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I firmly hold the belief that it is always possible to transform. My view is you can in fact instruct a veteran learner, provided that the old dog is receptive and eager for knowledge. So long as the individual in question is ready to confess when it was in error, and endeavor to transform into a improved version.

Alright, I confess, I am the old dog. And the lesson I am working to acquire, even though I am decrepit? It is an major undertaking, a feat I have grappled with, frequently, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward those large arachnids. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my potential for change as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is imposing, commanding, and the one I encounter most often. Including three times in the previous seven days. Within my dwelling. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me at the very thought as I type.

I doubt I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least achieving Normal about them.

I have been terrified of spiders from my earliest years (in contrast to other children who adore them). During my childhood, I had plenty of male siblings around to ensure I never had to confront any directly, but I still panicked if one was obviously in the immediate vicinity as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and attempting to manage a spider that had made its way onto the family room partition. I “dealt” with it by standing incredibly far away, nearly crossing the threshold (in case it chased me), and emptying a generous amount of pesticide toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it did reach and annoy everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, my romantic partner at the time or cohabiting with was, as a matter of course, the least afraid of spiders between us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I emitted frightened noises and beat a hasty retreat. In moments of solitude, my tactic was simply to vacate the area, turn off the light and try to ignore its existence before I had to enter again.

In a recent episode, I visited a pal's residence where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the sill, for the most part lingering. To be less fearful, I imagined the spider as a 'girlie', a girlie, in our circle, just lounging in the sun and overhearing us chat. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it had an impact (somewhat). Put another way, making a conscious choice to become more fearless worked.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I understand they prey upon things like buzzing nuisances (creatures I despise). It is well-established they are one of the world's exquisite, non-threatening to people creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to walk like that. They travel in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way conceivable. The sight of their multiple limbs transporting them at that frightening pace causes my caveman brain to go into high alert. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I maintain that increases exponentially when they are in motion.

However it isn’t their fault that they have frightening appendages, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – perhaps even more so. I’ve found that implementing the strategy of making an effort to avoid have a visceral panic reaction and run away when I see one, working to keep composed and breathing steadily, and intentionally reflecting about their positive qualities, has actually started to help.

Just because they are furry beings that dart around at an alarming rate in a way that invades my dreams, doesn’t mean they deserve my hatred, or my shrieks of terror. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and motivated by irrational anxiety. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “scooping one into plasticware and escorting it to the garden” stage, but miracles happen. There’s a few years left in this old dog yet.