From Bot to Better: How I Edited an AI-Generated Draft into a Human-Centered Personal Essay
By: Haley Keller
Let AI save you money. Let me make sure it’s not costing you trust.
🧠 Step 1: Prompt And Response
Prompt: Can you write a 600-800 word blog post that focuses on single motherhood? Specifically what healing from divorce looks like on a random Thursday morning.
CHAT VERSION (excerpt):
“What Healing Might Look Like on a Thursday Morning”
By: ChatGPT
Not all parts of healing are dramatic or visible. Sometimes, healing is quiet and hard to recognize. It might happen slowly over time. It might not feel like anything at all.
This is what healing might look like on a Thursday morning.
It might look like waking up to a noise and not reacting right away. It might look like taking one deep breath before getting out of bed. It might look like not rushing into the day.
It could look like making breakfast. Not because it’s required, but because it’s part of showing up. Maybe the food is different than usual. Maybe there is no food. Maybe healing looks like drinking cold coffee again. Or warm coffee. Or nothing at all.
Maybe healing is watching a child play and not saying anything. Maybe it’s choosing not to correct them. Maybe it’s saying something kind, or saying nothing.
✍️ Step 2: My Editorial Process
- Rewrote the intro for concrete voice and connection.
- Added a recurring image to anchor an emotional moment (“waking up on Thursday morning”).
- Removed cliché language and added lived experience—injecting humor, vulnerability, and rhythm.
Example (Chat Version): “Not all parts of healing are dramatic or visible. Sometimes, healing is quiet and hard to recognize. It might happen slowly over time. It might not feel like anything at all.”
[My feedback: Though this opener includes a general truth, it’s vague—there’s no grounding in lived experience. Let’s edit it so readers have something tangible (human) to connect with].
My Rewrite:
The sky didn’t fall today like I thought it would. A chorus of angels didn’t descend to carry me off on their wings, celebrating me as Heaven’s ‘toughest soldier.’ (Specific examples of ‘dramatic’ or ‘visible’ healing with a wry tone. Readers have a hint already of how this person feels about ‘healing’).
Because isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? That’s what healing is—right? (It nods to the invisible pressure to ‘arrive’ at healing, like there’s some deadline—and we’re all behind).
Not waking up on a Thursday morning feeling like shit because you stayed up till 4 a.m. rehearsing an argument you had with your ex 6 years ago. So, you whack the snooze. You can’t get up. Just. Not. Today. (Instead of a general “might not feel like anything,” we drop into the exhausted, embodied reality of what healing actually feels like on this morning: not collapsing, just surviving).
🌱 Step 3: Final Piece (excerpt)
Healing Like Thursday Morning
By: Haley Keller
The sky didn’t fall today like I thought it would. A chorus of angels didn’t descend to carry me off on their wings, celebrating me as Heaven’s ‘toughest soldier.’
Because isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? That’s what healing is—right?
Not waking up on a Thursday morning feeling like shit because you stayed up till 4 a.m. rehearsing an argument you had with your ex 6 years ago. So, you whack the snooze. You can’t get up. Just. Not. Today.
But, then the Hatch you insisted on having for your nursery never fails to sound its 7 a.m. “Magical Morning” melody. Soon, your toddler is stirring with a soft cry. He doesn’t want to get up either.
On this Thursday morning, you sigh. Let yourself cry for five minutes. Then you let your feet touch the floor.
When you get to his crib, he’s already signing “more, more.” He’s hungry. Remember how proud you were when you first taught him that and he mimicked you?
You’re still proud, just a little annoyed too.
Today, his breakfast looks like eggs and yogurt. And Blueberries. Always blueberries. You snag a few when he’s not looking. Yesterday, you didn’t eat anything at all for breakfast. You smile as you sip your coffee. Progress.
When breakfast is done, he runs for his dog guitar. As he presses every button in rapid succession, you sing each tune before it jumps to the next. You could ask him to slow down. To finish a song. But, when you make eye contact with him across the kitchen table and see the laughter bubbling in his eyes, you stay silent.
Motherwrite 