Amina liked to think of herself as steady.
Not slow. Not stubborn. Just… steady.
In Lagos, steady was a survival skill. You didn’t rush into traffic just because someone behind you honked. You didn’t buy a new generator because a neighbor said theirs was “the latest.” You watched. You listened. You asked a few questions. Then you moved.
But this week at work, steady had started to feel like a problem.
It happened in small moments.
A teammate dropped a message in the group chat: “AI draft done. Sent to client.”
Another teammate replied with a rocket emoji and: “Same. AI cleaned the deck in 12 minutes.”
Twelve minutes.
Amina stared at the screen a little too long, then looked down at the notebook beside her keyboard. The notebook was full of her handwriting—ideas, lists, questions, arrows. It had always worked for her. It was her way of thinking.
Now it felt like a prison.
She could feel two fears running side by side in her chest. The first one was simple and sharp:
If everyone gets fast and I stay steady… do I become unnecessary?
Not fired in a dramatic meeting. Not marched out of the building. Just slowly… edged out. Fewer assignments. Less trust. “We’ll give this one to someone who’s quicker.” The kind of fading that looks like “efficiency.” The kind where you’re still employed, but no longer trusted with the work that matters.
The second fear was worse, because it had a face. Her own.
What if I try AI and it goes wrong—publicly?
What if I send something sloppy. Or inaccurate. Or weird. What if I accidentally share something confidential into the wrong tool. What if I cost the company money. What if I become the person people stop trusting with client work. What if I look foolish in front of people I respect.
Amina had been good at her job for a long time. She didn’t mind learning. She just didn’t want to learn in a way that made her feel… exposed.
At lunch, she found herself watching other people the way you watch swimmers at a beach. Some were already far out, laughing, splashing, doing dives under breaking waves. Amina was still on the sand with her shoes in her hand.
She told herself she would start this weekend. Or next month. Or after the next project. Or after she “understood it better.” But she couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Not from her manager. Not from the company. From the air. The world was humming faster.
So she did something that surprised her. She asked for help.
Not from a manager. Not from a training module. She asked a peer.
Kemi sat two rows over—same level, same deadlines. They’d been hired around the same time. Kemi wasn’t loud about AI, but Amina had noticed something: Kemi wasn’t afraid of it.
Amina walked over with her water bottle, trying to make her voice casual.
“Do you have five minutes?” she asked.
Kemi looked up. “For you? Always.”
They found two chairs in the quieter corner near the window. Outside, Lagos moved the way it always did—busy, alive, complicated.
Amina spoke before she could overthink it.
“I feel like everyone is sprinting,” she said. “And I’m… still tying my shoes.”
Kemi didn’t laugh. She didn’t rush to reassure. She just said, “Tell me.”
“I keep seeing people use AI like it’s nothing,” Amina said. “And part of me thinks, okay, I should do that too. But then I imagine myself making one stupid mistake and it’s… over. Like I’ll look incompetent. Or cost us money.”
Kemi leaned back. “The fear of looking stupid.”
Amina gave a small, painful smile. “Yes. That one.”
“And the other one?” Kemi asked.
Amina felt it sitting there, heavy and real.
“I’m also afraid of being left behind,” she admitted. “Like… if I don’t adopt it, I become less valuable.”
Kemi’s face softened in a way that made Amina feel seen, not judged.
“Okay,” Kemi said. “That’s honest.”
They sat for a moment. Kemi tapped the table lightly.
“Can I tell you something without turning into a motivational poster?” she asked.
Amina smiled despite herself. “Please.”
“I don’t think you’re behind,” Kemi said. “I think you’re cautious. And cautious people are the ones who keep companies from bleeding money.”
Amina’s eyes narrowed slightly, like she was trying to decide if she was allowed to believe that.
“The sprinters are useful,” Kemi went on. “They’ll find shortcuts. But someone has to ask, ‘Is this accurate? Is this safe?’ That’s not being slow. That’s being responsible.”
Kemi paused, then added quietly, “And for what it’s worth—I’ve messed up with it before. That’s why I’m cautious now.”
Amina felt something shift—not relief, exactly, but… a loosening.
“But what if I really am slower?” Amina asked.
Kemi shrugged. “Then it takes you longer. The question is whether you’re learning, not whether you’re winning a race that no one agreed to run.”
Amina stared at her. That line landed with a thud—simple, undeniable.
“So how do I start without risking something big?” Amina asked.
Kemi nodded, like she’d been waiting for that exact question.
“Start small enough that it can’t hurt anyone,” Kemi said. “Start where the only thing at risk is your pride.”
Amina laughed. “My pride is very fragile.”
“Perfect,” Kemi replied. “Then that’s the training ground.”
Amina looked out the window again, watching people cross the street in that Lagos way—bold, careful, bold again.
“So what does ‘small’ look like?” Amina asked.
Kemi didn’t hand her a solution. She didn’t pull out a list titled 10 Ways to Master AI in a Weekend.
Instead, she said, “Tell me one task you do every week that feels annoying but low-stakes.”
Amina thought.
“Drafting internal updates,” she said. “Like the weekly recap email. I always overthink it.”
Kemi nodded. “Great. Next time, write your own messy bullets first—your real thinking. Then use AI for a first draft. Not the final. Just a draft. You don’t send anything until you’ve edited it in your own voice.”
Amina felt her shoulders drop, just a little.
“That feels… doable,” she said.
“And one more rule,” Kemi added.
“What?”
“Never use it when you’re panicked,” Kemi said. “Panic makes people skip the check step. If you’re rushing, you’ll trust it too much—or hate it too much. Either way, you won’t learn.”
Amina nodded slowly. That landed too.
They sat there a while longer, not solving AI, not solving the future—just naming what was true.
Amina could still feel the fears, but now they had edges. Now they were objects on the table, not monsters in the room.
When she finally stood to go back to her desk, she didn’t feel brave.
She felt… slightly less alone.
She walked back to her notebook and opened to a clean page.
At the top, she wrote:
ONE SMALL SAFE TEST.
BULLETS FIRST. AI SECOND. ME LAST.
Then she paused.
Underneath, she wrote a second line, smaller:
No racing. No hiding.
And that was it.
Just a first step—small enough to be safe, and real enough to matter.
Amina stared at the words for a moment, then turned back to her screen.
Outside, Lagos kept moving.
Inside, Amina chose her pace.
🧠 Mental Gym #7: The “Safe Sandbox” Question
Nervous about AI (or any tool, really)? Pick one work task you do weekly that is low-stakes (no client-facing risk). Ask yourself:
What’s the smallest way AI could help without sending anything unreviewed?
What’s my “safety rule” before I use it? (Example: “bullets first, AI second, me last.”)
Write your rule on a sticky note. Put it where you work.
Sparked by a post from Joanna Penn on discovery writing with AI (The Creative Penn).
Until next Sunday, keep your pace human.
— Mike