Living on a Shift: Part Two

Instructions

The problem with shifting too often is that people start noticing. It’s not one big thing. It’s a hundred little ones. The way my head tilts when I hear something interesting. How I freeze when someone raises their voice. How I’m always watching—doors, windows, shadows. “You’re really jumpy,” someone says in science class. I shrug. “Caffeine.” I don’t even drink coffee. The truth is, my shifts are getting closer together. Shorter, sharper. Like my coyote half is pacing, restless, tired of being shoved back into a human-shaped box. Today it hits during a test. My brain refuses numbers. All I can think about is the hum of the lights and the smell of the kid two rows over—too sweet, artificial, wrong. My leg bounces. My nails scrape the desk. I feel that awful stretching sensation, like my body wants to rearrange itself. Not here. Not now. I press my foot hard into the floor until it aches. The pain grounds me just enough to finish. Barely. _____________________________________________ After school, someone follows me. Not in a scary way. Just… curious. “Hey,” they call. “You okay? You’ve been kinda… off.” My shoulders tense automatically. Coyote doesn’t like being approached from behind. I turn slowly. Keep my expression neutral. Human. “I’m fine.” They don’t buy it. No one ever does. “You always look like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.” For a moment, panic flares. My heart thuds too fast. My teeth itch. I have to fight the urge to bare them—not aggression, just nerves. “Guess I’m weird,” I say, forcing a smile that feels too sharp. They laugh it off, but the moment sticks with me. That was close. _____________________________________________ It happens on a bus. Crowded. Loud. No escape. Someone shoves past me, stepping on my foot. Another kid yells. Music blasts from a phone speaker, distorted and overwhelming. My chest tightens. My vision sharpens. The world tilts sideways. Coyote surges up hard. I crouch before I realize what I’m doing. Someone gasps. “What the—?” I scramble upright, heart hammering. My hands are shaking. My instincts are screaming RUN. “Sorry,” I blurt, too loud. “Just—panic attack.” It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. The rest of the ride I stare out the window, breathing through clenched teeth, holding my human shape together with sheer will. When I finally get home, I lock my door and slide down it, trembling. I let myself shift fully then. I curl up on the floor, spine loose, thoughts quieting, breathing deep and steady. The coyote inside me isn’t angry. It’s scared. _____________________________________________ That night, I search for answers. Not “how to stop shifting”—I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work. Instead: how to manage. how to coexist. how to function in public when your instincts don’t match your body. I find forums. Anonymous posts. People like me. Some talk about cycles. Stress triggers. Suppression backlash. That one hits hard. Maybe my shifts are getting worse because I keep forcing them down. Coyotes aren’t meant to be caged. Neither am I. _____________________________________________ I start making adjustments. I sit near exits. I take walks during breaks. I stim without shame—tapping fingers, rocking slightly, grounding myself before the shift hits full force. I stop apologizing to myself for existing. The shifts still happen. Sometimes in class. Sometimes in stores. Sometimes at the worst possible moments. But I don’t feel as broken anymore. I’m learning the rhythm. Human during the day. Coyote when I can. Both always. And maybe one day, I won’t flinch every time the bell rings. Maybe one day, the howls and the hallway noise will stop fighting each other. Until then— I survive.