It’s around 15,000 BCE.

The Mammoth Clan had followed the herds for weeks, moving across the vast, frozen tundra. Food was running low, and the elders whispered in worried tones. The usual hunting grounds were empty. Something had changed, but no one knew why.

Except for Tarak

Tarak was different from the others. He couldn’t sit still during long planning meetings, and he often acted before thinking. The elders called him impulsive, reckless even. But Tarak had a restless mind, an itch for exploration, and a hunger for something new.

One morning, while others were still asleep, Tarak acted on a wild idea. He had been watching the birds—noticing that their migration patterns had shifted. If the birds had changed their path, maybe the herds had too.

Without waiting for approval, Tarak grabbed his spear and set off alone, chasing a hunch. The wind stung his face, and the icy ground crunched beneath his feet. His heart raced—not from fear, but from excitement. Others feared the unknown, but Tarak thrived on it.

For hours, he ran, following tracks that no one else had dared to explore. Then, just over the ridge, he saw them—reindeer, hundreds of them, grazing in a hidden valley. The animals had moved to new feeding grounds, untouched by hunters.

Tarak sprinted back to the tribe, breathless, shouting of his discovery. At first, the elders scolded him for being reckless. But when they saw the reindeer for themselves, their anger turned to awe.

That night, as the fires burned bright and the clan feasted on fresh meat, Tarak sat with a satisfied grin. His impulsivity, his need for novelty, and his restless energy had saved his people.

And deep down, he knew—when the next challenge came, when others hesitated, he would be the first to leap into the unknown once again.

London, 1766

In a grand but eerily quiet house on Clapham Common, Henry Cavendish spent his days surrounded by glass beakers, bubbling liquids, and stacks of mathematical equations. Unlike other scientists who gathered in coffeehouses to debate theories, Henry worked alone. He avoided conversations, shunned eye contact, and spoke so rarely that many mistook him for cold or unfriendly. But in truth, his mind was ablaze with discovery.

Henry had always struggled with the unwritten rules of society. Social interactions were confusing and exhausting. He disliked small talk and formal gatherings, preferring the certainty of numbers, gases, and carefully controlled experiments. Even at home, he minimized human contact—he built a private staircase at the back of his house so he wouldn’t have to encounter his housekeeper. When he needed something, he wrote instructions on slips of paper rather than speaking to his servants directly.

But while he withdrew from people, he engaged deeply with the mysteries of the universe.

One day, in his silent laboratory, Henry conducted an experiment that would change the course of science. He carefully mixed acid with metal, watching as a strange, invisible gas bubbled up. Others might have dismissed it as meaningless, but Henry saw patterns where others saw chaos. He collected the gas in a flask, tested its properties, and made an astonishing discovery:

This was not just any gas—it was a new element. It was hydrogen.

He called it "inflammable air" because it burned explosively in the presence of oxygen, producing pure water. His work laid the foundation for future scientists, including Antoine Lavoisier, who later named it hydrogen—a word that means "water-forming."

Despite his brilliance, Henry never sought recognition. He avoided the Royal Society’s crowded meetings and ignored invitations to share his work. Many of his greatest discoveries—his measurements of Earth's density, his electrical experiments—remained unpublished, hidden in his notebooks, only to be rediscovered decades after his death.

Though society viewed him as odd, even eccentric, his mind reshaped the world. The very gas he discovered would later power everything from chemical reactions to space exploration.

And through it all, Henry Cavendish remained true to himself—preferring silence over fame, solitude over applause, and the certainty of scientific truth over the confusion of human interaction.

——————————————————————————————————————————————-

It’s the year 2025.

Long after Tarak outran the winter to save his tribe, and centuries after Henry Cavendish quietly reshaped the field of chemistry, the world has given names to minds like theirs.

In 1980, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-III) was published by the American Psychiatric Association, officially recognizing many neurotypes, including Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) and Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). These classifications brought validation, research, and resources—but they also came with a label: disorder.

In the modern world, ADHD and autism are often framed in terms of deficits—challenges with executive function, sensory processing, emotional regulation, or social interaction. And for many neurodivergent individuals, these struggles are very real. I do not want to minimize that reality. The current structure of society—rigid school systems, 9-to-5 work schedules, sensory-overloading environments—was not designed with these neurotypes in mind.

But what if we zoom out? What if, instead of seeing ADHD and Autism solely as impairments, we recognize them as variations in cognition that once served a vital role—and still do?

What if these neurotypes weren’t meant to thrive in a factory-based, industrial world—but in environments that valued innovation, exploration, and deep focus?

Throughout history, human survival has depended on diverse cognitive abilities. Some people needed to be hyper-alert risk-takers. Others needed to analyze patterns for long-term survival. ADHD and autism are not random malfunctions of the brain; they are the echoes of an evolutionary past.

The explorer, the risk-taker, the innovator—like Tarak—thrived in an unpredictable, high-stakes world. His impulsivity wasn’t a flaw; it was a survival trait.
The deep thinker, the pattern-spotter, the quiet revolutionary—like Henry Cavendish—saw what others missed. His social withdrawal wasn’t a weakness; it allowed him the solitude to change the world.

Even today, these traits bring value to society in ways that we may not fully appreciate. The tech innovators, the artists, the scientists who spend years on a single idea, the firefighters who run toward danger when others flee—all of them embody the same traits that helped humanity survive for millennia.

Perhaps it’s time to rethink the narrative. ADHD and autism are not just disorders; they are variations in human cognition that have shaped the course of history.

Literature to Support This:

Reser, J. E. (2011). Conceptualizing the autism spectrum in terms of natural selection and behavioral ecology: The solitary forager hypothesis. Evolutionary Psychology, 9(2), 207-238. https://doi.org/10.1177/147470491100900209

The article "Conceptualizing the Autism Spectrum in Terms of Natural Selection and Behavioral Ecology: The Solitary Forager Hypothesis" reviews etiological and comparative evidence supporting the hypothesis that some genes associated with the autism spectrum were naturally selected.

Hartmann, T. (2019). ADHD: A hunter in a farmer's world. Rochester, VT: Park Street Press.

In ADHD: A Hunter in a Farmer’s World, Thom Hartmann expands on his well-known Hunter vs. Farmer Hypothesis, arguing that ADHD is not a disorder but rather an evolutionary adaptation that was advantageous in hunter-gatherer societies.

Evolutionary Advantage: Autism and ADHD