AI therapy apps need boundaries before they need hype

The most intimate app on your phone might soon be the one that talks back when you are anxious at midnight.

That sounds useful. It also sounds dangerous if we treat it like another productivity toy. A note app can lose your grocery list. A mental health app can hold your grief, your panic, your marriage problems, your prayer life, your self-harm thoughts, and the parts of your story you have not told anyone else yet.

That is why the latest wave of AI mental health apps deserves more than the usual startup excitement. In the last two days, the space got fresh attention from several directions: The Path, a new AI mental health startup connected to Tony Robbins and Calm alumni, announced funding and pitched itself around safer AI support; reporters kept digging into what mental health apps do with deeply personal data; and researchers published new work on long-running health AI agents. Put together, it feels like the category is moving from novelty to infrastructure.

I do not think the answer is to panic. I also do not think the answer is to download the newest companion app and pour your soul into it without asking hard questions first.

The appeal is obvious

People need help at inconvenient times. Therapists are expensive. Waiting lists are long. Some people are embarrassed to say out loud what they can type into a phone. For many users, an AI chat feels less threatening than a real conversation.

That does not make it therapy. But it explains why these products keep showing up.

A good mental health app can help someone journal, name a feeling, practice breathing, track a pattern, or decide to contact a real person. Those are reasonable uses. I can see the value, especially for people who would otherwise sit alone with the same looping thought for hours.

The problem starts when the app quietly becomes a confessional, a therapist, a coach, and a data collector all at once.

Your most sensitive data should not be treated like app exhaust

Most of us already give apps too much. Location, contacts, sleep, spending, search history. Mental health data is different. It is not just behavior. It is meaning.

If an app knows that you feel hopeless every Sunday night, that you are fighting with your spouse, or that you are trying to stop a private addiction, that information can be used in ways that feel invasive even when a company says it is following its policy.

Privacy policies are not comfort. They are contracts most people never read, written by companies that may change direction when money gets tight.

For Christian users, this has another layer. We should be careful about outsourcing confession, counsel, and comfort to a system that cannot love us, pray for us, or carry responsibility for us. Technology can support care. It cannot replace community, wisdom, or pastoral presence.

What I would ask before trusting one

Before using an AI mental health app for anything serious, I would want plain answers to a few questions:

Does the app clearly say it is not a therapist?
Can I delete my data, including chat history and derived insights?
Does it use my conversations to train models?
What happens if I mention self-harm or abuse?
Can a human professional be reached when the situation is serious?
Is the business model subscription, employer benefit, ads, data partnerships, or something else?

If those answers are buried, vague, or dressed up in soothing language, that is the answer.

Builders should design for restraint

Developers love making tools more capable. In mental health, capability is not the only goal. Restraint matters.

An app should know when to stop pretending it can help. It should nudge users toward real care when the conversation crosses a line. It should collect less data than it technically could. It should make deletion boring and obvious. It should not gamify vulnerability just to improve retention.

The best version of this category is not an always-on synthetic therapist. It is a careful support tool that helps someone take the next right step.

Sometimes that step is journaling. Sometimes it is calling a friend. Sometimes it is booking a counselor. Sometimes it is closing the app and telling the truth to another human being.

Use the tool, but do not hand it the whole room

I am not against AI mental health tools. I am against pretending they are neutral containers for pain.

If you try one, use it with boundaries. Do not assume private means protected. Do not let a chatbot become your only place to process life. And if you are building one, treat every message like a person trusted you with something fragile.

Because they did.