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I am someone who believes that it is forever an option to transform. I believe you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, on the condition that the experienced individual is receptive and ready for growth. As long as the person is prepared to acknowledge when it was mistaken, and work to become a more enlightened self.

Alright, I confess, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am attempting to master, despite the fact that I am decrepit? It is an major undertaking, an issue I have struggled with, often, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward huntsman spiders. Apologies to all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be realistic about my potential for change as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is large, dominant, and the one I run into regularly. Encompassing three times in the last week. Inside my home. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me at the very thought as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but I’ve been working on at least becoming a standard level of composure about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders from my earliest years (as opposed to other children who adore them). Growing up, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to guarantee I never had to engage with any myself, but I still freaked out if one was obviously in the immediate vicinity as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “dealt” with it by retreating to a remote corner, nearly crossing the threshold (for fear that it chased me), and discharging a generous amount of insect spray toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and annoy everyone in my house.

In my adult life, my romantic partner at the time or cohabiting with was, as a matter of course, the bravest of spiders between us, and therefore tasked with managing the intruder, while I emitted low keening sounds and ran away. When finding myself alone, my method was simply to exit the space, douse the illumination and try to erase the memory of its being before I had to return.

Recently, I visited a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who made its home in the sill, primarily lingering. In order to be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a her, a girlie, one of us, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us chat. This may seem extremely dumb, but it worked (somewhat). Alternatively, actively deciding to become less phobic worked.

Whatever the case, I've made an effort to continue. I think about all the sensible justifications not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they consume things like buzzing nuisances (the bane of my existence). It is well-established they are one of nature’s beautiful, benign creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to scuttle like that. They travel in the deeply alarming and somehow offensive way imaginable. The sight of their numerous appendages transporting them at that frightening pace induces my ancient psyche to kick into overdrive. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I believe that triples when they are in motion.

Yet it is no fault of their own that they have unnerving limbs, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – if not more. I have discovered that implementing the strategy of trying not to instantly leap out of my body and retreat when I see one, trying to remain composed and breathing steadily, and intentionally reflecting about their beneficial attributes, has begun to yield results.

Just because they are fuzzy entities that move hastily extremely quickly in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, doesn’t mean they warrant my loathing, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I am willing to confess when my reactions have been misguided and driven by irrational anxiety. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “scooping one into plasticware and taking it outside” phase, but miracles happen. There’s a few years for this old dog yet.