'The Alone Australia season two speech that had me in tears.'

Allow me to clarify. I mean tears of laughter.

Real, wet-eyed, unadulterated mirth.

I've been on a proper Alone binge since late last year. I know, I know, I'm a bit late to the party, but I'm doing my couch-potato best to catch up.

For the uninitiated, Alone is a global reality TV franchise that originated in the United States. It typically features ten expert survivalists who are plunked down in the middle of bum-duck nowhere with nothing but ten pre-selected items, a first aid kit, 70 kilograms (approximately 154 pounds) of fancy camera equipment, and a satellite phone for when you're ready to "tap out". Last one standing receives a life-changing amount of money.

Krzysztof Wojtkowski sitting in front of his shelter, Alone Australia season two, 2024.

It's brutal. It's torture. It's informative. It makes your midweek spaghetti bolognaise taste extra amazing, as you sadistically watch these human beings struggle to find food, and cry when (if) they catch a fish.

It's just simply fantastically compelling.

In a world that does not usually depict neurodivergent characters in mainstream media, I'm calling it: this show features an abundance of neurospiciness.

The creativity, ingenuity, hyperfocus and intense special interest in wilderness survival is next-level brilliant.

I'm telling you, the shelters that are crafted — complete with stone fireplaces, bed frames with moss mattresses, and hinged front doors — one American woman even built a freaking sauna — make you want to dust off the old camping gear from the garage and head out bush.

It wasn't until I was just over halfway through season two of Alone Australia, however, that a participant officially acknowledged his autism and ADHD.

It was framed positively. (This wasn't the funny part). I loved what he said about it — and the fact that he hadn’t previously disclosed his diagnoses to friends meant he was being really brave bringing it up publicly on this massively popular show.

While some people he knew might guess he was neurodivergent, he said, others would have no idea as he was so adept at masking.

VIBE, Krzysztof Wojtkowski from NSW.

Then came the line that got me.

Krzysztof, calm as you like, in the stunning outback of the Tasmanian wilderness, standing there in a moment of deep reflection, said something along the lines of:

“I like my neurodivergence. If you’re neurotypical, you can’t think outside the box. You’re probably doomed to mediocrity.”

Image: Krzysztof Wojtkowski, Alone Australia Season Two. TV Central.

Reader, I howled.

Not because he was wrong, but because he was so autistically frank. No small talk, no beating around the bush, no gentle self-deprecation — just straight to the unvarnished truth, delivered with the confidence of a man who had singlehandedly built a home out of bark and good intentions, and was being openly proud of his neurodivergence to an international audience.

He wasn't intending to be offensive. He was just trying to put himself in the shoes of someone who lives with a different brain. That's a form of empathy *, by the way — the very thing that apparently autistic people do not possess.

* Empathy: the ability to understand and share the feelings of another.

(I'm being facetious, of course. It was once thought that autistic people could not be empathetic. That has been disproved. In fact, autistic people are often hyper-empathetic, to their own detriment).

There’s something incredibly validating about seeing someone not just tolerate their brain, but celebrate it. Especially in a world that often treats neurodivergence like a problem to be managed, rather than a lens that makes life infinitely more interesting (and, frankly, less mediocre).

Krzysztof didn’t apologise. He didn’t tone it down. He really didn't think that was required. He just said it — and in doing so, he probably gave every autistic person watching a tiny jolt of recognition. That yes, we think differently. And sometimes that difference is what helps us survive, whether it’s in the wilderness or in a world built for other people’s wiring.

So yeah, I cried. Audibly. Unexpectedly. With laughter and joy, from that strange electric spark of being seen.

Long live the neurospicy survivalists.