Living on a Shift- Part One

Instructions

The bell rings, and it hits me like a gunshot. Not loud—sharp. My ears twitch before I can stop them. I duck my head and pretend to rub my temples, like I’ve got a headache. That’s believable. What’s not believable is the way my spine wants to curl, or how the smell of old paper and sweat suddenly explodes into layers I can’t shut off. Coyote brain. Again. It’s third period. Math. The worst possible time. I press my feet flat against the floor, grounding myself the way the counselor taught me. Name five things you can see. Whiteboard. Cracked tile. Gum under the desk. Window glare. My pencil shaking. My jaw aches from holding it tight. If I don’t, I’ll grin—wide, sharp, wrong. Coyotes smile when they’re nervous. Humans don’t. I hate how often this happens. Some therians talk about shifts like gifts. Like something sacred that happens during meditation or under moonlight. Mine show up whenever they want—loud, messy, inconvenient. Like my body forgot I’m supposed to be human most of the time. The teacher calls my name. I flinch. Everyone looks at me. And for half a second, I’m not in a classroom at all—I’m standing in scrub grass, ears high, scanning for movement. Predator awareness slams into me so hard I nearly fall out of my chair. “Sorry,” I mumble. My voice comes out rough, lower than it should be. The kid behind me snickers. I dig my nails into my palm until it hurts enough to pull me back. Pain helps. Pain is human. ___________________________________________________ The hallway is worse. Too many bodies. Too many sounds. Shoes squeaking, lockers slamming, laughter that feels too loud, too sudden. Every noise pulls my head around before I remember not to. I keep my hoodie up. It makes me feel smaller. Contained. Still, my shoulders hunch, instinctively protecting my throat. I walk closer to the walls, tracking exits without meaning to. Doorways. Corners. Blind spots. I hate that part of me loves this. Coyote is clever. Alert. Alive. Human is tired. By lunchtime, the shift crawls deeper. My legs feel wrong—too long, too clumsy. I catch myself walking lighter, quieter. Someone bumps into me and I snarl before I can stop it. A real, audible sound. The cafeteria goes quiet around our table. I freeze. “Dude,” my friend whispers, half-laughing. “You good?” I nod too fast. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—bad day.” That’s always my excuse. Bad day. Bad week. Bad brain. No one asks more. People are polite like that when they don’t understand something and don’t want to. Inside, my chest burns with the urge to bolt. To get outside. To run until my lungs ache and the thoughts finally line up right. Instead, I sit. I eat. I pretend I don’t want to tip my head back and howl at the awful fluorescent lights. ___________________________________________________ It happens at the grocery store. I’m with my mom, pushing the cart, when a kid drops a glass jar. It shatters. The sound rips through me. Suddenly I’m crouched, heart racing, scanning for danger that isn’t there. My hands curl like paws. My teeth ache. Every instinct screams move move move. “Hey,” my mom says gently, hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” I nod. I always nod. But I can feel it—my center of gravity shifting, my thoughts slipping sideways. The world sharpens. Colors brighten. I can smell citrus cleaner and raw meat and fear from the kid who dropped the jar. I focus on my breath. In. Out. Human. Human. Human. The shift doesn’t fully leave. It never does. It just… settles. Like a coyote curled up inside my ribcage, restless and alert, waiting for its turn again. ___________________________________________________ At night, I don’t fight it. I sit on my bedroom floor with the window cracked open, cool air brushing my face. When the shift comes, I let it. Let my posture loosen. Let my thoughts drift quieter, simpler. Coyote doesn’t need words. Coyote knows when to listen. I imagine running—paws on dirt, wind in my fur, moonlight silver on everything. No stares. No bells. No expectations. Just motion. Just instinct. I don’t hate being a therian. I hate having to hide it. ___________________________________________________ The shifts don’t stop. But I start to recognize them. The warning signs. The buzzing in my ears. The way my focus narrows. I learn which classes are safer, which places are hardest. I keep grounding objects in my pockets—smooth stones, a strip of fabric, something solid and human. Some days I still slip. Some days I still snarl or flinch or go quiet and wild-eyed. But I’m learning this isn’t something to defeat. It’s something to live with. I am human enough to survive school hallways. I am coyote enough to survive myself. And maybe—eventually—that balance will stop feeling like a constant fight. Until then, I walk the line. Between bells and howls.