When I was 15, I did something stupid.
The irony is, I thought I was being smart.
I was in Grade 10, and we often had to write essays for different subjects. One day, our Life Sciences teacher gave us an assignment: The Effects of Deforestation.
Because it had the furthest deadline, I told myself I’d do it later and finish the other subjects first. The day before it was due, I saw one of those annoyingly serious students already submitting.
I hadn’t even started.
There was no ChatGPT or Copilot back then, so I had to think fast.
I went to my good friend Google, searched for the topic, opened an article, and copied it word-for-word by hand.
I stapled it, gave myself a small pat on the shoulder for being effective under pressure and went to bed smiling like I was in the honeymoon phase with the girl of my dreams.
The next day, while everyone else was scrambling, ransacking their bags and making excuses, I pulled out my file, calm and collected, and handed in my essay with a pleased smile.
I just hoped the teacher wouldn’t notice.
About a week later, we got our scripts back.
Mine came last.
Zero. A massive, bold COPIED! written in red pen at the top.
Ashamed and a bit defensive, I asked to see the teacher after class.
Her first question:
“Do you think I’m stupid? Why are you writing about deforestation in 2030 when it’s 2011?”
She’d caught me. I had no comeback.
Looking back, it was obvious. There was no way a teacher who knew my level would believe I had suddenly produced something that didn’t sound like me.
If I had taken those same ideas and tied them to my own life – talked about the forest five minutes from my home, compared those global predictions to what I could actually see – I might have gotten a decent mark.
The ideas wouldn’t have been mine. But I would have been in them.
And maybe that’s what would have made it pass.
I think about this a lot when I’m on LinkedIn – the only social media app I’m on because I live under a rock.
You’ve probably seen the posts:
“Here’s the harsh reality…”
“But here’s the kicker.”
“I’ve analysed 10 000 AI tools so you don’t have to.”
“It’s not about AI replacing humans…”
And my personal favourite: saying something obvious, then adding “Let that sink in.”
Lines like this:
Today is between Monday and Sunday. Let that sink in.
Okay… and?
It’s almost like we’re all lined up, drinking from the same Olympic-sized pool, then looking around confused about why it all tastes the same.
It’s easy to fall into this. I’ve caught myself typing something and thinking, this doesn’t even sound like me.
I’m not against AI. I use it too. But I’ve realised how easy it is to slowly lose your voice without noticing.
You start sounding like what you think you’re supposed to sound like.
And it’s not just writing.
We live in a time where anyone can be a music producer thanks to AI. A South African guy called Rea Gopane has one of the biggest songs right now – ‘Suka‘, sitting at over 6 million Spotify streams at the time of writing – and it was made using an AI music platform called Suno.
I’ll give it to him. It genuinely sounds good. But something interesting has happened since: every AI-generated song using a similar female vocalist now sounds like Rea’s. Same flair, same feel.
And because of that, they feel a little flat. Not even because they’re bad, but because once everyone is drinking from the same pool, the water starts tasting the same.
And that’s the real problem: not just in music or LinkedIn posts, but anywhere it’s easier to sound like everyone else.
And the sad part is that the person behind the work often has something genuinely worth saying – a perspective shaped by their life that nobody else has.
But it gets buried under language, sounds, and ideas we’ve all heard before.
And because of that, the message disappears – it feels like something we’ve already heard.
Just like a teacher knows your level, people can sense what sounds like you. When something doesn’t, they feel it… even if they can’t explain why.
Think about a plumber, an interior designer and an electrician standing in the same empty room.
The plumber notices the pipes.
The designer thinks about colour and atmosphere.
The electrician sees wiring and safety.
Same room, different lives and perspectives.
That’s how we experience the world.
We all notice things others don’t. But the moment it becomes easy to sound like everyone else, many of us take that shortcut – and disappear into the crowd.
And I can’t help but think… what if someone is looking for the one insight only you can offer?
What if the missing piece is something only your life has equipped you to see?
And instead of offering it, you repeat what’s already been said, hoping it lands differently this time.
Maybe I’m being unfair.
I’ve been writing for most of my life, so putting myself into my words comes more naturally to me than it might for someone who doesn’t write often.
Because there was a time when I also leaned on what felt safe… when I wasn’t sure my own thoughts were worth sharing.
So I get it.
But I say this because I genuinely find people fascinating. And it’s frustrating to see someone with real insight bury it under borrowed language because it felt easier in the moment.
This is the best time to sound like yourself.
To be a bit rough around the edges.
To be slightly off.
To be human.
Push back a little. Write by hand sometimes. Read full books. Go outside instead of choosing the easier option. See people in person – imperfect faces, weird laughs and all.
What a time to have taste when almost everyone seems to have lost theirs.
What a time to be a flawed human being and sound like one.
© Phumzile