5 People You Won't Believe Were Autistic
Find out whose supposed genius we overvalue!
I often find myself wanting to share hypotheses about historical figures who may have been autistic. These figures fascinate me, and I’m convinced that exploring how neurodivergence might have shaped their lives and legacies could bring a fresh, meaningful perspective to the study of history.
However, I hesitate. I’m afraid—not of the historical research itself—but of the potential backlash from reacting audiences who won’t see the nuance in my claims. It’s not that I’m afraid to confront complexity, but that the public discourse around neurodivergence, especially when applied to prominent figures, is often oversimplified and distorted.
Even if I painstakingly frame my hypothesis as an exploration, not a diagnosis, and emphasize that such reflections are hypothetical and based on historical evidence, I fear that audiences might misinterpret my intentions and reduce my arguments to simplistic soundbites. And with the fast-moving nature of public reactions, especially on platforms like Twitter, it’s all too easy for nuanced arguments to become twisted or dismissed altogether.
Below, I’ve imagined some hypothetical audience reactions—tweets, if you will—that illustrate exactly why I’m so hesitant to share these kinds of hypotheses. They show the pitfalls of engaging with a broad public audience that often lacks the context or understanding needed to grasp the nuanced arguments behind these ideas.
Hypothetical Tweet #1: “Lol, this person thinks [REDACTED] had autism. What’s next, every genius ever?”
This is a response I can already hear in my head. It's the classic reaction when someone tries to draw connections between neurodivergence and historical greatness. The audience sees the headline—perhaps something like “Was [REDACTED] Autistic?”—and immediately jumps to conclusions without even attempting to understand the underlying argument.
In this scenario, the spectator assumes I’m trying to draw a causal link between autism and genius. They ignore any disclaimers or nuanced discussion I might have included about how autistic traits could have shaped [REDACTED]’s approach to problem-solving, their social challenges, or their obsessive focus. Instead, they reduce my hypothesis to a blanket statement that suggests I’m diagnosing every historical genius as neurodivergent.
The Missed Nuance:
In reality, my argument would be carefully framed to avoid romanticizing neurodivergence as the source of [REDACTED]’s genius. Instead, I would discuss how traits associated with autism—such as an ability to focus intensely on specific problems, or difficulty in adhering to conventional social norms—may have influenced their approach to their field. But this nuance would be lost in the rapid-fire reaction of social media, where hot takes often win out over careful analysis.
Hypothetical Tweet #2: “So now we’re pathologizing historical figures who were just eccentric? Autism is the new ‘quirky.’”
This reaction reflects a very real and common fear that diagnosing historical figures posthumously amounts to pathologizing their uniqueness. The audience is afraid that by diagnosing someone with autism, I’m reducing their eccentricity or uniqueness to a medical condition.
I can understand this concern—no one wants to diminish the richness of a person’s personality by reducing it to a clinical label. However, the point I’d want to convey is that autism isn’t a pathology in the negative sense, but rather a way of experiencing the world differently. In my hypothetical analysis, I wouldn’t be trying to diagnose figures in a way that strips them of their individuality. Instead, I’d be suggesting that understanding neurodivergence could add layers of depth to how we interpret their lives and contributions.
The Missed Nuance:
What this hypothetical audience member overlooks is that discussing neurodivergence in historical figures is not about pathologizing or reducing their identities to labels, but rather about broadening our understanding of how diverse cognitive styles can shape experiences, behaviors, and contributions. I’d argue that acknowledging neurodivergence doesn’t take away from their accomplishments, but adds context to how they navigated their unique challenges and the expectations of their society.
Hypothetical Tweet #3: “Great, so now we’re excusing historical atrocities by saying people like [REDACTED] were neurodivergent?”
This tweet captures a more disturbing possibility—that my attempt to explore how neurodivergence may have influenced morally complex figures could be interpreted as an attempt to absolve them of responsibility. The fear here is that acknowledging neurodivergent traits in someone like [REDACTED] might be seen as a way of excusing their participation in historical atrocities.
This is the last interpretation I would ever want. A responsible historian must never use neurodivergence as a way of erasing moral culpability. Instead, my goal would be to explore how [REDACTED]’s possible neurodivergence may have interacted with the social, ideological, and political context of their time—without removing their agency or downplaying the evil of their actions.
The Missed Nuance:
My argument would not be about excusing [REDACTED]’s actions, but about exploring the complexity of their character and how they may have processed the world differently. The ethical failures of someone like [REDACTED] cannot be attributed solely to neurodivergence but must be understood as the result of conscious choices made within a specific ideological framework. I’d make it clear that neurodivergence doesn’t explain away evil; it’s just one lens through which we can understand how someone navigated the world.
Hypothetical Tweet #4: “Another person trying to diagnose dead people. Is this even ethical?”
This is the kind of reaction I expect from those who are concerned about the ethics of diagnosing historical figures. They might see my work as overstepping, assuming I’m imposing modern frameworks onto people who can no longer speak for themselves. They might believe I’m diminishing these figures by retrofitting them with labels they never knew.
While I respect these concerns, I would emphasize that any diagnosis I present is framed as hypothetical and made with the understanding that historical figures lived in different times, under different social and cultural frameworks. My goal would not be to force a modern diagnosis onto them but to explore how neurodivergence may have shaped their experiences in ways that can help us better understand their context and legacy.
The Missed Nuance:
My hypothetical diagnosis would be based on evidence—historical accounts, personal writings, and behavioral patterns that align with what we now recognize as indicators of neurodivergence. I would argue that these diagnoses are not about applying modern medical labels retroactively, but about broadening our understanding of how different cognitive styles have always existed throughout history, even if they were understood differently in the past.
Why I Still Hesitate
These hypothetical tweets illustrate exactly why I’m so hesitant to share my thoughts publicly. The discourse around neurodivergence is emotionally charged, and it often lacks the nuance needed to engage with complex ideas responsibly. I fear that my hypotheses, however carefully framed, could be misinterpreted by those who don’t have the context or patience to dig deeper into the argument.
It’s unfortunate that we live in an era where quick reactions often override thoughtful analysis. I would love to engage with people who are genuinely interested in exploring how autistic traits might have shaped the lives of historical figures, but the thought of having those ideas reduced to oversimplified hot takes or used to fuel existing misconceptions holds me back. In a world where tweets and headlines dominate public discourse, it’s difficult to ensure that the nuances of these arguments are fully understood.
A Hope for Thoughtful Dialogue
Despite my hesitation, I still believe there’s value in discussing neurodivergence in history. If we can shift the conversation from diagnosing genius to understanding cognitive diversity, there’s potential for incredibly rich insights. But this requires a different kind of public engagement—one where audiences are willing to sit with ambiguity, appreciate the complexity of neurodivergence, and avoid snap judgments.
If that shift is possible, then perhaps one day, I’ll feel comfortable sharing my hypotheses with the world. But until then, I remain cautious, knowing that nuanced ideas too often get lost in the noise.