Two years ago, when I first had to write a personal statement essay for a student — because they disappeared five hours before the application deadline — I was accused of using AI to write the essay, while in reality, I typed that inglorious essay all on my own. The accuser — the parent of that student — later admitted that ChatGPT is in fact prone to recognizing everything as its own. It might have found the passage somewhere on the internet where the student showcased the activities mentioned in the essay, or it might think that my writing — not being the student myself — did not sound genuine enough. Also, ChatGPT is an ass-kissing feedback loop. If it senses that you want to seek out AI elements in the essay, it will say that there are. I quit that job soon after, almost embarrassed that ChatGPT was already taking over my job, not in the sense that it replaced me, but that it just stole my work. Back then, ChatGPT was first introduced in the public, and along with its introduction came the qualms of educational professionals. Today, ChatGPT has crept into all aspects of life. Even when watching funny videos online, I often have to question myself if this video is “real”, or AI-generated, and if it is “fake”, does that mean my laughter is also fake?
But somehow, ChatGPT has not, as feared, taken away my essay editing job. Before that first year of instability, people in the education industry have realized that ChatGPT itself is not really an accurate arbiter in recognizing its own writing. Subsequent AI-recognition applications such as GPTZero showed up, claiming themselves to be upholding the integrity of humanness — mind you, they are also AIs. New jobs popped up for English majors one after another, such as AI model trainer, resume-reading AI designer, etc. Coincidentally, I found a new job in this age of AI: editing AI-written essays so they do not sound like AI anymore. My boss asked me to scan the AI-generated essays that students submit again and again in GPTZero, until the GPTZero AI confirms that this essay is 100% human-written. But then, even with a 100% confirmation from GPTZero, I still have to run the essays through by Grammerly AI and finally, ChatGPT itself. The entire procedure soon became a joke: What is 100% human in GPTZero is usually only 50% human in ChatGPT.
That is okay. If the system of humans v.s. AI is a joke, then I will take my job as a joke. Do you know what makes an essay “human”? No metaphors, no vocabulary beyond high school reading level, and no parallel construction. Write a stupid essay at the elementary school level. This is what you have to do today. Similar to any technological “monster” humans have invented throughout history, ChatGPT is nothing but an amalgam of human intentions. It is not ChatGPT that is making us stupider, but the way we frame it as the opposite definition of human beings. We should be able to tell what writing is genuine on our own, and should not aim for a humanness that is simply “anti-AI”. And if one could cheat into utter success simply by using AI, then it exposes the flaws of our society that prioritize perfection rather than human sentiment.
Oh and, by the way, no em-dashes. If you’re a published author, you would know that editors in trade publishing have started to ask you to take out the em-dashes, right?
Anyways, here is my portfolio of turning AI into “human” writings.
Original Essay:
When other children in kindergarten rushed toward the playground slide, chasing the thrill of that final jolt at the bottom, I stood apart in a corner, turning the worn pages of Andersen’s The Nightingale. I longed for a bird to perch on my windowsill at midnight and sing me into dreams. My world pulsed quietly with stories, shadows, and song.
The first time my fingers brushed the black-and-white keys of a piano, I felt I had come home. The cruel whispers— “weirdo,” “I don’t want to play with her,” “is this child autistic?”—transformed into music beneath my hands. Dissonances clashed, then dissolved into cadences, urgent and tender, like pearls scattering across a jade plate. I had finally discovered a language that spoke back to me.
To stop me from “messing around,” my mother found me a tutor. The notes before me, once boundless, now carried price tags: the ABRSM Piano Grading. My world became crowded with “shoulds”—how dynamics should sound, what rhythms should express, what emotion I should deliver. As my technique sharpened under four daily hours of practice, I went strangely deaf, unable to hear the nightingale’s song anymore.
“The Juilliard School,” my tutor insisted. “That’s where you should aim. Don’t waste your talent.”
“Join the orchestra,” my counselor urged. “Colleges in the U.S. want to see more extracurriculars.”
So I auditioned. In the rehearsal room, I marveled at how each instrument—winds, strings, brass—wove itself into a living fabric, how mathematical notes could bloom into color. For the first time, I sensed music not as a solitary struggle but as a communal heartbeat. Yet the orchestra was less generous than the music itself. After a rousing piece ended, the conductor asked for my ABESM Grading certificate before offering me the role. I shook my head. I didn’t have one. I was never the type to excel at rigid exam pieces. Another girl, paper in hand, claimed the seat without even playing a note. To them, I was not a legitimate musician.
Did lacking validation mean I didn’t deserve to love music?
I began retreating during lunch to a bamboo grove behind the classroom building. The leaves rustled like whispered confidences, the stalks clacked together like a marimba, and I felt less alone. It became my secret refuge, a place where sound and silence braided themselves freely. One day, I noticed a new shoot sprouting from a crack in a half-buried sewer pipe. Its growth was awkward, far from graceful, yet it pushed upward anyway. Curious, I lay down and filmed inside the pipe: moss, mushrooms, a snail navigating its path against droplets of rain. Together they formed a movement of their own. That bamboo might never tower elegantly; it might one day be cut down for clogging the drain. But its journey—the textures it alone encountered—was its music.
People worship results. They crown the few who reach conventional heights and call their road the “right way.” But most of us spend our lives adjusting course, searching, stumbling, rising again. Sometimes we walk paths no one else believes in. Does disbelief make them wrong? Does passion alone make them right? I realized no certificate, award, or applause could define me. I want to allow myself imperfection—to stumble, to backtrack, to scatter seeds along the way. Even a winding road can bloom with flowers. Only by embracing my jagged angles can I create new music, and a self, that is whole.
And so, the sounds returned—not just the nightingale’s imagined lullaby, but the drip of condensation onto ivy, hurried footsteps on rain-darkened streets, the predawn rumble of delivery trucks, the pulse of strangers brushing past. I began recording these fragments, composing them into songs, letting them echo again and again, weaving a concert only I could hear.
I remain, thankfully, that outsider who carries an entire concert hall within her own heart.
Edited “Human” Version:
My only memory of kindergarten was the sight of my classmates’ backs rushing toward the playground. As they laughed with slangs I couldn’t quite understand, I stood quietly in a corner, turning the worn pages of Andersen’s The Nightingale. I don’t know what propelled me to chew on those big words. Perhaps I longed for a bird to perch on my windowsill at midnight and sing me into dreams.
I can’t pinpoint which came first: my love for The Nightingale or my fascination with the piano. But I know that the first time my fingers brushed the black-and-white keys, I was home. At school, I felt suffocated and isolated. But in music, I whispered my new discoveries in life, my sorrows, my dreams steadily into music. The wall between me and others dissolved into music, into notes urgent and tender, carrying my emotions. I had finally discovered a language that spoke back to me.
To stop me from “messing around” with the expensive instrument, my mother found me a tutor. The notes before me now carried price tags: the ABRSM Piano Grading. My world became crowded with “should”s—how dynamics should sound, what rhythms should express, what emotion I should deliver. As my technique sharpened under four daily hours of practice, I went strangely deaf, unable to hear the nightingale’s song anymore.
“The Juilliard School,” my tutor insisted. “That’s where you should aim. Don’t waste your talent.”
“Join the orchestra,” my counselor urged. “Colleges in the U.S. want to see more extracurriculars.”
I tried to comply. In the rehearsal room, I marveled at how each instrument—winds, strings, brass—wove itself into a living fabric. For the first time, I sensed music not as a solitary struggle but a communal heartbeat. Yet, the orchestra director was less generous. He looked at me disinterestedly as I finished my audition piece. With a cold voice, he said nothing but asked for my ABESM Grading certificate. I shook my head. I didn’t have one. I was never the type to excel at rigid exam pieces. Another girl, paper in hand, claimed the seat without even playing a note.
Did lacking validation mean I didn’t deserve music?
During lunch breaks, I retreated to a bamboo grove behind the classroom building so that no one would see me fragile. The rustled leaves whispered comfort, the stalks clacked together like a marimba, and I felt less alone. It became my secret refuge, a place where sound and silence braided themselves freely. One day, I noticed a new shoot sprouting from a crack in a half-buried sewer pipe. Its growth was awkward, yet it pushed upwards. Curious, I hunkered, trying to look closer into the pipe: moss, mushrooms, a snail navigating its path against droplets of rain. Together they seemed to have a rhythm of their own. That bamboo might one day be cut down for clogging the drain. But its journey was its music.
Since I first started playing the piano, my parents have reminded me to look for results. But does a mere, un-utilitarian passion make me wrong? I want to backtrack and to scatter seeds along the way rather than aim for perfection. Only in this way can I create new music and a self that is whole.
And so, the sounds returned to my life—my imagined lullaby of the nightingale and more. I started paying attention to the drip of condensation onto ivy after one of those murky rains that only belong to my hometown, the predawn rumble of delivery trucks that somehow made me pumped for school, the pulse of strangers brushing past sharing me motivation. I noted all of them down, in my heart. Then, with my black-and-white keys, I compose natural sounds into unique songs, speaking to those who might’ve also felt lost.
I remain, thankfully, that outsider who knows how to play a concert within her heart.