Quiet, at Last – Quiet, not Silent

From the blog series: Life After the Label – Stories They Don’t Print 

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It’s been a few weeks since I sat in that departure lounge, quietly worrying if I’d get through immigration without a problem. My visa was approved, all my documents were fine, but the fear was still there. That doesn’t just go away. After everything, you start second-guessing even the things that should be straightforward. Especially when the systems that are supposed to protect you are the same ones that made you feel unsafe in the first place. 

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But I made it! Over these past few weeks, I’ve noticed something I didn’t expect. The noise in my head, the relentless worries, the constant need to scan and prepare for judgment is quieter now. Not silent. Just quieter. 

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A friend told me during a recent video call that I looked and sounded “lighter.” And they were right. I’ve been able to walk through public spaces without prepping what I would say if confronted. I’ve eaten in restaurants without placing myself in view of the door to constantly check who is coming in next. I’ve just… lived. 

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But here is a question I can’t shake: why is the only place I can feel like this somewhere far from home? How can that be fair on my family? They’re the ones who stood by me when almost everyone else turned their backs, yet the only way I can breathe is by being away from them. They’re still carrying the weight of the label I was given, even though I’m the one who went through the system. Why are they being punished too? Perhaps a conversation for a later blog, although maybe its unanswerable.  

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What I did want to talk about in this blog is “policing by consent”, after a recent conversation, it got me thinking and looking back at my time on licence, I realised how much I allowed. Some of my licence conditions were so vague they felt like traps. “Be of good behaviour and keep the peace.” What does that even mean? 

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Another condition, worded in a way I can’t fully remember, effectively gave social work the power to say, “anything we deem unacceptable can be stopped.” 

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And I let them overreach. I let them deny me from attending a music concert even though I had no conditions stopping me. I handed over my phone to the police every single time they visited, even though they had no legal right to ask. I did it partly because I had nothing to hide, I still don’t. But mostly, I did it because I didn’t want to look guilty. And when you've been wrongfully convicted, that fear of seeming guilty never really leaves. It lingers, even in moments that should feel safe. 

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I complied because I didn’t know how not to, there’s no guide on how to push back safely. Because no one tells you where the line is. And because the fear of what might happen if you resist is worse than the overreach itself. They have the power to send you back to jail, what is worth THAT risk.  

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Next Chapter Scotland help people understand their rights, something I wish I’d had from the start. But here’s my truth, even knowing my rights back then, I don’t think it would have changed how I behaved. The system is built on fear and compliance, not on trust or fairness. Let me be clear, I don’t blame the people working in it, many are trying their best, but the framework they work under is broken.  

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I think I am now starting to understand, policing by consent only works when there’s true trust and fairness. But how can there be consent when you’re operating under fear? When the conditions are so vague and power so unchecked that you say yes to things just to avoid being seen as “difficult”? That isn’t consent. It’s fear mongering.  

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After my release into the "care" of social work and the police, I was told I was able to “live normally”, but every knock on the door, every overreach disguised as routine, told me otherwise. And I accepted it. I complied. Because I didn’t know how not to. Because I didn’t want to risk what little stability I had. But just because I consented doesn’t make it right. 

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And here’s what I’ve learned in the weeks since leaving, the voice that told me to be afraid, to hide, to shrink, is quieter now. Not gone but no longer shouting. And it makes me wonder how many others are still living under that noise, thinking they have no choice but to say yes. 

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So, I’ll end by asking, if I had to leave the country to feel safe from the very system built to protect and support me, is that system working, or are we, as a nation, just complying? 

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— Mark‍

‍Next Chapter Scotland

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