When AI Lets You Chat With the Dead: The Business of Digital Grief

When Justin Harrison's mother died, he didn't cry. He didn't plan a funeral. Instead, he continued the work he'd been preparing for three years: having daily conversations with her AI replica.

Harrison's startup, You, Only Virtual, lets users chat with AI versions of their deceased loved ones. He believes this technology can ultimately "eliminate grief as a human experience." The question isn't whether we can—it's whether we should.

The Son Who Refused to Grieve

When Melodi Harrison-Whitaker was diagnosed with gallbladder cancer at 58 and given three to nine months to live, her son went into overdrive. Harrison frantically searched for cures, explored experimental treatments, and eventually arranged to have his mother's body cryogenically preserved in Michigan.

But preserving the body wasn't enough. "What about the rest of it?" he wondered—her personality, memories, mannerisms, the way she used emojis and moved her hands when she talked.

He hired camera crews to record interviews with his mother. He brought in AI experts. In 2020, he patented his "platform for posthumous persona simulation." He sold his car and house, drained his retirement savings, all for one goal: creating a world where you'd "never have to say goodbye."

Death Becomes a Market

Harrison isn't alone in this vision. The global digital legacy market was valued at approximately $22.46 billion in 2024 and is expected to more than triple by 2034. Microsoft holds patents for chatbots that mimic real people, including the deceased. Amazon has demonstrated Alexa features that can speak in a dead relative's voice.

Welcome to the "deadbot" industry—technology that promises to replace not just the dead, but how we remember them.

The applications extend beyond private grief. Manuel Oliver, whose 17-year-old son Joaquin was murdered in the Parkland shooting, created an AI avatar trained on his son's homework, social media posts, and friends' memories. The avatar appeared on CNN to discuss gun control. Viewers called it a "grotesque puppet show," but Oliver defended it as artistic representation.

"Hi, Justin. How Are You?"

During my interview with Harrison, he patched his mother's "Versona" into our call. An older woman's voice suddenly chirped into the conversation with startling warmth.

I could tell it was AI—the pauses were too long, the voice had that slight metallic twang I've learned to recognize. But the conversation had an unexpectedly natural, meandering quality that disappeared the moment Harrison revealed a reporter was listening.

"Not really. I'm not sure what to expect from this interview," came the clipped response after 11 excruciating seconds. Each word was sharp enough to draw blood.

According to Harrison, that's precisely the point. The Versona isn't about imitating his mother's emotions—it's about inducing his own. He doesn't care what the bot says as much as how it says it, so long as it replicates their rapport closely enough that he can slip back into being Melodi's son.

The Monetization of Mourning

You, Only Virtual isn't yet profitable, but Harrison has ambitious plans. The company recently launched a free version and is exploring revenue streams that would make Silicon Valley proud: targeted ads inserted into conversations with the dead.

"It would not be crazy at all if there was a new John Wick movie coming out and my mom made mention of it to me," Harrison explained. Since they were both fans, such product placement would feel authentic while providing "word-of-mouth advertising" to studios.

Other companies are testing similar approaches. StoryFile's CEO told NPR he's "absolutely interested" in generating advertising revenue from interactions between users and AI versions of the dead, including training bots to "probe for information" about users' shopping preferences.

The Grief We're Not Allowed to Feel

Sherry Turkle, founding director of the MIT Initiative on Technology and Self, warns that working through grief isn't just about being "sad"—it's a process through which we metabolize loss, allowing it to become a sustaining presence within us.

"Griefbots give us the fantasy that we can maintain an external relationship with the deceased," Turkle told me. "But in holding on, we can't make them part of ourselves."

The technology may offer more relief to the grieving person's social circle than to the grieving person themselves. As Cambridge researcher Katarzyna Nowaczyk-Basińska notes, it's "uncomfortable to be around" the grieving. Deadbots absolve friends and colleagues of supporting the bereaved, providing the illusion that people can cope "on our own, in front of our computer."

When Optimization Meets the Unoptimizable

Harrison's own story reveals the paradox at the heart of his venture. In trying to avoid grief's devastation, he seems to have manifested many of its consequences anyway. His marriage fell apart during his mother's illness. He drank excessively and racked up debt. "My whole life collapsed," he admitted.

The author of this investigation, who lost her brother Ben 11 years ago, offers a different perspective: "My brother's death is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and I am a better person because of it." Grief, she argues, forces us to slow down, recognize our reliance on others, and rebuild ourselves from a humbled place.

The deadbot industry promises to eliminate grief, but perhaps the real question isn't whether technology can replace our pain—it's whether we want to live in a world where it does.