When AI Asks for Your Information

The kitchen table had that late-afternoon quiet—homework spread out, the hum of the fridge, sunlight coming through the window at an angle that made everything look a little tired.

Gina sat with her tablet in front of her, the assignment instructions still open. Her teacher, Ms. Reeves, had asked everyone to create a personal context summary to share with their classroom AI. The idea was simple: tell it about yourself—your interests, your learning style, what makes you nervous, what makes you excited—and it could help you better.

But Gina had been staring at the blank form for twenty minutes. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Connor came into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stood there the way people do when the hot Australian summer heat was too much.

“You okay?” he asked without turning around.

Gina tapped the edge of her tablet. “Do you think I should do this context thing for the AI?”

Connor grabbed a drink and sat down across from her. He was nineteen, studying engineering at university, and had the particular confidence of someone who’d recently learned a lot of things and was still deciding what to do with them.

“What’s it asking for?” he said.

Gina slid the tablet across.

Connor read it, then leaned back in his chair. “Honestly?” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

Gina felt something loosen in her chest. Relief, maybe. Or permission.

“Yeah?” she said.

Connor nodded. “Once you tell it all that stuff, you can’t take it back. And they say it’s for your learning, but who knows what else gets done with it. I had to fill out something like this for a job application last year—this whole personality profile thing that fed into their hiring AI. I did it because I needed the job, but I felt gross about it the whole time.”

Gina watched him. “Did you get the job?”

“Nope.”

Connor smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “Got an email two days later. ‘Thank you for your interest.’ Never even talked to a human.”

He took a drink. “So yeah. If I were you, I’d skip it. You don’t owe them your whole life story.”

Gina nodded slowly. That made sense.

But it was a class assignment.

After Connor left for his evening class, Gina opened a chat window with the classroom AI. She’d used it before for questions about assignments—quick stuff, clarifications—but she’d never really talked to it.

She typed: I’m worried about doing this personal context summary. What do you think I should do?

The response came back in seconds.

It’s completely up to you, Gina. You should make the choice that feels right for you. If you’re not comfortable sharing this information now, that’s okay. You can always decide to share it later if you change your mind. Many students feel uncertain about sharing personal context. That’s normal.

Gina read it twice.

It sounded… reasonable. But also vague. Like it was being careful not to push her either way.

She tried again: But will it help me if I do it?

It might. If you share information about how you learn best, I can adjust my responses to match your needs. But I can still help you without it. The choice is yours.

Gina stared at the screen.

The thing was, she kind of wanted the help. There were subjects—maths, especially—where she felt like she was always a step behind, always asking the wrong questions. Like yesterday, when Ms. Reeves called on her and the numbers went watery on the page—fractions turning into fog—while the room waited and her cheeks heated as if everyone could see the answer she couldn’t reach.

And if the AI could actually help her in a way that made sense to her brain, wasn’t that… good?

But Connor’s face kept coming back to her. That smile that wasn’t happy.

She closed the chat.

The next morning, Ms. Reeves collected the assignments. Most kids handed in tablets or printed sheets—some with a lot of writing, some with just a few lines. Gina watched them go by, one after another, each one a little window into someone’s life.

When Ms. Reeves got to Gina’s desk, Gina handed her a folded piece of paper.

Ms. Reeves unfolded it.

I talked with the AI. We agreed, it was my decision whether to submit a personal context file. I’m going to keep this to myself for now.

Ms. Reeves looked at Gina, then back at the paper. Her face did something complicated—not disappointed, not pleased, just… thoughtful.

“Okay,” she said quietly—after a beat, a soft exhale, a small nod. Then she moved to the next desk.

That was it. No validation. No “that’s perfectly fine.” Just: okay.

Gina felt the knot in her stomach shift, but it didn’t go away.

At lunch, Gina sat with her friend Priya, who’d turned in three full pages.

“I told it everything,” Priya said, unwrapping her sandwich. “Like, I even told it I get anxious before tests and I need extra time to process stuff. Ms. Reeves said it’ll help the AI give me better support.”

Gina poked at her food. “Doesn’t it feel weird? Telling it all that?”

Priya shrugged. “I mean, my mum already told the school about my anxiety. It’s in my file. So it’s not like it’s a secret.”

That was true. But it still felt different somehow.

“What did you put?” Priya asked.

“I didn’t.”

Priya looked up. “You didn’t turn it in?”

“I turned in a note. I said I’m keeping it to myself.”

Priya blinked. “And Ms. Reeves was okay with that?”

“She said okay.”

Priya tilted her head, thinking. “Huh. I didn’t know we could do that.”

“Neither did I,” Gina admitted.

They sat there for a minute, both of them chewing, both of them quiet.

Then Priya said, “Do you think I made a mistake?”

Gina looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Like… sharing all that. Do you think I shouldn’t have?”

Gina didn’t know what to say. Because the truth was, she didn’t know. She didn’t know if Priya had made a mistake, and she didn’t know if she’d made one either.

“I think,” Gina said slowly, “you did what felt right for you.”

Priya nodded. “Yeah. And you did what felt right for you.”

It sounded good when Priya said it. Like they’d both made real choices.

But walking home that afternoon, Gina still felt the tightness in her stomach.

That night, Connor asked how it went.

“I didn’t do it,” Gina said.

Connor grinned. “Good.”

But Gina didn’t grin back. “What if I needed it, though? What if it actually would’ve helped me?”

Connor’s grin faded. “Then you can do it later. Right? It’s not like the door’s closed forever.”

“But what if everyone else gets better help and I fall behind?”

Connor sat down on the edge of her bed. “Gina. You’re not going to fall behind because you didn’t tell a computer your feelings.”

Connor was quiet for a second. Then he said, “Okay. Let me ask you this. Do you trust it?”

Gina thought about it. “I don’t know.”

“Then you made the right call.”

Gina pulled her knees up to her chest. “But what if I’m wrong?”

Connor leaned back against the wall. “Then you’re wrong. And you’ll figure it out. But at least you made your own choice.”

Gina looked at him. “Is that what you tell yourself? About the job thing?”

Connor smiled—that same smile from before, the one that wasn’t quite happy.

“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty much.”

Later, alone in her room, Gina opened her tablet one more time.

She stared at the blank form.

She thought about Priya’s three pages. She thought about Connor’s email rejection. She thought about Ms. Reeves saying “okay” and nothing else. She thought about the AI’s careful, neutral voice: The choice is yours.

And she realized: the choice was hers. But that didn’t make it easy.

She closed the tablet.

Maybe tomorrow she’d feel different. Maybe next week. Maybe never.

For now, she’d made her choice.

And she’d sit with not knowing if it was right.

This week, notice one place where you’re being asked to share context—with an AI, an app, a platform, a system.

Ask yourself:

Then make your choice. And practice being okay with not knowing if it’s right. That’s the practice: choosing, even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when everyone else seems sure. Your turn: Where’s your version of Gina’s form?

If this story might help someone you know, would you forward it to them—or share it with a friend who could use it this week?