Driving home from school, my 5-year-old asked, “Mommy, can we ask ChatGPT when dinosaurs went extinct?”
I turned on voice mode. The car lit up like a fifth passenger had joined us, explaining the Cretaceous Period in cheerful detail.
A few days later, I asked my six-year-old daughter, “What does ChatGPT do?”
She grinned. “Mommy, it knows everything.”
She said it with awe. I heard it with alarm.
The generation raised on AI won’t just think differently; they’ll lead differently. As executives rush to integrate generative tools across workplaces, we should ask: what happens when a workforce grows up never learning to struggle through a problem? The habits our children form with AI will shape the cognitive DNA of tomorrow’s leaders.
I felt a pang of déjà vu. I’m a geriatric millennial, part of the generation that came of age alongside the internet, the first guinea pigs of social media. As a college student when Facebook arrived, I remember the thrill of connection, the way a dorm-room post could ripple across campus. We didn’t question it. We were too busy marveling at how small the world suddenly felt.
Social media arrived with dazzling promise, connection, democratization, empowerment and no guardrails. We thought we were connecting. We were really rehearsing detachment.
Now we’re repeating the same mistake, only faster.
We talk about AI as if it’s a futuristic threat. But the real danger is more familiar: letting a new technology reshape what it means to be young before we decide what to protect. The companies building these tools won’t slow down; their incentives are speed, scale, and profit, not childhood well-being. We can’t count on Silicon Valley to guard our kids’ minds any more than we could count on it to guard their attention.
We missed our chance with social media. Back then, the harm was visible, kids glued to screens, chasing likes, losing focus. The damage was emotional and social. With AI, the danger is quieter but deeper: it’s reshaping how our children think.
Social media stole their attention; AI risks stealing their cognition. We let platforms seep into adolescence without question and only later counted the costs, attention spans, self esteem, even trust. A generation came of age in a haze of comparison and performance, watching half of childhood scroll by in 15-second bursts. It wasn’t malicious. It was thoughtless.
Now we debate whether to take our kids back to a simpler time, some parents fantasize about trading iPhones for landlines or banning smartphones until high school. But those questions already feel quaint. The new frontier isn’t what’s on the screen; it’s how our children think behind it.
If social media changed what it meant to connect, AI is changing what it means to think. Kids once learned to read tone in texts and navigate the awkward dance of friendship online. Now they’re learning to outsource cognition itself – to ask a robot before a parent, to get a synthesis instead of reading a source, to finish a thought before they’ve formed one.
At a friend’s elementary school, students were brainstorming names for their annual food drive. Third graders shouted out puns like “Can Do Good.” The room buzzed with the chaos of children trying to make something together. Then the counselor said, “Let’s just ask ChatGPT.” Within seconds, the bot produced a tidy list. The class voted. The names were fine. But the spark was gone. Later that night, one child shrugged: “It wasn’t as fun.”
The real dystopia isn’t killer robots. It’s children who never develop judgment because algorithms always have the answer. It’s classrooms that trade collaboration for convenience. When we outsource not only work but wonder, we risk raising humans who can process endlessly but can’t pause meaningfully. A 2024 Pew survey found that 58% of teens already use AI tools for schoolwork.
The stakes are higher this time because the shift is invisible and interior. Social media rewired how kids saw themselves; AI is rewiring how they think, what they believe, and how they decide. Not just their attention, but their cognition, judgment, and sense of meaning are on the line.
What we need now is to practice thinking the way we once practiced piano or handwriting: slowly, together, and by hand. With AI, we have a second chance to rebuild the muscle of thinking before outsourcing it.
That begins with small, daily rituals. One I love, from organizational psychologist Sumona De Graaf, is something she calls the Think Sandwich. It’s simple: think first, use AI to augment, think again. Before your child prompts a chatbot, pause with them. Ask what they really want to know and what they already think. Then let AI join the conversation, not replace it.
De Graaf puts it plainly: “AI is misnamed. It’s not artificial intelligence; it’s augmented intelligence. If your touch isn’t on it, we’ve lost the plot.”
Parents can model that touch by interrogating answers out loud. When an AI spits out a fact or story, ask: Where did this come from? Who might see it differently? What might be missing? These are the small muscles of discernment we forgot to build during the social-media boom and we can’t afford to skip them again.
Encourage your kids to write before they prompt. Have them draft a story or paragraph themselves, then see what AI produces. Compare the two. Which one sounds more alive? Which one sounds more them? That simple act teaches something no algorithm can: the joy of having a mind that makes, not just mimics.
When your child asks a question, resist the reflex to hand them the phone or summon a chatbot. Instead, ask, “What do you think?” Give their mind a chance to stretch before the algorithm steps in.
Even knowing all this, I still fall for it. I let ChatGPT tell my son a bedtime story because it was fast, easy, and good enough. He was delighted. I was relieved. But afterward, I realized what I’d traded away: not efficiency, but presence – the small, imperfect act of storytelling, the jokes that don’t land, the pauses that teach patience, the joy of creating something together.
If I, a parent who studies this for a living, can fall into that trap, what about a generation that never knew any different?
For business and policy leaders, that’s not just a family concern; it’s a future-of-talent concern. If we want a generation capable of innovation, we need to teach them discernment, not dependency.
Knowing is easy now. Thinking: that’s the real edge. I was the happy guinea pig of the social-media age. I don’t want my children to be the test subjects of the AI one. Because if AI “knows everything,” our job is to teach the next generation what’s worth knowing.
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