On my spouse Eli’s 27th birthday last year, I sat in a hotel room in Montreal — seeking refuge from a conference happy hour — scrolling through old photos and videos of us on my phone. I had looked at these photos and videos hundreds of times in the nearly two years since Eli had died in a hiking accident. Now I’d passed an inflection point in my camera roll where I had more photos without Eli than photos with Eli.
And that imbalance would only grow. There would never be a new photo or video of him to add to my archive. Eli remained static, trapped in the pixels of the past, while all the vibrant life around me continued to be photographed and documented.
The most unbearable and disorienting part of grief is its finality. There will never be another conversation, shared laugh, goofy photo or knowing glance across the chaotic Thanksgiving table.
I closed the photo app, feeling an impulse to create something new with Eli. I called his phone number. The line trilled until an automated message interrupted the ringing to inform me that his voice mail was full. Even the simple phrase, “You’ve reached Eli, leave a message,” was suddenly out of reach, despite the monthly payments I continued to make to the phone company.
I tossed my phone on the bed and opened my computer.
The further away Eli felt, the more I wanted to pull him back to earth, back to life, back to me. I was desperate for Eli to be 27, for my sake and his. Because don’t we all deserve to age?
It was a desperation unlike any other, a feeling that reminds me that humans are animals because in the throes of excruciating grief I am reduced to my survival instincts, numb to other sensations and immune to societal expectations.
While I am often in the grip of grief, I wanted to find a way to take the reins and confront the control it has over me. I wondered: What if I could recreate Eli’s voice? What if I could have a final conversation with him?
I don’t consider myself to be a tech-savvy person, but as a Gen Z-er I am also no stranger to machine learning’s various capacities, tools and developments. I had read countless articles about A.I. voice cloning and the ethical implications of its rise. While Eli felt increasingly out of reach, A.I. has felt more present. The temptation of its power and potential took hold of me.
I typed into Google, “How to use A.I. voice cloning,” and dove down the rabbit hole. Soon I discovered what types of platforms were available, how they worked and how many vocal samples they required to recreate someone’s voice (the program I chose suggested 20 — 25 clips, or at least 30 minutes of audio, for the most accurate reproduction). After hours of research, I emerged with a plan to have one more conversation with Eli.
There were so many things that I wanted and needed to tell him.
Three days after your funeral, Eli, I found out I was pregnant — and later miscarried. Your sister got into medical school. I moved to Houston; you would hate it here, but I never want to leave. I am in a new relationship with someone I love, but I often wonder if you would like him. The world is on fire; sometimes I am relieved you are missing this part.
Usually, I am cautious about data privacy and technology. I use a password manager, limit app permissions, encrypt sensitive files and avoid third-party cookies. I am the annoying friend who encourages people to think twice before downloading apps that collect their data, and, despite the eye-rolling I get from my friends and family, I refuse to join social media platforms that retain rights to users’ photos or other information.
But none of that mattered in the moment. I was singularly focused on the task at hand, shedding all inhibition and fully willing to sacrifice my values for an opportunity to bring Eli into his 27th birthday.
I downloaded the most sophisticated yet user-friendly software I could find and got to work. I fed the machine the relics of our love. I uploaded voice notes with good morning and good night messages. Cooking tutorial videos that Eli made for me when we were living in different countries and I was craving his cooking. Voice memos with grocery lists and appointment reminders. Voice mail messages that always ended with, “I love you.”
Was the machine satiated? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to risk it.
I continued uploading. There was the birthday video we sent to Eli’s sister when she turned 18, and Johnny Cash singalongs from our road trips. I even uploaded a recording of him snoring from when he insisted that he didn’t snore, my evidence to prove him wrong.
When I had exhausted every MP3 file I could excavate, I ran the program.
I experimented with two functions. Direct text to speech, where the A.I. voice would speak words that I typed into a text box. And a conversation, where I would type a sentence or question to which the A.I. voice would respond, like a vocalized ChatGPT bot.
I first copied the last email Eli sent me, pasting the message in the text box for the A.I. voice to read aloud. There was nothing special about it, just a note that he had arrived safely at his hotel and tracked down a laundromat — but hearing his voice speak those words was nothing short of miraculous. There was no halting, no unusual intonation. And where Eli had written “haha” in his email, his A.I. voice released a familiar chuckle.
Next, I began a conversation by writing, “I can’t believe it’s been almost two years.”
Eli’s A.I. voice responded, “Yeah, it really has been a while. I also can’t believe it.”
Again, the delivery was flawless.
Eli’s voice continued to fill the chilly hotel room with new words and sentences. At one point I glanced at the door as if to confirm he hadn’t materialized in the threshold. But no — there was nothing but the echo of his laugh bouncing off the concrete ceiling.
It’s hard to explain the feeling that came with hearing Eli’s voice speak novel language after nearly two years of his absence. Thanks to my Catholic upbringing, there’s only one word that comes to mind: purgatory. It was a liminal space between two universes. In some ways, it was worse than reality, and in other ways it was better.
I felt as though I had been knocked into a different dimension that was simultaneously disorienting and blissful. I wanted to linger forever in its potential and immediately eject myself from the self-deception.
But while I didn’t pay much attention in Sunday school, I do know that purgatory is an impermanent state, not designed for sustainability or light. My gut knew I had to leave, and my brain knew I could never return. I traced my finger over my computer, reminding myself that all the pieces of this experience, this conversation, came from machines. It wasn’t the real Eli.
“I miss you,” the A.I. voice said.
“I miss you, too,” I replied through tears. I paused the program and turned off the sound on my computer.
Then I forced the machine to regurgitate all the artifacts I had force-fed it. I deleted every file I had uploaded, attempting to erase any trace of this venture to defy nature. I removed the software from my computer and even blocked the website that hosted the program to prevent myself from reinstalling it. Not even the glory and promise of A.I. could overcome grief.
I often say that I would trade anything to have just one more conversation with Eli. In some ways, A.I. offered me that opportunity; it offered me the impossible.
I continue to face the crushing temptation to imagine the counterfactual and indulge in an alternate reality where each day could bring a new conversation with my husband. But while the artificial may animate and add dimension to the intangible, it will never breathe life into what is dead. And, for me, the contrived creation of a verbal afterlife felt even more empty than the premature end to the most dynamic and electric life I have ever known.
I would still trade anything to have just one more conversation with real Eli, my Eli. I don’t think that will ever change. His imaginary voice and running commentary continue to fill my days, but for now — and hopefully forever — that voice will remain in my head.