Returning to college feels like a fresh start. The campus looks the same, my dorm room is unchanged, but my perspective is entirely different. I continue my therapy sessions at the university health center, and I am diligent about my medication. I am building a new, more resilient foundation for myself.
My shack, however, undergoes a complete transformation. It is no longer just a hobby station; it is my fortress of solitude, my personal laboratory. With a new sense of determination, I dive back into the technical side of the hobby. I decide I need to upgrade. If I am going to face the noise, I am going to do it with the best possible signal.
I spend weeks researching and saving. I sell my trusty old Kenwood transceiver to a new ham from the class I helped teach, knowing it will be in good hands. With that money, plus some I have saved, I invest in a modern, high-performance Software Defined Radio. It is a sleek black box, devoid of knobs and buttons, that connects directly to my computer. It is the same technology that powers our W1Z contest station, but this one is all mine.
The new radio is a revelation. The receiver is incredibly sensitive and quiet, with powerful digital filters that can surgically remove interference. On my computer screen, the radio spectrum is a living, breathing waterfall of color. I can see everything. I can see the strong, clean signals of the expert operators, and I can see the ugly, distorted signals of the troublemakers. With this new tool, the static is no longer an overwhelming roar; it is just another data point on a graph, something to be analyzed and filtered out. I am no longer just a listener; I am a signal analyst.
My team rallies around my return. We decide that our first operation back will be a major statement. We will not hide. We will not operate from the quiet corners of the bands. We will enter the biggest digital-mode contest of the year, the RTTY Roundup, and we will operate with the W1Z callsign, loud and proud.
The weekend of the contest arrives. I am nervous, but it is the good kind of nervousness, the pre-game jitters of an athlete, not the cold dread of a victim. Our team is a symphony of coordination. Samuel and Gregory man the main station in the garage. Azhar, on a business trip, sets up a portable station from his hotel room. Doretha acts as our network coordinator, using the internet to link our logs in real-time and spot rare multiplier stations for us to hunt. And I, from my newly upgraded dorm room, am the designated "high-band hunter," tasked with scanning the upper frequencies for openings.
As I fire up my new rig, I can feel the old anxiety trying to creep in. What if they are waiting for me? But I have a new mantra, a new coping mechanism learned in therapy. I acknowledge the thought, label it as "anxiety," and let it go. I focus on the task at hand.
We start the contest, and our combined signal is a powerhouse. The contacts begin to pour in. The competition is fierce, but we are at the top of our game. Halfway through the first day, it happens. On the 20-meter band, I see an ugly, overdriven signal appear right next to our frequency. It is one of the sad-hams. He starts calling CQ, his signal splattering across the band, intentionally causing interference.
The old Haruka would have panicked. The old Haruka would have fled. But the new Haruka sees it for what it is: just noise. I engage my radio's digital filters. On my screen, I draw a box around his ugly signal and click "notch." His signal vanishes from my headphones, completely erased, while the station I am talking to remains perfectly clear. I have silenced him. It is the most empowering feeling.
I send a quick message to my team on our private chat. "Troll on frequency. Filters engaged. He is irrelevant."
The contest continues. We operate for 48 hours straight, a blur of flying fingers and digital signals. We are focused, we are synchronized, and we are having fun. The joy is back. The passion is back. The noise is still out there, but we are simply better than it. We are stronger than it. Our signal is cleaner, our operating is more skillful, and our purpose is clearer.
When the contest ends, we are utterly exhausted, but triumphant. We do not know our final score yet, but we know we have performed flawlessly. We have not just participated; we have dominated. We have faced our bullies, and we have won, not by engaging with them, but by being so far beyond them that they could not touch us.
That night, before I go to sleep, I spin the dial on my radio. I hear the diverse and wonderful sounds of the amateur radio world. I hear a ragchew from Australia, a contest station in Brazil, a slow CW conversation between two old friends. This is my community. This is my hobby. And I am not going to let a small handful of bitter people take it away from me, or from anyone else. My return signal has been sent, and it is a strong one. 9W8ABC is back on the air.