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My furry awakening began on Pinterest.

More specifically, it was fanart of two Zootopia Timberwolves going on a date.

At the time I thought I just really liked werewolves, but this was different. Something in my heart clicked seeing those cartoon gay wolves expressing love for one another. An undeniable sense that something in me was connecting through the screen to a shared frequency in another.

I had a rough idea of the word “furry” then. Growing up online I knew them as a punchline. Weird kids who thought they were animals and held lurid conventions. I learned to recognize the furry art style, warning me off as a cultural taboo. But in spite of my fear, the art tapped something deeper. Selfhood, identity, community.

I tried to scroll past, but more art landed on my feed. There was a curiosity in me that I didn’t understand. All I knew was that I wanted whatever this was. I felt the social illicitness in clicking open posts. My heart racing at the sight of these wolves – male wolves, together. Art made by people like me. A little queer, a little different, creating a new language to speak. The shame crept up, but so did the love. There was something here for me. But for the time being it had to be a secret held at a distance. 

Seeing such affectionately queer artwork was terrifying for a self-conscious teenager struggling with their identity. I knew I was gay, but I was still scared to express that part of myself in a Mormon community. And being asexual, the human body felt averse to my desire. Most depictions of love were expressed through passionate kisses and physical attraction. But here was art where love was tail wags and cuddling. Intimacy could be abstracted into a representative anthropomorphic body. Through this form, I could realize the naive feelings bubbling inside me.

My curiosity only grew from there. Every time I looked up “Furry Art,” hovering my finger above enter, scared to commit this into my search history yet jumping in when my heart couldn’t resist any longer. My Pinterest boards grew bigger, my dives longer, and my imagination ran wild.

I created my first OC’s by ripping art from furries with massive commission portfolios, adapting their characters into my own. I printed their art and filled out TTRPG character sheets for each character, organizing them into binders of characters and worlds. And I began to write stories for them. Stories of furry realities and sincere, male romance that seemingly spilled out of my heart.

This was my coming of age, the teenage fumblings of love and identity. I wanted to understand myself, but I just didn’t know who I was yet. Building these characters became an outlet, communicating myself through story. A safe space to express myself, free from the conforming pressures of my neighborhood and allosexuality.

But I also didn’t want to be a furry. It could only be a hobby, despite how much obsessive time I put into it. My brain had to remember for my heart this was supposed to be cringe. I was beginning high school, and I couldn’t be thought of like this. The gap between my identity and my body had to be maintained.

It was not that I was ever ashamed of other people being furries. I loved seeing their courage and sincerity. But I feared I could never follow. Instead, I hid myself from the world in order to stay safe. Keeping quiet through high school hallways and waiting to get home to work on my characters.

The gap between my identities was filled by a growing shame. I became more aware of the cringe culture that was building online. This was the end of the 2010’s internet, and what started as a social tool became a panopticon of self-perception. A new internet was shaping around video content, which allowed for visual advancement in the fandom. It was beautiful to see such expressive performance, but I couldn’t help but see the comments just pixels below.

I saw how visibly queer people were treated, autistic people. Being both, I felt it was safer to shrink away. I didn’t want to be a lolcow like I’d been so many times before. I needed to remain an observer and keep this part of myself buried. But in denying myself the community, the loneliness only grew.

I grew paranoid fearing my family would discover my secret. That they would be ashamed of me. My binders were hidden in a box in the dresser, tucked under blankets and old clothes. While writing I kept a game of Pac-Man open to switch over to if someone came into my room. At all times I was thinking of the moment it would come out. Would I be blackmailed by a hacker? Would I tell the dentist gassed out during wisdom teeth surgery? Someday, out of my control, my secret would be revealed.

At the same time, I wanted my family to know. I grew sloppier with my hints. Every profile picture was an animal. I made furry jokes often, side-eyeing to see if they got a reaction. I was a criminal wanting to be caught, waiting for the moment someone would finally ask “are you a furry” so the secret could be forced from me, and I could finally be free to live out my identity.

Every pride I would stare at the fursuiters, thankful for those who brought their sonas into the world. They were the image of possibility for myself, a culture I loved from outside. I would look for a booth or pamphlet for local furry groups. Some kind of entry into the fandom, the one I desperately wanted to be a part of but denied myself. I never found it. I don’t think I would’ve walked up if there was.

I wanted this to be a phase, hoping that as I got older this would eventually fade. Thinking that now that I was done with high school, I could finally live a normal adult life and leave this childish stuff behind. The shame made it feel like an addiction I needed to kick. I’d try to go for weeks without furry content, but I’d always come back. The love and the shame kept fighting internally. My queerness began to feel evil, predatory and dirty. The weight crept up my back like a phantom and only grew worse as my mental health suffered.

The gap between my identities finally broke in 2020. My OCD had convinced me that I was everything I feared myself to be. And in this shame, I took all of my binders, all of my characters, my stories, the hours spent building a new world for myself, and I threw them away. More than that, I tore them apart, fearing that the garbage collectors would find and trace them back to my house. They had to be unrecognizable and buried.

Despite how much I tried to hide this internal struggle from my family, they know me deeper than I could ever understand. They saw I was not okay and told me I needed to go to therapy to address my OCD and anxiety. And so, in the summer of 2021, I began the long process of untangling myself.

It became clear that I needed to look at myself — to really look at myself —  bridging the gap between identity and body.

And because it was exposure therapy, that meant literally looking at myself in the mirror and complimenting myself. I had always avoided looking at mirrors. The concept of me as a perceived person terrified me. I was so locked into my internal consciousness that I could only see my actions as I believed others saw me, and that external eye convinced me I was violent and shameful, built on years of trauma. I let my anxiety take over, assuming the shame in my head was how everyone saw me. Now, it was time to look at myself and truly love my body, one brutal stare at a time.

The process was tough, but good. I started to find my old self. But moreso, I found a new me. I began to write again, starting from a new blank document. I took my first steps back into the fandom, and my love came as if I had never left. There are some things your heart can never stop. I started to recognize this fandom as part of my identity. I was (maybe) a (light) furry. 

I’ve still been growing since then. Last year I started medication, and I hate to admit but it immediately worked. I never realized how much time my anxiety stole from me until everything became calm and I was left with just myself. I felt heartbroken that I had wasted hours of my life retreading the same fears again and again. But I also knew that I couldn’t stay looking back, it was time to keep walking.

I finally made my fursona. Not just a character, this would be me. I made a few rough sketches, worked out a few names, and the pieces all clicked into place in that flow state your heart clicks into. I found Ash.

The gap between my body and identity was closing more each day. But, there was one final leap I needed to take. My family knew me deeper than I understood, but there was one secret left. It was finally time to come out as a furry.

To be honest I always knew they would accept me. It was my own shame that stopped me from telling them. But I knew that if I wanted to accept myself, I had to let them in.

The weeks following my decision were tense. In every conversation with my sisters, the back of my mind revved, looking for a casual way to mention the whole furry thing. I debated whether I really needed this, terrified because I knew I could never go back, excited because I wanted to go forward. But being a furry has always been a part of me, and I couldn’t let my family have only half a picture of myself. They deserved the whole, and I deserved it too. Identity is not just who you are inside, it is how you are seen by those around you. In the memories they carry.

I took the leap and told my sisters, and it was not nearly as casual as I tried to play it. They were shocked, a little nervous trying to fit their social picture of furries with the brother they love. But they could see this meant something deeper to me, in how shaky my voice was when I finally asked, “What would you think of me if I told you I was a furry?”

They peppered me with questions, when did I know, what was it like, what was my animal? I told them my name is Ash, and that I am a mountain coyote because they’re a western species, resourceful, solitary but social, and because I also laugh like that.

And it felt so good to finally be seen as I knew myself. Even when my younger sister teased me for choosing a basic name, the fact that I could finally joke around was such a joy. She was right of course; I’ve since found dozens of furries named Ash. But when I found the name I knew it fit. I felt the image of a warm campfire, providing shelter from kindling up into ash that flurries up into a forest night sky.

I didn’t plan on telling my parents, but quickly realized I wanted to include them too. I forgot they are both online in their own ways, so they knew what furries were. My mother was nervous. As a teacher, parents would ask about bathroom litterboxes and kids meowing. She wanted to make sure I was safe from that stigma, the way I guarded myself before. But this was how I needed to protect myself now, and she understood.

My father immediately joked that the dog shit in the backyard better be dog shit. The kind of joke he tells to show love He keeps himself guarded with humor, but made sure I knew I was always accepted.

The one thing that surprised me most in this process was that they each separately gave me the exact same piece of advice. To make sure I don’t get heatstroke in a fursuit. Apparently, that is our fandom’s biggest outsider perception.

In spite of how afraid I was to let them in, my family came with open arms. I turned 23 recently, I feel so old and so young. At my birthday my older sister said she’s seen a spark in me that’s been gone for too long. I feel it as well. 

I’ve debated whether the term “coming out” is the right one to use, but I feel it describes this long journey perfectly. Being a furry is a part of who I am and how I express my queerness. When it was a secret, my selfhood was incomplete, tearing itself apart. When I finally called myself a furry, I felt free. Ash is who I am. He has helped me where my mental and physical health has failed me, and I’ve become a better person now that I can bring him into the world.

It must sound strange to people not in the fandom. How could pretending to be a coyote help your mental health that dramatically? I wish I could explain it, but when I look at myself in the mirror, I can feel it. I can feel the wind brush against my fur, the dust of the earth sweep under my tail, the sharp of my fangs pressing against my muzzle, and it feels good to be in this body.

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