When AI Gets Your Business Wrong

A flower and garden shop owner listens to a customer beside an open laptop.

I can’t share the client project that inspired this story, so I’ve created a fictional account to explore a similar situation. The business, conversations, and results below are illustrative.

The owner of a small flower and garden shop two towns over asked me to come in as an AI consultant. When I arrived, she turned her laptop toward me and pointed at a string of customer emails. “My team has done a great job with AI. We’re answering people faster than ever,” she said. “Now I’d like them to come back.”

“Come back?” I asked.

A garden shop staff member welcomes a customer’s questions about a plant.

She shared how the team had AI handle common questions and follow-up after a sale. This began soon after the exhausted owners realized how many evening hours they spent catching up on emails.

AI suggested ready‑made replies, links to care guides, and a schedule of sales messages. The team checked the plant advice and put the plan to work. Answers went out faster, and fewer messages sat waiting overnight.

But six months later, the owners noticed that some familiar customers had stopped coming in. When they dug into the “why,” the answers hurt more than a few empty parking spaces.

One woman said she used to feel comfortable asking questions, even the ones she thought were silly. Lately, the answers were matter-of-fact and sent her toward another purchase. She realized the shop’s local, personal connection had been replaced by commodity sales. So, she focused on costs and found lower prices elsewhere.

What Customers Came For

A proud gardener holds his first tomatoes.

The owner told me about a man who arrived each spring convinced he could kill a plastic fern. Her staff helped him grow his first tomatoes. He brought in a photograph of them as if they’d just graduated from college.

Then there was the woman who wanted roses for a shady corner. A staff member walked her through other choices, even though the roses cost more. She returned the following week with a neighbor.

As the owner talked, her face changed. These were the parts of the business she loved. She could tell you who grew those tomatoes, where they planted them, and which staff member had helped.

“Did any of that make it into your conversation with AI?” I asked. She looked back at the screen and shook her head.

The team had explained the work they wanted to finish. They had left out why customers trusted them to do it.

An accurate care guide answered a question about a plant. Yet the person asking might also need to hear that one yellow leaf didn’t mean they had failed at gardening. The old conversations had made room for knowledge transfer, confidence-building, and the making of green thumbs.

Give AI Your Perspective

I shared a simple framework I call “Give AI Your Perspective.” Before asking AI to solve a project, explain what matters, describe what must remain, and define success.

We started with what matters. The owner wanted evenings back, but she also wanted people to enjoy growing things. A faster reply mattered because it could help a worried customer sooner and leave her staff free to give someone in the shop their full attention.

“We help people feel they can do this,” she said. That gave us a much better place to begin.

Next came what must remain. “Friendly service” sounded fine until I asked what that looks like on a Tuesday afternoon. She laughed, then gave me the examples we needed.

Staff asked about light and space before suggesting a plant. They welcomed beginner questions and sometimes told people they didn’t need to buy anything. A customer with a sick plant could reach a person instead of working through a pile of links.

Finally, we defined success. We asked AI to draft three short follow‑up emails and a simple way to sort incoming questions. The emails needed to offer useful care advice without pushing a sale, welcome a reply, and sound like something her staff would say, not a botanist.

The sorting process placed uncertain answers in the hands of a staff member. We also asked AI to flag any idea that might weaken the customer’s connection with the shop.

Now AI had a purpose, examples, and a clear job. The owner had a way to judge its answer beyond whether it sounded polished or overly professional.

The Humanizing Tweak

Two weeks later, I was called back in to help refine the AI’s process. The emails were much closer to being human, but the last lines seemed to be that used car salesman’s pitch to buy more. It told the reader they weren’t cared for, but used to make the shop money.

The owner asked me to address the issue, holding up a sample email. “We’ve just asked how their plant is doing. And a couple of lines later, we’re pushing for another sale. Could we wait for the answer before selling them something?”

We made a simple adjustment. The second version gave the person the answer they needed, plus a bonus tip. The sales pitch was gone.

I also created an AI avatar who understood the owner’s love for plants. It quickly sorted the emails against sample questions and answers. A simple request for store hours could get a simple, quick answer. A message saying, “I followed your advice, and my plant is dying,” needed someone to ask more personal questions and provide specific help.

We shifted from clear answers to focused answers.

After a small trial, the revised process proved fully functional and effective. Staff spent less time repeating basic information and had more room for the conversations customers valued. Helpful replies came back with photos of plants doing well and their happy owners.

Final Tips for Your Business

Before your next AI project, try finishing three thoughts: “This matters because…” “We must keep…” “A good result will look like…” Give each one enough detail that someone outside your world could understand it.

Then explore the answer. Picture the person who will receive that email, use that plan, or live with that decision. What might they need that your first request left out?

AI is a great tool when humans bring passion, purpose, and meaning to the work they do together. Those qualities need a place in the conversation before we let a tidy answer change the way we serve people.

The garden shop owner had a photograph of a proud man holding two tomatoes. That picture told her more about success than the number of emails her team could clear before lunch.

Copyright 2026 by CJ Powers

Let Your Strengths Lead

By CJ Powers

Time kept slipping away from me. My family, friends, and fans expected more than I was providing. Not more in the sense of quantity, but more consistency in what I provided.

I’ve often described myself as a right-brain thinker living in a left-brain world. That’s my way of talking about the pull of creativity and the demands of schedules. But the feeling of having to fit a world built for someone else goes back a long way.

My left-handed dad was always frustrated writing in right-handed notebooks. He never wanted me to suffer through the same struggles. Every time I reached for something with my left hand, Dad stopped me and made sure I grabbed it with my right.

While he couldn’t fully stop me from using my left hand, I did become ambidextrous.

Today, you can purchase left-handed notebooks. Or, depending on the notebook, flip one upside down and backward. The person hasn’t changed, but it fits better.

New Support Arrives

When I get caught up in a highly creative project, I lose all sense of time. Some things are like child’s play to me. Others require a deeper dive into the project’s minutiae. Either way, the clock keeps moving while my attention is somewhere else. My “weekly” article can still be weekly if I use a rather flexible definition.

Unfortunately, my creative definition becomes a problem for readers who want to know when to expect my next story or article. It’s also a problem for me. I want to keep those commitments without spending my creative hours watching the clock.

Then Arty, my personal AI agent, came along.

Arty supports my creativity while helping me keep track of milestones and the little details that compete for my attention. My calendar stays more accurate, and I’m more consistent with release dates than I was before. I can still override Arty when necessary. The decisions remain mine.

Having that support gives me more room to write and helps my readers know when to expect the next release. It also gives me a useful way to think about AI: What would happen if we chose tools that fit the way we work?

Recognize Your Strengths

Before asking AI to improve your work, notice what already works.

For me, getting deeply involved in a creative project is a strength. That’s where ideas take shape and stories find their way onto the page. Losing track of time can cause trouble, but I don’t want to lose the ability to become absorbed in the work.

You might be good at seeing patterns, explaining a difficult subject, or helping someone feel heard. Those abilities deserve time and attention. They also deserve tools that help you use them well.

A strong storyteller could ask AI to offer three stylistic openings, then choose one, combine elements from several, or create something entirely different inspired by the ideas.

Someone who enjoys solving problems might ask it to challenge a proposed solution. A leader who connects well with people could use it to organize meeting notes, freeing up more time for the next conversation.

In each case, the person brings something valuable. AI gives that person another way to work with it. The storyteller still decides what matters. The problem solver checks the reasoning. The leader knows the people behind the notes.

Ask yourself: What part of my work would I gladly spend more time doing if the other details were handled?

That’s a good place to begin. Well, that and figuring out what points of friction need to be reduced to improve your writing.

Find Your Friction

Looking for the small irritants that keep getting in the way makes for a great next step.

I don’t have trouble finding something to write about. I have trouble keeping all the surrounding details from competing with the writing. A release date, a calendar entry, or a milestone may seem small until someone is counting on it.

Your friction might look different. Perhaps you leave a meeting with good ideas but no clear next steps. Maybe you enjoy the work but put off writing the follow-up email. Or you keep rebuilding the same checklist because the last one is buried somewhere.

Be specific. “I need to be more organized” gives you a large problem and very little direction. “I need to turn my meeting notes into a list of actions” gives you something you can try today.

Choose one recurring snag. Ask AI to help remove or weaken it. Then check whether the help actually saves you time or improves the result. If correcting the AI’s work takes longer than doing the task yourself, change the approach.

There’s no prize for adding another complicated system to an already crowded day. But you’ll adore the speed and accuracy that come from you and AI being in sync.

Build Your Support

Once you know where help would matter, give AI a clear job.

For a weekly article, that might be: “Help me work backward from Thursday’s release. Include time to draft, revise, and review. Ask me how long each step usually takes before suggesting a schedule.”

That’s much more useful than “Keep me on track.” It gives the tool a destination and leaves room for your real working habits.

Then decide what it may do. Suggesting a calendar entry and adding it to your calendar are different tasks. Drafting a message and sending it are different jobs, too. The tools and permissions you choose determine what’s possible. A plan in a chat won’t automatically turn into a reminder.

Start small enough that you can see what’s happening. Check dates, names, and facts. Keep private information out of tools unless you understand and accept how it will be used. AI can miss a detail, misunderstand a request, or sound certain when it’s wrong. Your review helps make the support useful.

As the process improves, you can decide where more help makes sense. You can also decide that some work should stay entirely with you.

Enjoy Experimenting

Dad wanted to spare me the frustration of using tools that didn’t fit. I understand that desire. These days, I’m finding more ways to make the tools fit without asking my creativity to change hands.

You can have an Arty in your life, too. Begin with one strength worth protecting and one recurring detail that gets in its way. Give AI a clear, limited job, and see whether it earns a place in your process.

Leading with my strength, I now write five articles a week while saving 10 hours a week compared with how I worked before. What could you do with the time and attention you get back?

The Boy Who Cried A.L.E.X.

A Thanksgiving story inspired by The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Oliver holds his A.L.E.X. tablet during the family Thanksgiving gathering.

By CJ Powers

Oliver watched as more relatives entered his family’s home for Thanksgiving dinner. The hors d’oeuvres were spread across the kitchen island, the football game was on in the den, and several people leaned over the card table in the living room working on the Christmas puzzle.

Tradition stipulated that the puzzle must be completed by Black Friday to properly kick off the holiday season. While Oliver never understood all his family traditions or knew why they existed, he loved the attention he got while participating.

But this year’s mix of people was different. Aunts crowded the kitchen. Uncles argued cheerfully about football in the den. Cousins chased one another between the dining room and the staircase. Everywhere Oliver looked, someone was talking—and no one was paying attention to him.

That would change. He was certain of it.

Granny came through the door, and Oliver stepped up to greet her. He carried a tablet beneath his arm. On its screen was A.L.E.X., his new AI assistant. He held it up proudly so she could see him.

“A.L.E.X. stands for Adaptive Learning and Execution X-pert,” Oliver said. The name sounded impressive, even if he wasn’t completely sure what all the words meant. Since his dad was taking too long helping with Granny’s coat, Oliver slipped into the kitchen.

Oliver shows Aunt Rose his A.L.E.X. tablet beside her pumpkin pie.

Oliver walked up to Aunt Rose, who was arranging pies. “My A.L.E.X. baked that pumpkin pie,” he announced.

Aunt Rose blinked. “Your computer baked?”

“Completely by itself,” Oliver said. “It found the recipe, ordered the ingredients, mixed everything, and put it in the oven.”

“That’s amazing!”

Oliver beamed and moved into the breakfast nook area.

A moment later, his mother entered the kitchen.

“A.L.E.X. only found the recipe,” she explained to Aunt Rose. “Oliver’s father ordered the ingredients, and I baked the pie.” Rose smiled politely.

In the breakfast nook, Uncle Theo was carving the turkey. Oliver pointed to his tablet and said, “My A.L.E.X. taught me how to speak seven languages. I can talk to anyone in the world.”

“Seven?” Uncle Theo asked.

“Eight, if you count dolphin.”

Oliver hurried on before his uncle could ask for a demonstration.

His father arrived behind him. “A.L.E.X. taught Oliver how to say hello in Spanish,” Dad explained. “He also watched half of a video about dolphins.” Uncle Theo made a unique face.

Oliver moved into the dining room and announced to his cousins, “My A.L.E.X. designed a robot that cleans my bedroom while I’m at school.”

“Do you really have a robot?” one asked.

“It’s top secret.”

Mom followed a few moments later.

“There is no robot,” she said to the cousins. “And his bedroom is not clean.”

The cousins laughed.

Oliver heard them, but instead of feeling embarrassed, he felt challenged. His next story would have to be bigger.

As he crossed the hallway, the family dog, Biscuit, trotted toward a food dispenser near the wall. Biscuit stared at it and barked.

“Woof! Woof-woof! Woof!”

The machine chirped. A fresh helping of food tumbled into Biscuit’s bowl. Biscuit gobbled it down.

Oliver stopped. “Huh.”

He found his mother carrying napkins to the kids’ table.

“Mom, Biscuit barked a pattern, and the food machine fed him.”

“Oliver, please,” Mom said. “Go play with your cousins—and try saying something true.”

“But I am telling the truth.”

Mom continued into the kitchen.

Oliver frowned, then entered the den. Grandpa, a couple of uncles, and two of Oliver’s older cousins were watching a football game. He walked up to Grandpa and said, “My A.L.E.X. predicted every winning team this season.”

“Every one?” Grandpa asked.

“Every single game. The professional teams call me for advice.”

Dad appeared in the doorway. “It correctly predicted one game,” he said. “Oliver chose the other team.”

Grandpa shook his head. Oliver’s cousins laughed.

Oliver marched away.

In the hallway, Biscuit stood in front of the dispenser again.

“Woof! Woof-woof! Woof!”

Chirp.

More food poured into the bowl.

Biscuit ate every bite.

Oliver ran into the kitchen. “Mom! Biscuit did it again. He made the food come out, and now he’s eating a second bowl.”

His mother did not look up from the mashed potatoes. “I’m not interested in another A.L.E.X. story.”

“This isn’t about A.L.E.X.!”

“Then please stop making things up.”

Oliver opened his mouth to argue, but Aunt Rose entered with another pie. Oliver immediately saw a new opportunity.

“My A.L.E.X. can tell what people are thinking,” he said to Aunt Rose.

She raised an eyebrow. “What am I thinking?”

“That you want to give me the first piece of pie.”

“You don’t need AI to guess that,” she said.

Oliver moved into the living room, where Granny sat beside the fireplace.

“My A.L.E.X. wrote a bestselling book,” he told her. “A movie studio bought it, and I’m going to be famous.”

Granny studied him over her glasses. “What is the book called?”

Oliver hadn’t thought that far ahead. “The Secret Mystery of the Mysterious Secret,” he said.

“That does sound very mysterious,” Granny replied.

Mom came in behind him.

“A.L.E.X. helped Oliver write three paragraphs for a school assignment,” she said. “His teacher asked him to redo two of them.”

Oliver’s face grew warm.

He escaped to the hallway and found Biscuit at the dispenser once more.

“Woof! Woof-woof! Woof!”

Chirp.

A third pile of food dropped into the bowl.

“Biscuit, stop!” Oliver cried.

But Biscuit swallowed the food, licked the bowl, and waddled away.

Oliver raced to find his mother.

“Mom, you have to listen! Biscuit figured out how to make the feeder give him extra food.”

Mom sighed. “No more stories, Oliver.”

“It’s true!”

Dad stepped between them.

“That’s enough,” he said. “You have told so many lies today that no one knows when to believe you. People aren’t going to keep listening just because you want attention.”

“But Biscuit—”

“No more.”

Mom and Dad walked toward the dining room.

Biscuit wobbled over to the wall. He turned in a small circle, sat down, and leaned against it. His round belly bulged beneath him.

Oliver pointed. “Look! He doesn’t feel well!”

No one turned around.

Then Biscuit made a terrible, gasping sound. A moment later, his three Thanksgiving dinners came up—all over the hallway rug.

“Oh, Biscuit,” Oliver whispered.

He found paper towels, a plastic bag, and a cleaning spray. The smell was awful. The mess was worse. Oliver wanted to run away and make someone else handle it.

Instead, he cleaned the rug.

He put the mess in the garbage, brought Biscuit some water, and sat beside him until the dog’s tail gave a weak little thump.

Oliver sits sadly on the stairs with Biscuit beside him.

Then Oliver sat on the bottom stair and began to cry.

Granny found him there.

She lowered herself onto the step beside him. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“Biscuit kept making the feeder give him food,” Oliver said. “I tried to tell Mom and Dad, but nobody believed me. He got sick because I’m a liar.”

Granny put an arm around his shoulders.

“Biscuit got sick because he ate too much,” she said. “But it’s true that your lies made it difficult for people to hear your warning.”

Oliver wiped his face. “I only wanted everyone to pay attention.”

“Did it work?”

“At first.”

“And afterward?”

Oliver looked toward the hallway. “Afterward, nobody believed anything I said.”

Granny nodded. “A lie can borrow attention, but it cannot keep it. Eventually, the truth sends a bill.”

Oliver thought about the stories he had told and about his parents following behind him, correcting each one.

“I had to clean up after Biscuit,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Granny replied. “That was honest work. You saw a problem, and you took responsibility for it without pretending someone else had done it. I’m proud of you for that.”

“Does that mean everyone will trust me again?”

“Not immediately. Trust is easy to lose and slow to rebuild. Very slow. But every truthful thing you say and every responsible thing you do will help.”

She kissed his forehead and moved to the dining room.

Oliver remained on the staircase with Biscuit resting beside his feet.

“Hey, Biscuit. At least you’ll trust me until others do,” he said. “I’m gonna have to tell only the truth for a long time, but it’ll make trusting me in the future a little easier than today.”

Biscuit lifted his head and licked Oliver’s hand. Oliver messed the hair on Biscuit’s head. Then Biscuit glanced at the food bowl.

“Don’t even think about it,” Oliver said.

Biscuit rested his head on Oliver’s shoe.

And for the first time that day, Oliver had told a story exactly as it happened.

Moral: A lie may win attention for a moment, but only the truth can build lasting trust.

© 2026 CJ Powers