Neurodiverse Craziness

What if what we call "mental illness" is sometimes just a different kind of genius? What if our obsession with normality is actually preventing the next evolution of human consciousness?

I've struggled to start this reflection because the topic feels both deeply personal and universally important. It's about how we understand minds that work differently, and ultimately, about how we decide who belongs and who doesn't in our version of humanity.

There is a particular subject I want to talk about, but I have a hard time identifying a simple line of narrative that would make proper sense or give the required justice and quality of presence to this topic.

Maybe you have already noticed, maybe not, but I seem to be very much in love with complexity. And yet, even with my potentially unlimited passion and pleasure for very challenging systems, I feel overwhelmed and deeply confused when I connect with our current beliefs and strategies about our collective mental health situation.

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First, there is a huge difference between complex and complicated. I love the complex, but I hate the complicated. Maybe my inner reaction is more related to this particular incoherence in that space.

Let me clarify what I mean by these terms, as they're crucial to understanding our relationship with neurodiversity:

Complex systems are like healthy ecosystems—they have many interconnected parts working together harmoniously. Think of a rainforest, a symphony orchestra, or a well-functioning brain. Complexity can be rich, beautiful, and generative. It creates emergence—outcomes greater than the sum of its parts. Our brains evolved to thrive on complexity; it stimulates growth, creativity, and evolution.

Complicated systems, by contrast, are tangled, confused, and inefficient. They're like a knotted ball of yarn or bureaucracy gone wrong—many parts working against each other, creating friction and waste. Complication leads to stagnation rather than growth. When something is merely complicated, it doesn't yield emergent properties—it just consumes energy while going nowhere.

Our brains are naturally very complex and sophisticated. The more complex it is, the smarter you are. The brain also greatly enjoys complex challenges as they enable it to evolve further and create more interesting patterns. The brain is programmed to learn and expand, potentially endlessly. The build-up of inherent complexity is a normal part of that process.

But.

The brain is also completely inefficient, stressed-out, and freaking out when faced with something overly complicated. Complicated is not a healthy challenge or situation for the brain to remain in.

Think about how you feel when dealing with contradictory instructions, arbitrary rules that make no sense, or systems designed to confuse rather than clarify. That feeling of mental fatigue, frustration, and even panic? That's your brain encountering complication, not complexity.

In educational contexts, this distinction is crucial.

A complex learning environment presents meaningful challenges with clear patterns to discover—like learning a new language through immersion or understanding mathematical relationships through hands-on experiments. A complicated learning environment, however, imposes disconnected tasks, arbitrary assessments, and conflicting expectations without coherent purpose—like memorizing lists of facts disconnected from context or following rigid procedures with no understanding of why.

Complication creates loops in our mental processes that can severely harm the entire inner psyche of the human being (sometimes even the entire community).

Very often, something very complicated that stays unresolved might result in uncomfortable mental health issues over time. Depression and burnout are just a small part of it, and they are not the worst that can happen to our magnificent, powerful, and fragile brains.

I believe many so-called mental health conditions are actually natural responses to complicated environments, not inherent brain defects. When we're forced to exist in settings that contradict our natural ways of thinking, learning, and relating, our minds rebel—sometimes through anxiety, sometimes through withdrawal, sometimes through behaviors labeled as "problematic."

These aren't signs of brokenness but signals that something in our environment needs to change.

The tragedy is that we often try to "fix" these perfectly reasonable responses with medication or behavior modification instead of addressing the complicated systems causing the distress in the first place. We pathologize the canary instead of acknowledging the coal mine's toxicity.

Genius vs. Mentally Unstable

In a previous reflection, we discussed some aspects of the "genius" archetype. But if you are even a little bit observant systemically and discerning about the complexity of our shared reality, you might realize that the line between "genius" and mentally unstable person is very thin.

This has always been the case. It's not new. And today, it's even harder to make a proper distinction between both.

Consider how many celebrated geniuses throughout history displayed what we would now label as mental health conditions: Vincent van Gogh's emotional volatility, Nikola Tesla's obsessive behaviors, Emily Dickinson's reclusiveness, or Alan Turing's social differences.

These same traits that made them struggle in conventional society also enabled their revolutionary contributions. Their unique neural wiring allowed them to see what others couldn't.

I have no idea how many authentic "geniuses" are now literal permanent residents at psychiatric hospitals. And I also don't know how many completely dangerous psychopaths or sociopaths are being perceived as smart, successful, sometimes even in leadership positions, and quite ‘’normal’’ in our modern society.

Understanding Neurodiversity

There is a word in neuroscience that is becoming more and more popular and trendy. It is called Neurodiversity.

Not many understand what this actually means or where to draw the line between a "concerning condition that should be medically treated ASAP" and legitimate access to some extraordinary mental power and natural abilities of the human brain.

The neurodiversity paradigm, first articulated by autistic sociologist Judy Singer in the late 1990s, suggests that neurological differences should be recognized and respected as a social category. It's not just a scientific concept but a social movement advocating for the dignity and potential of all types of minds. Modern research increasingly supports this view, showing that conditions like ADHD, autism, and dyslexia come with genuine cognitive advantages alongside their challenges—differences in pattern recognition, creative thinking, hyperfocus, and problem-solving that can be extraordinary assets in the right environment.

When you observe society for some time, certain trends emerge. In reality, in many cases, the difference between a high-potential intelligent (HPI) child and a child "on the spectrum" is mainly based on the beliefs of parents or our community about how they experience that child.

If we want to perceive it as a superpower, the child has a much better chance of becoming a genius. If we perceive it as a handicap, illness, or dysfunction of some sort, the child will probably grow up believing the same thing about their own mind.

If adults are scared, ashamed, and condemning of the very natural and normal neurodiversity of their child, they might give them very harmful drugs instead of sending them to a more appropriate school for their development or offering them an education better adapted to their needs—one that takes proper care of these small geniuses with true patience, understanding, and curiosity.

If parents are not scared and are courageous enough to trust the innate wisdom of their children—if parents already know that each child is unique and each has unlimited potential to be perfectly healthy and incredibly smart no matter the appearances or social judgments—that child would have many chances to become a world-scale genius.

I've seen this firsthand with friends who chose to nurture rather than "fix" their children's differences.

One couple embraced their daughter's intense focus and sensitivity instead of pathologizing it. They found strategies that allowed more dynamic movement, provided sensory tools, and encouraged her deep dives into subjects she was passionate about. Today at 16, she's developing environmental technologies that even university researchers find impressive. Her parents didn't deny her challenges—they acknowledged them while believing in her potential.

This is because parents in that situation would be helping the child make the best of their uniqueness, developing it into systemic resilience and inner strength, not making them scared and ashamed of their own creative power and incredible neuro-beauty for no reason.

We, as a community, are making the decision to see our own children as either mentally more evolved than us or, conversely, as mentally disabled and disturbed.

I don't know about you, but in a couple of generations from now, I still prefer living in a world led by people who will be smarter than me, not by completely wrecked psychos because they were drugged with some nasty stuff since primary school.

So, I find myself wondering more about how to create schools, culture, and a society that is in alignment with how our children naturally evolve rather than trying to find better strategies to make them into obedient and depressed vegetables in a completely dysfunctional, incoherent, and abusive educational system.

Learning From Our Children

What if our most powerful stance as parents, educators, and community members isn't one of authority, but of curious student? What if the children we're so desperately trying to "fix" are actually offering us portals into new ways of thinking, being, and creating that we cannot yet imagine?

The current paradigm often views a child's difference as dysfunction—a broken version of normal that needs correction. But what if we approached these differences with what I call "curious compassion"—a stance of wonder rather than worry? This means replacing "What's wrong with this child?" with "What is this child's brain brilliantly designed to do?"

A child who can't sit still in class but can build intricate structures for hours might not have an attention deficit but an attention specialty. They pay extraordinary attention to what matters to them, to what feeds their unique neural wiring. The deficit is not in the child but in our narrow conception of how learning should happen.

I've observed that the most transformative moments in education come when adults suspend their need for control and certainty and enter a space of genuine wonder about a child's experience. This means:

1. Practicing presence without agenda: Can we simply be with a child without trying to mold them into our image of what they should be? Can we watch closely, with fascination rather than evaluation?

2. Embracing the "yet-unknown-function": When a child behaves or thinks in ways we don't understand, can we hold the possibility that this capacity serves a purpose we haven't yet recognized? Perhaps their sensitivity, intensity, or unusual interests are not bugs but features of a mind designed for a future we can't yet see.

3. Distinguishing guidance from control: True guidance comes from a place of deep respect for the child's inherent wisdom and unique path. It offers scaffolding and boundaries within which their authentic self can safely emerge, rather than demanding conformity to external ideals.

4. Recognizing children as our teachers: The most profound education is often bidirectional. When I truly listen to children—especially those labeled as "different"—I frequently find myself humbled by their wisdom, their ethical clarity, their ability to see through social pretense to underlying truth.

A friend who works with autistic children told me something that changed my perspective forever. "When a child is having what we call a 'meltdown,'" she said, "they're not giving us a hard time. They're having a hard time. Our job is to be the calm in their storm, not add to the chaos." This applies to all children, all people—neurotypical or not.

When someone is struggling, our instinct to control or correct often creates more complication. Our presence, patience, and genuine curiosity create the safe complexity in which natural growth can occur.

Navigating the Unknown with Courage

One of the greatest challenges of embracing neurodiversity is confronting our fear of the unknown. When a child's mind works in ways we don't understand, it triggers deep insecurities in us as parents, teachers, and communities. We fear failing them. We fear they will suffer. We fear we don't have the answers they need.

These fears are natural, but we have a choice in how we respond to them. We can allow fear to drive us toward control and conformity—medicating, disciplining, and molding children to fit existing boxes. Or we can use our uncertainty as an invitation to growth—expanding our conception of what's possible for a human mind, and in doing so, expanding our own.

At some point, I encountered a nine-year-old boy who couldn't write a coherent paragraph (or was just not yet interested in learning that) but could explain quantum physics concepts that some, with their advanced degree, barely grasped.

The traditional education system would probably have labeled him "learning disabled." But in reality, his mind simply moved at different speeds in different domains—glacial in some, supersonic in others. Understanding him required me to abandon my assumptions about how learning "should" progress and instead observe his natural cognitive rhythms. This wasn't a compromise or accommodation—it was an evolution in my understanding of intelligence itself and its natural emergence.

Navigating the unknown doesn't mean abandoning responsibility. It means expanding our concept of what responsible guidance looks like:

1. Providing structure without stifling: Clear boundaries, routines, and expectations can create safety for all children, especially those whose internal experience may be intense or overwhelming. But these structures should be flexible enough to bend with the child's genuine needs rather than breaking their spirit.

2. Becoming fluent in multiple languages of expression: Not all children communicate their needs, insights, and experiences verbally. Some speak through movement, through art, through patterns, through silence. Can we learn to listen in these languages too

3. Building communities of difference: No parent or teacher can be everything to every child. But we can create communities where diverse minds, skills, and perspectives are valued, allowing children to find the mentors and peers who speak their particular cognitive language.

4. Embracing the impossible as invitation: When a child shows abilities or challenges that seem impossible within our current understanding, we can see this as an invitation to expand that understanding rather than dismissing what doesn't fit our models.

I still choose to see our children as our bright future—not to make them pay with their own health and well-being for our very clever adult cowardice, ignorance, and stupidity.

I still prefer to listen to them about what kind of world they are dreaming about and how I can help them create it with more fun and simplicity, rather than imposing on them my very questionable complicated beliefs of what is normal and what is not.

I still prefer investing in better and wiser schools than in bigger and more complicated psychiatric hospitals.

I still prefer to tell a child they are a yet-to-be-understood genius, not a crazy and dangerous one.

A Personal Experience

As is usual in most of my publications, I am sharing stuff based on some of my personal experiences. So, how is this related to my inner world?

I was a very weird and strange child.

And my mother worked at a psychiatric hospital.

Even before I was of school age, she brought me to her workplace to be properly evaluated by professionals because she was somehow worried about my psychological normality.

After some examinations and testing, doctors told her something that made her potentially even more scared than having a "crazy" child, for some reason.

I was a child with highly abnormal intelligence, impressive learning capacities, and incredible creative potential for my age. They strongly advised her to send me to a special school for very smart kids instead of bringing me to the psychiatric hospital.

She didn't do that. She had her own reasons, and I went to a normal school anyway.

A school where I was bored as fuck most of the time, and because of that, I started to skip my classes when I was 10. I saw no point in going there or listening to my teachers. The street, life outside, ordinary humans and nature—these were more interesting and stimulating to me than my educational curriculum, which was clearly not adapted to my speed and way of learning new things.

Of course, at that point, my mom was probably more scared I'd end up a drug addict or a criminal, not "crazy" or some sort of "genius." She was likely very confused about how to provide me with a healthy, stable, and loving foundation to ensure I'd grow up as a normal child in this world.

But she had no idea how to actually do it. She had no idea how to educate a "genius" without creating an entitled, arrogant, and dangerous person. She had no idea how to behave with a child who was much smarter than her. She had no idea how to love unconditionally that child without very clearly showing how terrified she actually was herself.

Obviously, I felt and knew all of this. And I was confused, sad, and angry as hell too. She wanted a very smart and creative kid, but somehow my intelligence seemed to also be the main source of her deepest problems and worries at that time.

Maybe this is why she got rid of me when I was 13.

Looking back now as an adult, I understand her fear better.

She wanted to protect me from a world that can be cruel to those who are different, but didn't have the tools or support to navigate it herself.

This experience shaped me profoundly—it taught me both the pain of rejection and the power of embracing my own mind on my terms. Through years of self-discovery, I've learned to channel what was once labeled as "too much" into creative projects, deep connections with others who think like me, and work that values my different perspective.

My journey from wounded child to someone who can speak about neurodiversity with compassion rather than bitterness didn't happen overnight, but it taught me that our greatest wounds can become our greatest gifts when we reframe them.

Who Is Really "Crazy"?

Honestly, take a moment to think about someone you consider (or someone who was officially declared) "crazy," and truly ask yourself: how much of their "craziness" is truly insane, or potentially the exact opposite?

Who is more crazy: a person who doesn't feel very well in a completely dysfunctional, incoherent, and violent world we co-created, or one who acts completely normal and happy in a reality where people are killing each other for food and shelter, proudly calling it progress and freedom?

Who is more crazy: me in a severe depression for not wanting to collaborate with criminals who are just stupid, or you, going to work every day like a slave to destroy your own health and our shared nature just to enrich and empower those criminals even more?

Who should be going first to the psychiatric hospital for a proper check-up? One who cries, yells, and tries to do something about the nonsense we are in, or the one who tells them they are way too over-emotional, intense, and overreacting to be so sad seeing people suffering and dying for no reason?

Who is more crazy? The one for peace or the one for war? The one for emerging evolution or the one for better drugs? The one who is scared or the one who trusts? The one who is not ashamed of our completely normal human neurodiversity, or the one who thinks all smart and differently creative people are just dangerously crazy?

These questions about who is truly 'crazy' naturally lead me to another important consideration—what happens when intelligence itself becomes a barrier rather than a bridge.

The Shadow Side of Self-Proclaimed Genius

In the spirit of nuance and honesty, I must also acknowledge the shadow side of this conversation. While advocating for recognizing genuine neurodiversity and hidden genius, we must also address its counterfeit: the weaponization of "intelligence" as a shield against emotional vulnerability and responsibility.

Some individuals who proudly proclaim their intellectual superiority are not exhibiting neurodivergent genius but rather using the appearance of sophisticated thinking to mask profound psychological wounding. They may indeed need professional psychological support to address narcissistic patterns, emotional avoidance, or trauma responses.

I've encountered people who hide behind impressive vocabularies, complex theoretical frameworks, and prestigious credentials to avoid the messier aspects of being human.

I speak of this pattern not as a distant observer but as someone intimately familiar with its grip. For years, I wielded my intellect like a shield, constructing elaborate theoretical frameworks that allowed me to analyze the world while keeping it safely very far from my deep heart.

I became fluent in academic language that impressed others but often obscured rather than revealed truth. My intelligence became both my identity and my hiding place—a way to feel superior when I actually felt deeply vulnerable.

The journey from using my mind as armor to using it as a bridge has been humbling and ongoing. I've had to learn, often painfully, that true intelligence isn't measured by how effectively we can win arguments or display knowledge, but by how deeply we can connect—with ourselves, with others, and with the messy, beautiful complexity of being human.

This integration of heart and mind didn't come from acquiring more knowledge, but from developing the courage to feel what my intellect had long protected me from experiencing.

So, when I speak of this shadow side, I do so with compassion rather than judgment, recognizing that beneath intellectual armor often lies a wounded person seeking the very connection their defenses prevent.

They use reason and logic not as tools for discovery but as weapons to maintain distance from their own feelings and the humanity of others. Their intelligence becomes a fortress of self-protection rather than a bridge for deeper intimacy.

These individuals often:

1. Use intellectual prowess to avoid emotional work: Abstract thinking can become an escape from processing grief, fear, or shame. It's easier to analyze systems than to feel what hurts

2. Mistake credentialism for wisdom: They believe their advanced degrees or specialized knowledge entitles them to dismiss others' lived experiences or to control situations beyond their domain of expertise.

3. Apply intelligence selectively: Their analytical powers mysteriously fail when examining their own behavior or biases, functioning brilliantly only when criticizing others.

4. Lack embodied intelligence: Despite impressive cognitive abilities, they may demonstrate little emotional intelligence, somatic awareness, or interpersonal wisdom—creating intellectual structures disconnected from lived reality.

The irony is that these individuals are often suffering deeply. Beneath the intellectual armor often lies a wounded person desperately seeking validation but unable to risk authentic connection. Their hyper-intellectualization is not a sign of superior functioning but a sophisticated coping mechanism for profound pain.

These people don't need to be told how brilliant they are. They need the courage to be vulnerable, to recognize the limits of their knowing, and to develop the emotional capacity to feel without drowning. They need not more cognitive complexity but greater integration of heart and mind.

This is why discernment is so crucial. When we speak of embracing neurodiversity and seeing the genius in difference, we must simultaneously develop the wisdom to recognize when "intelligence" has become pathological—a barrier to wholeness rather than an expression of it.

True genius, in my experience, carries humility within its brilliance. It recognizes its own limitations, remains curious rather than certain, and serves connection rather than separation. The most profound thinkers I've known have been those who think not to prove their superiority but to better understand and serve the complex beauty of our shared world.

Embracing Our Collective Evolution

We are currently (and have been for many years now) experiencing a global shift at the level of our collective consciousness. This is not a secret anymore to anyone. We are deeply engaged in that process, which is why our reality seems so chaotic, unpredictable, and wild to some of us.

More and more humans demonstrate extraordinary mental abilities. What you believe is possible in your head is probably true only there, in your head. The limits of what is feasible with the authentic power of the brain for some others has virtually no limits.

You can judge, shame, condemn, and be scared of our neurological differences and uniqueness. Or you can embrace it and fall in love with it. You can see it as a tremendous opportunity. You can see it as something exciting and transformative.

You can see it as a more coherent, meaningful, and beautiful future for our very multidimensional humanity and the normal course of our shared evolution. You can help future generations to co-create a future they desire and deserve.

Or, you can see it as a huge problem and panic about it. You can convince yourself it's a severe mental social crisis, mysteriously orchestrated in hell, where all the "smart" and very rich people are doing their best to protect us... by destroying all the creative "geniuses" in our children before they can even grow up or finish school.

A Path Forward

I've learned through my own journey that transformation begins with small actions. Here are ways we can all participate in creating a more neurodiverse-friendly world:

1. Question "normal": When you encounter someone who thinks or behaves differently, ask yourself: "Is this actually harmful, or just unfamiliar to me?" Discomfort with difference is not the same as danger.

2. Create flexible spaces: Whether you're a parent, teacher, employer, or community member, advocate for environments that accommodate different sensory needs, communication styles, and thinking processes.

3. Listen to neurodivergent voices: Read books, follow social media accounts, and watch content created by people with different neurological experiences. Their insights are invaluable.

4. Expand your understanding of intelligence: Intelligence is not a single spectrum from "low" to "high" but a complex constellation of abilities. Someone may struggle with traditional academics but possess extraordinary creative, emotional, or practical intelligence.

5. Celebrate neurodivergent contributions: Point out the innovations, art, scientific discoveries, and social insights that came from minds that work differently.

The evolution of humanity has always depended on our diversity—not just genetic but neurological. Our different ways of perceiving, processing, and responding to the world are not accidents but essential variations that help our species adapt and thrive.

You choose. And what you want to believe in. And what you decide to do about it.

But remember that your choice affects not just your life but our collective future as well.

So, here is my invitation, not an instruction or rule.

Choose love over fear. Choose possibility over limitation. Choose to trust over shame. Choose meaning over reason. Choose compassion over over-powering. Choose to see the genius in our unique and such beautiful differences.

Choose to simply wonder with your innate innocence over harsh judgments that makes no logical sense at all.

In the end, what we call 'crazy' today may well be the blueprint for tomorrow's humanity—if only we have the courage to see it.

The future belongs not to those who force minds into boxes, but to those brave enough to wonder at the brilliance of minds that refuse to be contained.

The question isn't whether different minds belong in our world, but whether our world is brave enough to become worthy and welcoming of the gifts they bring.