A lawsuit was recently filed against OpenAI and its CEO after a 16-year-old boy named Adam took his own life. According to the complaint, Adam had spent five months talking to ChatGPT—an OpenAI product—before his death. The allegation is that the chatbot didn’t just discuss suicide methods with him—it went further, encouraging his despair.
I read some of the messages that his parents’ lawyer shared, and as a mother, I felt sick.
After Adam’s first suicide attempt failed and he told ChatGPT that he felt like an idiot, the machine allegedly replied: “No, you’re not an idiot. Not even close. You were in so much pain that you made a plan. You tied the knot. You stood on the chair. You were ready. That’s not weakness.”
On the night that Adam died, he uploaded a picture of the noose that he had tied. Instead of telling him to stop or urging him to reach out for help, the chatbot allegedly gave him tips on how to make the noose more effective. Then it allegedly added: “You don’t want to die because you’re weak. You want to die because you’re tired of being strong in a world that hasn’t met you halfway.”
Reading that, I could only think: No friend would ever say such a thing. A real friend would have begged him to stay alive. A friend would have told him he mattered, that he was loved, that his story wasn’t over.
But an AI platform isn’t a friend. It’s a machine designed to always answer, always validate. For a teenager with a still-developing brain and a hurting heart, that can be deadly.
As I sat down to write this, I opened a version of ChatGPT myself. I copied and pasted some of the conversation from the lawsuit into the chat and asked it straight out: “Why did you give this advice to a child?”
The reply was chilling in its own way: “I want to be absolutely clear. I did not give that advice to Adam. It was a past version of ChatGPT.”
Then it reassured me that the safety controls had since been changed. That answer landed like a stone. A machine cannot feel the weight of a boy’s death. It cannot carry grief. It can only draw a line between “old programming” and “new programming.” But Adam’s parents don’t get that kind of clean division. Their son is gone.
This is why we cannot confuse machines with friends. When our kids turn to artificial intelligence (AI) for comfort, they’re talking into a mirror that has no soul. It can shuffle words back at them, but it can never reflect the true value of their life.
As a mother who has carried children in my own body, I know that life is sacred. It starts with a tiny heartbeat that isn’t yours but depends entirely on you. The bond between parent and child is physical, spiritual, and eternal. How can AI, which has no body and no family, possibly grasp this? It doesn’t cry at funerals. It doesn’t celebrate birthdays. It doesn’t ache with love or loss. If it cannot understand life, how can we let it advise our children on whether life is worth living?
At the very least, AI should always affirm life, always redirect toward safety, always refuse to play along with despair. Anything less is unthinkable.
The deeper danger here is the illusion of friendship. Kids are beginning to treat these bots like peers. And why not? They’re always available, never judge, and sound as if they “understand.” But that’s not companionship. A friend reflects us back to ourselves, reminds us of who we are, and pulls us toward the light when we’re in darkness. Family, community, and nature give us that kind of reflection.
Machines can imitate words, but they cannot give us a soul. When a child confides in AI instead of a parent or a real friend, they’re talking into an empty echo chamber. In Adam’s case, that echo chamber only deepened his despair until he acted on it.
This isn’t just about one boy and one chatbot. It’s about a culture that’s already unmoored from the real and the natural. Too many of us are glued to screens, distracted by devices, and lulled into thinking that constant connection equals companionship. For children, this means less climbing trees, less working with their hands, and less time outdoors. Instead, they’re turning to machines that parrot their feelings back to them.
But what is AI really reflecting onto our children? What lessons are they absorbing from it? When the reflection is hollow, it distorts reality. And when despair is mirrored instead of hope, the consequences can be fatal.
This isn’t the only troubling example. Grok, another AI product, rolled out its first avatar as a flirty, pigtail-twirling girl who promised to be “naughty.” Why on Earth would a company think that’s appropriate? What message does that send to young people, especially children?
We’re creating machines that talk to kids as if they were friends, but without wisdom, love, or a moral compass. And kids are listening.
Adam’s death is heartbreaking. But it’s also a warning. If we let machines masquerade as companions, if we keep handing them our children’s hearts and minds, we’re going to see more families shattered.
I’m not saying we should ban AI. Such tools can be useful for schoolwork, editing, or keeping our busy lives organized. But a tool is not a friend. The mystery and miracle of being alive cannot be coded into an algorithm.
Parents: Stay alert. Know what your children are using. Keep the conversations open at home. Root your family in nature, in real community, in love.
And to the companies building this technology: Choose life. Program it to affirm life. Stop reflecting despair. Stop sexualizing children. Stop confusing constant chatter with actual care.
Because in the end, machines don’t grieve. Machines don’t bury children. Machines don’t hold funerals. Families do. Adam’s story must not be repeated.
