Guarding My Peace and Frequencies - By VK7AAL
It took me a long time to understand that sometimes hiding isn’t weakness — sometimes it’s survival.
Back then, I didn’t have the language I have now. I didn’t have the words autistic, overwhelmed, protecting my inner peace. All I knew was that life felt loud, unpredictable, and sharp around the edges. And my partner at the time — my ex — made it sharper.
Radio scanning wasn’t just a hobby for me. It was my way of breathing.
While other people turned to meditation, music, scrolling their phones, I turned to the quiet crackle of the airwaves. A world where everything made sense in its own frequency-driven logic. No sudden emotional storms, no judgement, no noise that demanded more than I could give.
But with them, even that needed hiding.
Those words burrowed deep. And when you already feel different your whole life — already feel like the world is made for people who speak a language you never quite learned — comments like that don’t just sting. They tell you your safe place isn’t allowed.
So I adapted. Masked harder. Shrunk smaller.
I would wait until they were asleep before turning the scanner on, sound low enough that only I could hear it. I’d pretend to be checking emails, or working late, when really I was holding onto the only quiet thing that helped my brain settle. Their footsteps would send me scrambling — not because I was doing anything wrong, but because I was afraid of losing the one grounding thing I had.
It wasn’t about radios. It never was.
It was about needing a pocket of predictability in a life where everything felt overwhelming. A ritual of calm in a relationship where I constantly felt judged, misunderstood, and too much and not enough all at once.
When I finally left, it wasn’t just relief — it was rediscovery.
The first night on my own, I turned the scanner on and didn’t lower the volume out of fear. I didn’t listen through headphones like I was committing a crime. I sat there and let the signals wash through the room, and for the first time in years, I didn’t brace for criticism.
And it hit me:
I wasn’t hiding a hobby.
I was protecting my peace.
I was trying to keep a part of myself alive in a space that didn’t make room for me.
Now, I don’t apologise for the way I decompress.
I don’t apologise for needing quiet, structure, or comfort in patterns.
I don’t apologise for being autistic and needing the world to make sense in ways that aren’t always typical.
The airwaves still hum at night, and I still listen.
Not in hiding.
Not in fear.
But in honour of the version of me who held on when it was hardest.
I guard my peace now — openly.
And the world is clearer on this side of the static.
