We’ve spent years talking about how AI is transforming journalism. As I write this, I’ve already counted at least nine Nieman predictions this year that talk about AI. I think we’d see a much more substantive transformation in journalism if we started by simply learning how to use our computers.

After more than three years of pandemic-forced remote work, during which our entire profession migrated to Zoom calls, shared drives, and collaborative documents, I assumed we would all finally reach a baseline level of digital fluency. I could not have been more wrong.

The number of professionals in journalism, media, communications, and academia who still don’t understand how to use the very tools they depend on for their livelihood is, frankly, staggering.

I’m not talking about coding apps or building complex databases. I’m talking about the basics: keyboard shortcuts that save hours per week. Understanding the difference between “reply” and “reply all.” Knowing how to search your own inbox or switch between work and personal accounts. Reading the words on your screen or an error message before throwing your hands up and declaring “something’s broken.” Learning how to unmute yourself or share your screen after years of being forced to do all our meetings on Zoom.

This isn’t a generational thing, either. I know plenty of people in their 20s who are baffled by file management, and plenty of people in their 60s who could teach a masterclass in tech workflow efficiency. This is about a sort of learned helplessness that has somehow become socially acceptable, even quirky and endearing in some circles — a professional skill gap that wouldn’t be tolerated in any other field.

Imagine a carpenter who couldn’t figure out how to adjust their table saw, or a surgeon who shrugged and said something like, “I’m just not a scalpel person.” We would never accept that. But in the field of knowledge work, “I’m just not a tech person” has become a permanent identity instead of a temporary gap to be filled.

The cost goes beyond simple inefficiency and becomes a mountain of invisible labor, usually absorbed by the most junior person in the room or whoever has the misfortune of being labeled as “good with computers.” It becomes a drag on every collaboration, the friction in every workflow, the meetings that take an extra ten minutes while someone (who is often paid twice the average salary of the other people in the meeting) figures out why they can’t access the shared folder the rest of us have been using for months. It’s the quiet erosion of patience and goodwill among people who are constantly expected to know and fix things that shouldn’t need fixing in the first place.

The stakes are also higher than mere personal annoyance. We work in fields that are supposed to explain the world, including digital platforms, AI systems, and technological shifts that are reshaping society. How can we claim to credibly cover these topics when we can’t even manage our own email settings? How do we build trust with audiences about complex technology stories when we treat our own computers and devices like mysterious black boxes without even watching a few YouTube videos about how they actually work?

In 2026, I’m hoping — begging, really — that we finally retire the idea that digital incompetence is an acceptable personality quirk in professional settings. Learn the shortcuts. Read the error messages. Google it (or, hell, ask the bots) before you ask someone else to Google it for you. Your colleagues will thank you. Your future self will thank you, because the gap between people who understand their tools and the people who don’t is only getting wider.

A horrible person once said, “Everything’s computer.” And while I disagree with virtually everything else that person has said, they weren’t wrong about this one.

The computer isn’t going away. Please learn how to use it.