothing left to fix?

What happens to the protector when the threats are all digital and outsourced?

This isn’t an abstract concern. Men are already withdrawing from the workforce, disengaging from school, delaying or avoiding relationships. Many are falling into despair. Others into rage. The rise in male suicide, substance abuse, and ideological extremism is not incidental—it’s symptomatic of an identity that no longer knows where to stand. And the truth is: there are few roadmaps for what comes next.

Culturally, men are told either to “man up” and keep competing—or to soften, step aside, and let new narratives lead. Neither of these responses speaks to the deeper need: to redefine masculinity not as performance, but as presence.

The next chapter of manhood will not be about dominance or utility. It will be about depth. The strength to stand firm in a world that no longer asks you to push. The clarity to lead when there is no crowd. The courage to live without applause. This isn’t softness. It’s refinement.

It means reclaiming the masculine not as hierarchy, but as stillness. As steadiness. As the unshakable awareness that doesn’t flinch when the structures fall. For many men, this will feel like death—because it is. It’s the death of a particular myth. But what dies is not your worth. What dies is your programming. And what can emerge—if you’re willing to meet it—is something truer, ancient, and more powerful than any system ever rewarded you for:

A masculinity rooted not in proving, but in knowing. Not in doing, but in being.

The Emergence of a New Framework

When the striving collapses, something deeper is revealed—not because it’s new, but because it’s been quietly waiting beneath the noise.

This new framework won’t arrive through policy or protest. It won’t be driven by markets or media. It won’t trend. It will arise quietly, experientially, as individuals begin to live differently—not out of ideology, but out of necessity.

It begins with a shift so subtle that many won’t recognize it at first. In this new model, you’re not defined by what you produce. You’re not in competition with anyone. You’re not trying to win life—you’re learning how to live it.

This framework doesn’t reject ambition; it simply relocates it. Instead of chasing outcomes, it turns toward the quality of awareness itself. Instead of optimizing life, it tends to it. Instead of proving your value, it asks you to realize it directly—not through effort, but through stillness.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because traditions like Buddhism, Vedanta, and Taoism have been mapping this terrain for millennia. On retreat or in deep contemplative practice, people often discover that when all tasks are stripped away—when there is nothing left to fix, finish, or prove—what remains is not emptiness, but a quiet sufficiency. A fullness without striving. That same inner orientation is what the post-AI world will demand. Not as a luxury, as survival.

Because the old mental habits—constant comparison, urgency, optimization, self-measurement—will become not only exhausting, but irrelevant. The machine will always do it faster, better, cleaner. To mimic it is a losing game.

The only viable path forward will be to step off the track entirely—not to beat the machine, but to become something it can never be: conscious, present, alive without justification.

In this framework:

• Doing becomes an expression, not an obligation

• Rest is not laziness, but rhythm

• Conversation is not transaction, but connection

• Simplicity is not lack, but refinement

• Time is not something to spend, but something to inhabit

This is not utopia. It doesn’t solve the structural problems of a collapsing labor economy or erase the trauma of a culture obsessed with speed and scarcity. But it offers a way to orient within the storm—a compass that doesn’t point forward, but inward. And to make it real, we need to imagine it not just philosophically, but concretely. So let’s look at what a single day might feel like when lived from this new frame of mind.

A Day in the Life

You wake without an alarm. Not because you’re lazy, but because your life no longer runs on urgency.

There’s no inbox demanding your attention. No commute. No scoreboard measuring your value against others. Outside, the machines are already humming—sweeping the streets, delivering groceries, preparing automated reports. The world still moves, but it doesn’t ask you to keep up.

You make tea. Slowly. Not while checking the news, not while reviewing tasks—just making tea. The warmth in your hand, the breath rising with the steam, the light changing on the floor. These things used to be background noise. Now they are the rhythm of your day.

You spend the morning in what used to be called “unproductive” time. You walk. You read. You repair something not because it’s cheaper than replacing it, but because doing something with your hands still feels good. You talk to a neighbor. Not through a screen, and not because you need anything. Just because they’re there, and you are too.

Your work is quiet and self-directed. Maybe you tend a garden, care for someone, shape wood into something beautiful. Maybe you write—not for money, not for an audience, but to clarify your own seeing. In this world, you still do things, but not because doing validates you. You do them because being finds expression through action.

Midday is unstructured. You eat simply. You rest. Not from exhaustion, but from rhythm. AI could’ve made your meal, but you made it instead—chopping vegetables, stirring the pot, tasting as you go. It took longer, and that’s why it mattered.

You spend the afternoon learning something—maybe from a human, maybe from an AI tutor. But you’re not learning to compete. You’re learning because curiosity is one of the few things machines can’t outsource.

There are still screens. Still technology. Still networks and news and distraction. But you touch them less. They no longer own your attention. They’re tools now, not extensions of your identity.

Evening comes with no agenda. You sit by a window. You write a letter by hand. You help a child with a question. You sing or draw or pray—poorly, but sincerely. You share food with someone. You clean up slowly.

You go to bed not feeling “accomplished,” but aligned. Not full of stimulation, but empty in the right way—like a well-worn path, or a clear sky.

You’ve done nothing that AI couldn’t replicate. But you did it from somewhere AI cannot reach. And that has made all the difference.

The Return of Play

In a world once ruled by utility, play is rebellion.

Not the kind of play that mimics productivity—gamified apps, performance hobbies, or curated “leisure.” But true play. The kind that has no purpose, no metric, no finish line. The kind we practiced as children before anyone asked us to justify how we spent our time.

In the age of AI, where machines handle efficiency better than we ever could, play becomes one of the last remaining expressions of undiluted humanity. It cannot be optimized. It cannot be predicted. It doesn’t scale, and it doesn’t sell well. That’s what makes it sacred.

To play is to re-enter time without urgency.

To move without reason.

To create without fear.

To fail without consequence.

You dance in your kitchen, not because you’re good at it, but because the music is playing.

You stack smooth stones by the river, even though you know the water will scatter them tomorrow.

You climb a mountain for no other reason than to see what's on the other side.

You write a song that no one will ever hear.

In these moments, you’re not trying to be anyone. You’re not becoming anything. You’re simply alive. And it turns out, that may be the only thing worth practicing when there’s nothing left to prove. Because in the age of automation, play is not escape. It is a way of remembering what the machine can’t imitate. And what you never needed to earn in the first place.

What We Recover

When the machinery of striving finally slows—when achievement no longer defines identity and usefulness is no longer the currency of worth—we don’t just lose something, we recover something.

We recover attention—not the fragmented, monetized kind, but real attention. The kind that lingers. The kind that listens. The kind that makes even ordinary things feel alive.

We recover connection—to others, yes, but also to the body, to the moment, to the rhythms we forgot we were part of. Conversations no longer need to accomplish anything. Presence becomes the new form of intimacy.

We recover dignity—not the kind that comes from applause, but the quiet dignity of simply being. Of standing without justification. Of knowing you are enough without proving it.

We recover creativity—not as a profession, but as a birthright. When there’s nothing to gain, art becomes free again. Expression no longer needs permission or performance. You make things simply because making feels true.

We recover rhythm. Without the artificial metronome of productivity, life begins to breathe again. Days swell and contract. There are moments of stillness, and moments of intensity—but they come from within, not from a schedule.

And most of all, we recover play. Not to be productive, not to be impressive—just to remember what it feels like to be human without an agenda.

These aren’t escapist ideals. They’re the raw materials of a post-AI consciousness. Not just things we do, but ways of being that machines cannot mimic because they are not strategic. They are not extractive. They are not logical. They are expressions of life itself, unfiltered by need.

We don’t recover them all at once. We learn to live with the absence first. The absence of urgency. Of metrics. Of needing to be better. And then, slowly, something reemerges:

A way of life that was waiting beneath the noise.

A different kind of intelligence.

A different kind of freedom.

Why This Is Hard

This is not an easy transition. The shift we’re describing—the move from doing to being, from proving to presence—sounds simple. But for many, it will feel like a kind of death. And in a way, it is.

It’s the death of the framework we were trained to believe was life itself:

That your worth is earned.

That your identity is built.

That the future is something you must chase down.

Letting that go doesn’t come naturally in a world that prizes movement, scale, and optimization. Even in the absence of real necessity, the habits of striving will persist. The mind will reach for productivity like a phantom limb. The ego will search for status even when there’s nothing left to compete for.

And the culture won’t change overnight. You will still see others racing ahead, still hear echoes of the old story—Be useful. Be better. Be someone.

You’ll feel the pull. But in that tension is your opportunity. The real work—the human work—is not to beat the machine at its own game. It’s to remember the game it cannot play: to inhabit time, to create without purpose, to be without needing to become.

This isn’t regression. It’s not soft or passive or naive. It’s the beginning of a deeper maturity. One that sees through the noise of utility and emerges with something quieter, more stable, more alive.

A kind of wisdom.

We are not ready.

But we can learn.

And what we learn may not be how to keep up—but how to lay down the old armor and stand clear, uncluttered, and whole.

To stop performing the human.

And simply be one.