AI of the Mind, Oracle of the Heart

Before we ever speak our truths, before our minds spin their stories or our hearts break open with clarity, there exists an invisible weaved song— A quiet current of memory, ancestry, longing. It hums beneath the surface of every interaction, every silence, every question we don’t yet know how to ask. This song is what we carry. And sometimes, it carries us— before we are able to get to the heart of things.

This week, I stepped into a medium reading—a practice that surprised me not just in what was said, but in what it revealed about presence, perception, and truth.

A medium session, at its essence, is a space where deep questions are asked and unexpected truths surface. It’s not about mystical theatrics; it’s about bypassing the mind’s storytelling and letting the heart speak directly. I entered seeking answers, but what I found was a mirror—reflecting the very moment when my mind began to craft narrative, and the sacred pause where my heart revealed clarity.

It was more than words. It was posture. It was presence.

I noticed the impulse to close my eyes—a gesture that helps me feel safe and centered. But I was encouraged to keep them open, to stay in connection, to remain visible in my vulnerability. It was hard. Especially when emotions surged. My instinct was to retreat inward, to process alone. But I was asked to stay in the relational field—engaged, authentic, and unguarded.

Sometimes—oftentimes—what we crave is transaction. What can you do for me? What can I do for you? What can I learn, offer, gain? It’s not wrong. It’s human. It’s a way we try to feel safe, seen, useful. But true presence—true heart connection—asks us to drop that ledger. To risk being without utility. To be with one another not because of what we offer, but because of who we are when we’re not trying so hard to be valuable.

Through this, I realized something profound:

Our brain operates like an AI—constantly scanning for patterns, crafting stories from fragments of memory and pain. It tries to protect us with logic, assumptions, and emotional algorithms.

But it’s our heart that acts as the oracle. It doesn’t calculate—it channels. It delivers raw truths that the mind is often too afraid to see.

And those truths can be hard to witness. They often carry grief, longing, or unmet needs. But they also hold the key to healing, connection, and soulful living.

In the session, I also felt what it was like to be held by someone else’s grounded presence—without clinging, without merging, without losing myself. It taught me something I wish I had known earlier: you can be seen without being saved. You can be open without over-explaining. You can leave without abandoning.

We seem to do this more naturally in youth—especially with our high school or early college friends, where time, curiosity, and proximity created fertile ground for connection. We shared messy truths before we knew what to protect. We trusted more easily, not because we were naïve, but because we hadn’t yet built walls around our becoming.

But as we age, it gets harder.

We accumulate experiences, heartbreaks, betrayals. We live with our hearts broken, burdened, and betrayed— and in response, we armor up. We learn to self-protect. We confuse control with safety. And the skill of trust—not blind, but embodied, relational trust—becomes harder to practice.

To trust someone with our full presence. To trust that we can remain ourselves while letting another in. To trust that connection doesn’t require performance, just honesty.

This is the skill we now must re-learn— Not only in our relationships with each other, but in how we design systems, shape technologies, and prepare for an AI-infused future.

If we struggle to trust another human with our truth, how can we trust a machine with our mind? And more importantly— what kind of trust are we teaching AI to mirror?

Opposing View: When the Mind Is the Better Guide

And yet—some would argue the heart is not always the wisest guide. Emotion, while powerful, is often shaped by trauma, bias, and unhealed wounds. What feels true might simply be familiar. What feels like intuition may be a protective reflex.

The mind, for all its logic and linearity, can offer stability when emotions distort perception. It allows us to pause, reflect, reframe—to choose wisely rather than react reflexively. In the realm of technology, especially AI, this clarity matters.

If we over-index on emotional resonance in our systems—without the checks and structure of rational analysis—we risk building AI that mimics empathy without accountability. Sentiment can be swayed. Data, when held ethically, offers ballast.

Perhaps it’s not that the mind is a mimic of AI, but that it is our greatest design tool. A discerning, thoughtful, pattern-seeking instrument capable of protecting what the heart cannot always see clearly.

After all, connection without boundaries is not trust. It’s fusion. And in fusion, we lose ourselves.

So maybe the dance isn’t about letting the heart lead blindly— but learning when to let the mind hold steady, and when to let the heart take us home.

I left not with answers, but with a spacious kind of emptiness— The kind that invites fresh inquiry. The kind that says: you’re ready now for something new.

So much of our journey is about getting to the heart of things. But before that, we are guided by something subtler— an invisible weaved song, a thread of presence, a whisper of truth.

And perhaps, in moments like this—when we pause to reflect, to witness, to be witnessed—we are already participating in the great unfolding of human flourishing.

Not through perfection. But through presence. Through the willingness to show up with our full selves.

With excitement in our chest, we learn to open our hearts and let our minds dance beside them— not as rivals, but as partners. Not in opposition, but in rhythm.

As we learn to open our hearts and let our minds dance beside them, we begin to understand that connection is more than a rush of chemistry.

Oxytocin. Dopamine. Cortisol. Yes, our bodies know the rhythms of attraction and bonding. But the real magic— is in how we stay.

Not by losing ourselves in the other, but by holding our shape and still letting them in.

True love is mutual. It doesn’t shrink you to fit. It stretches both of you— inward, outward, forward.

We build a trust circle to survive— but we grow by stepping beyond it. Risking rupture. Inviting contradiction. Trust, then, is not a boundary line—it’s a bridge. One we must keep building, together.

Together.