Autism, neurodivergence, and left-handedness
It’s easy to look at something that doesn’t quite fit, that operates on a different frequency, and label it a problem. We’ve done it for centuries, perhaps instinctively. And often, our first impulse is to find a way to make it "normal," to iron out the perceived kinks.
Look at left-handedness. For a long time, it was seen as a deficit, a sign of something wrong. Children were often forced to switch, their natural inclination suppressed. The world, after all, is built for right-handers: scissors, spiral notebooks, even the layout of a workbench. It’s not that being left-handed is a *disorder*; it’s simply a different default wiring. A different operating system in a world often designed for another.
But then we learned to understand. We realized it was just a variation: a less common, but equally valid, way for the brain to organize itself. We didn’t need to "fix" left-handed people; we needed to make better scissors.
Or at the very least, understand the friction they experience navigating a right-hand-biased system.
This isn’t merely about hands. It’s a powerful analogy for how we approach neurodivergence, including autism.
The default human brain, for all its miraculous complexity, operates within a certain, statistically common range. It processes sensory input, social cues, and logical patterns in ways that align with the majority. We build our societies, our schools, our workplaces, our very assumptions about interaction, based on this default.
But what if your brain has a different architecture? What if your sensory input levels are calibrated differently? Where a "normal" hum for one person is a piercing shriek for another? What if social cues, which seem so fluid and intuitive to many, are processed as a complex, almost foreign, language that requires deliberate, analytical decryption?
It’s not a malfunction.
It’s a different operating system.
A different way of seeing, hearing, and understanding the world. Some brains are designed for deep, focused pattern recognition, for systems that operate with logical precision. Others are wired for a rich, unfiltered sensory experience. Still others excel at hyper-specialized knowledge. These aren’t weaknesses; they’re often profound strengths, distinct advantages in specific contexts.
The challenge, then, isn’t to pathologize the brain that doesn’t fit the statistical average. It’s to recognize that our systems—our schools, our interview processes, our social norms—are often built without considering these alternative operating systems. They create friction, not because the individual is faulty, but because the system is inflexible.
When we approach neurodivergence with empathy and a systems-thinking mindset, the conversation shifts. It moves from "How do we make *them* fit?" to "How do we design environments, interactions, and expectations that leverage these unique capabilities and minimize unnecessary friction?" It means understanding that what works for the mass market, the statistical average, might be completely inefficient or even painful for a significant, and valuable, segment of the population.
This requires us to listen. To observe. To learn from the lived experience of those with different internal wiring.
It’s about building inclusive systems, not just tolerant ones.
Because when we design for the edges, for the left-handers and the neurodivergent thinkers, we often uncover insights that benefit everyone. It’s a chance to make our world not just more accommodating, but more effective, more innovative, and ultimately, more human.