Knowing is Not the Same as Having Answers
We've been calling information "knowledge" for a long time. AI Is exposing the difference.
I was listening to a podcast recently when the guest made a prediction that stopped me in my tracks.
He described AI as perhaps the greatest innovation in human history, rivaled only by the splitting of the atom. Then he made an even bolder claim. He believes the value of knowledge is going to approach zero.
His argument was that AI is making access to knowledge effectively unlimited. If anyone can ask almost any question and receive an immediate, reasonably sophisticated answer, then knowledge stops being scarce in the way it once was. And when something is no longer scarce, its economic value begins to change.
This, he said, won’t just disrupt jobs or industries. It will change how society functions, what humans do, and what humans are becoming.
I don’t know whether knowledge is going to become worthless. I suspect the reality will be more complicated than that.
What interested me was the assumption underneath his claim.
When someone says the value of knowledge is going to approach zero, my mind immediately goes to what kind of knowledge they mean. Are we talking about information? Expertise? Facts? The ability to retrieve an answer quickly? The ability to sound knowledgeable?
Those aren’t all the same thing.
At first, I thought my focus was on AI. That would make sense, given the subject of the podcast and the intensity of the prediction. But as I stayed with it, my attention started to shift elsewhere. I found myself thinking about the world that made this kind of prediction feel plausible in the first place.
What kind of civilization treats knowledge as something that can lose market value?
If AI can perform many tasks that once required years of education or specialized expertise, then of course this will change work, status, and entire industries. People are already feeling that. Some are losing jobs. Others are being told to reinvent themselves almost overnight. Many are trying to understand what skills will still be relevant in a world where answers can be generated in seconds.
But beneath the economic disruption is a deeper story about what our culture has learned to call intelligence.
For a long time, Western culture has organized itself around a particular understanding of knowing. We don’t usually acknowledge it directly. It’s more like the water we swim in. We learn it in school, where the right answer often carries more weight than the quality of the question. We feel it at work, where speed and confidence are treated as signs of competence. It’s evident in the kinds of authority we trust, especially when something can be measured or explained.
There is a reason for this. Analytical intelligence has done extraordinary things. Modern medicine, engineering, sanitation, digital technology, and so many of the ordinary miracles of contemporary life grew out of a way of studying reality that is precise and disciplined.
Scientific knowledge often begins by separating a living complexity into something small enough to study. That approach changed the world, but it also trained us to relate to the world in a particular way.
A way of knowing doesn’t stay separate from the rest of life. Once it proves useful, it informs the systems we build and live inside. Over time, whole institutions grow around the kinds of intelligence a culture has learned to trust.
At some point, the method becomes more than a method. It becomes a worldview.
This is where I find myself thinking about Descartes, as a kind of doorway into the story we inherited.
“I think, therefore I am” is one of those lines that lives in the cultural atmosphere. What Descartes was really after was certainty. He lived in 17th-century Europe, a world of religious conflict, witch trials, widespread superstition, and emerging science. In that kind of environment, I can understand the desire for a foundation that doubt could not easily shake.
But I also think about what his work came to symbolize. Over time, Western culture increasingly located knowing in the mind. The body was separated from the self and studied from the outside. Nature became something to manage and dominate. The world felt more knowable as it became more measurable.
I don’t say this as a rejection of science. I’m alive in a world made safer and more possible by science. I am grateful for the knowledge that has relieved suffering and expanded what human beings can do.
But every successful worldview has limitations.
When one way of knowing produces powerful results, we naturally build around it. Eventually it can become difficult to tell the difference between “this is a remarkably useful way of knowing” and “this is what knowing is.”
I think that confusion has been more of an organizer of our lives than we realize.
I’ve felt this in my own life because I’ve spent so much time moving between two very different worlds.
For years, I worked in operations and tech environments, where the goal was often to make things clearer, more efficient, trackable, and easier to repeat. There was satisfaction in that. I’m a systems thinker. I like making sense of complexity and helping something tangled become workable.
But I also spent many years in the healing arts — in bodywork, Craniosacral therapy, somatics, and teaching. In those rooms, what mattered most was often happening below the level of explanation. Sometimes someone’s system settled, or a student stopped trying so hard, and a perceptual shift occurred before anyone had words for it.
In that world, knowledge lived differently. It had to do with learning to rely on what I was noticing, especially when what I was noticing had not yet become clear enough to explain.
For a long time, I thought of those as separate worlds. In one, knowledge was something you could document, organize, and make more efficient. In the other, the most important things I learned existed closer to mystery and the unknown, which took me longer to trust. Only recently have I begun to see that both worlds were circling the same question from different directions.
How do we know what we know?
The question sounds simple, but it doesn’t stay simple for long.
Analysis can bring us to understanding, and so can lived experience. There are patterns we recognize before we can explain them, and there are things that only become clear because we have stayed in contact with them long enough for something to reveal itself.
That last kind of knowing is difficult to turn into a product or a credential. It doesn’t transfer cleanly. It doesn’t always scale. And it asks us to participate rather than stand outside the thing we are trying to understand.
Maybe that is why it has so often been pushed to the margins.
Because it doesn’t fit easily into the systems we have built to validate knowledge.
For centuries, we have often treated knowledge as something we can possess. That model has served us in many ways. It allows learning to accumulate across generations instead of beginning from scratch each time.
But knowing is not the same as having answers.
Anyone who has spent time teaching knows this. A student can memorize the right words and still not quite have the thing. They can pass the test and still be unable to apply what they learned in a living situation. Then, sometimes, the material lands in a different way. You can see it in their face, or hear it in the next question they ask. They are no longer performing understanding. They are beginning to enter it.
That moment is hard to measure, but every good teacher recognizes it.
The same is true in bodywork. The work does not really come alive until you develop a different kind of attention. You begin to feel the difference between doing something to a body and being in relationship with a whole person.
That kind of knowing takes time to arrive. It develops through practice, humility, and the gradual recognition that you are not the one in charge of everything that happens.
This is where embodiment enters the conversation for me.
In practice, embodiment has taught me that thinking feels different when it’s connected to sensation, presence, and the world around me. It’s the experience of thinking from within the life I am part of, rather than separate from.
That changes what knowing means.
It means some forms of intelligence only become available when we are present to what we’re trying to understand. We do not perceive from nowhere. We perceive through the condition of our own system, and through the context we are in. And, perhaps most of all, through the relationship we have with what we are trying to know.
This is part of what reductionism can miss.
There’s a lot of value in being able to analyze something clearly. It can reveal astonishing things. But when you take something apart in order to understand it, you also change your relationship to it. You may learn what its parts are made of, but miss how it behaves as a whole. You may learn how a body functions, but miss what it feels like to be that body.
I think about this in bodywork all the time. Anatomy is essential. It helps us understand structure, movement, and function. But a living body on the table is never only anatomy. It is a person, not just a structure — someone with history, fear, and memory. If I relate to the body only through what I know about its parts, I miss the very thing I’m trying to meet.
And this is why the prediction about AI affected me.
Is the greater risk that machines will know more than we do? Or is it that we mistake what they give us for the whole picture?
We are being told that AI will replace certain kinds of work. But the disruption is not only economic. AI also increases the risk of accepting efficient answers in place of deeper understanding.
We already live in a culture that often mistakes speed and confidence for knowing. So AI enters that culture and amplifies what was already there.
If we use AI from inside a worldview that values productivity above all else, it will likely compress the spaces where deeper understanding forms. It will help us produce more, faster. It will help us answer before we have really listened to the question. It will make it easier to bypass the awkward, necessary, fertile place where not-knowing lives.
But I don’t think that is the only possibility.
Maybe this is true of many tools. A tool can help us pay closer attention or help us avoid paying attention at all. The tool matters, but so does the consciousness we bring to it.
Which brings me back to the podcast.
When the guest said knowledge may lose its value, I understood the economic logic. But I also felt the narrowness of the frame. Knowledge, in that sentence, seemed to mean something like information that can be accessed, packaged, and sold.
That is one kind of knowledge.
It is not the only kind.
There is also the kind of knowing that comes from being changed by what we have lived through. It develops in relationship and through practice. It arrives through the experiences that make us less certain but more deeply human.
I don’t want to romanticize this. These ways of knowing can be flawed too. Intuition can be distorted. Lived experience can be interpreted through fear or bias. Relationship does not automatically make us wise.
But neither does information.
A civilization organizes itself around what it considers intelligence. If intelligence is defined primarily as analytical ability, the culture will build around that definition — its schools, professions, and economies. It grants authority to certain kinds of knowledge and treats other forms as secondary or less legitimate.
Over time, this affects everything from how children learn to trust their own perception to how bodies are treated in medical settings. It influences which professions carry prestige, how we relate to the land, and whether uncertainty is something we can stay with or something we immediately try to control.
I see AI changing more than just the future. It’s revealing the worldview we’ve already been living inside.
That feels worth sitting with before we move on.
Because the conversation about AI often moves so quickly into prediction. What jobs will disappear? What expertise will still be needed? Will it become conscious? Will it save us? Will it destroy us? Those are important questions, but they can also keep us looking outward, toward the machine, as if the machine is the whole story.
By now, it feels too simple to say AI is a mirror. Maybe the point isn’t the mirror itself, but whether we are willing to notice the worldview being reflected back to us.
It is not a perfect or mystical mirror, but a creation that reflects the assumptions of the culture that built it.
What comes back through the machine is a culture that has become extremely skilled at abstraction. We have built systems that can perform certain kinds of thinking for us, faster than we ever could. But maybe that is also what makes this moment so revealing. It shows us how much we have forgotten about being living beings among other living beings.
I don’t know what AI will become. It may pull us further into abstraction, or it may force us to reckon with the disconnection already present in our systems. More likely, it will do both, depending on how we use it and what worldview we bring to it.
But I do know that this moment is asking something of us. It asks us to become more honest about what we mean by intelligence, and to notice which forms of knowing our culture has learned to trust or doubt. A world with more answers will not necessarily be a wiser world.
I don’t think the answer is to reject AI. I also don’t think the answer is to surrender ourselves to it.
Maybe the work is more subtle than that. Maybe the work is to stay in relationship with our own intelligence as these tools become more powerful. To notice when we are using them to deepen inquiry and when we are using them to escape the discomfort of not knowing. To remember that the body has a pace, and that understanding has a pace too.
A machine can give us an answer in seconds.
But some forms of knowing still take the time they take.