Let’s talk about sainthood. The glowing halos, the ecstatic visions, the kind of devotion that sends someone to a mountaintop monastery to write manuscripts or grow a garden in total solitude for decades. As a kid, I was fascinated by the lives of saints. They seemed superhuman—people so connected to God they could transcend all the messy human stuff the rest of us get bogged down in. But as I got older, I started to wonder: What if some of these saints weren’t so much superhuman as they were… different? What if their mystical experiences and obsessive devotion weren’t solely divine gifts, but also reflections of neurodivergence—specifically autism?

Hear me out. Think of the stereotypical saint: someone laser-focused on their faith, often to the point of complete detachment from the outside world. They might spend days fasting, meditating, or engaged in repetitive, almost ritualistic behaviors. Many reported seeing vivid visions, hearing divine voices, or receiving messages no one else could perceive. Some struggled to communicate their inner experiences to others, often writing cryptic texts full of metaphors and symbology. Does that sound familiar? Because to me, it echoes what many autistic individuals describe—not necessarily divine revelations, but heightened sensory perception, an intense inner world, and a deep, singular focus on what fascinates them.

The Saints Who Fit the Profile

Take St. Thérèse of Lisieux, for instance. Known as “The Little Flower,” she obsessively recorded her spiritual life in journals, detailing her relationship with God in a way that feels incredibly introspective and singular. Her rituals were exacting; her prayers, repetitive and methodical. Or think about St. Joseph of Cupertino, the so-called “Flying Saint,” who reportedly experienced ecstatic levitations during prayer. Accounts of his life describe him as socially awkward, overly emotional, and deeply fixated on his spiritual practice—traits that some might now recognize as autistic.

And then there’s Hildegard of Bingen, a 12th-century nun, composer, and mystic who claimed to receive visions directly from God. Her writings were filled with intricate, symbolic imagery, and she was fiercely passionate about her creative pursuits. Today, we might call her a multi-talented savant, someone whose neurodivergent mind processed the world in ways that most people couldn’t comprehend. Was it divine insight, or was her brain wired differently in a way that allowed her to see connections others missed?

Obsessive Devotion or Hyperfixation?

One of the hallmarks of autism is hyperfixation: the ability to focus intensely on a particular subject or activity, often to the exclusion of everything else. Saints, too, often displayed this kind of singular focus. St. Simeon Stylites famously lived atop a pillar for 37 years, praying and meditating. Was that extreme religious devotion, or was it a kind of autistic hyperfocus? It’s hard to say. What we do know is that this kind of intense commitment to a single goal—combined with a detachment from societal norms—is a common thread in both saintly lives and the experiences of many neurodivergent people.

Even the repetitive nature of prayer, chanting, or fasting could align with what modern psychology calls “stimming” behaviors—repetitive actions that help self-regulate emotions or sensory input. For someone in the Middle Ages, where neurodiversity wasn’t understood, these actions might have been seen as proof of divine inspiration rather than a coping mechanism.

Visions, Prophecies, and Sensory Processing

One thing that sets many saints apart is their reported visions and prophecies. Joan of Arc, for instance, claimed to hear voices from saints and angels instructing her to lead France to victory. Today, we might explore those experiences through the lens of heightened sensory sensitivity or even auditory processing differences—both traits commonly associated with autism.

This isn’t to say her visions weren’t real to her. In fact, many autistic people describe similar experiences, like heightened awareness of sounds, lights, or patterns that others might miss. In a deeply religious society, these heightened perceptions could easily be interpreted as spiritual experiences. Joan’s unwavering belief in her mission, despite societal opposition, also feels reminiscent of the fierce determination and moral clarity that many neurodivergent individuals describe.

Solitude and Routine: A Monk’s Dream Life?

Medieval saints often lived in monasteries or hermitages, environments structured around routine, silence, and solitude. For someone with autism, that kind of lifestyle might have felt less like a sacrifice and more like an ideal. The predictability of daily prayers, the quiet focus of copying manuscripts, the opportunity to immerse oneself in a single pursuit—it’s a setup that aligns perfectly with what many autistic individuals seek in their own lives: calm, order, and space to explore their interests without distraction.

Even gardening, a common activity for monks and nuns, can take on new meaning in this context. It’s meditative, repetitive, and allows for a deep connection with the natural world—something that many neurodivergent people find grounding. Saints like St. Fiacre, the patron saint of gardeners, might have found in their horticultural work not just spiritual fulfillment, but sensory and emotional regulation.

Reframing Sainthood Through a Neurodivergent Lens

So what happens when we start to view saints not just as religious icons, but as historical figures who might have been neurodivergent? For me, it makes their stories feel more human, more relatable. Instead of seeing them as unattainable paragons of virtue, we can recognize them as people who channeled their unique minds into something extraordinary.

It also raises questions about how society has historically treated neurodivergence. In medieval Europe, someone with unusual behaviors might have been labeled “touched by God” and revered. Today, they might face stigma, discrimination, or a lack of understanding. What does that say about us? Have we lost the ability to see the beauty in neurodiversity, to appreciate the unique perspectives it brings?

The Holy Autistic?

I’m not saying every saint was autistic, or that all mystical experiences can be explained through neurodivergence. But I do think it’s worth exploring how these two narratives intersect. For those of us who grew up feeling like we didn’t quite fit into the mold—whether because of autism, ADHD, or just being a little “different”—there’s something comforting in the idea that history’s holiest figures might have been just like us. Not perfect, not otherworldly, but deeply human.

In the end, maybe sainthood isn’t about being flawless or superhuman. Maybe it’s about embracing the ways we’re wired differently and using those differences to create something beautiful, whether it’s a manuscript, a garden, or a life dedicated to something greater. And if that’s the case, then the saints—neurodivergent or not—still have plenty to teach us about what it means to live with purpose, passion, and a touch of the divine.