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I maintain the conviction that it is forever an option to change. I think you truly can teach an old dog new tricks, on the condition that the mature being is receptive and eager for knowledge. As long as the person is ready to confess when it was wrong, and work to become a improved version.

Alright, I confess, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am working to acquire, although I am decrepit? It is an significant challenge, a feat I have grappled with, frequently, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to become less scared of the common huntsman. Apologies to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is sizeable, commanding, and the one I encounter most often. Including three times in the last week. Within my dwelling. You can’t see me, but I’m shaking my head and grimacing as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least achieving a standard level of composure about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders from my earliest years (unlike other children who are fascinated by them). During my childhood, I had ample brothers around to make sure I never had to engage with any myself, but I still freaked out if one was visibly in the immediate vicinity as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had ascended the living room surface. I “managed” with it by retreating to a remote corner, practically in the adjoining space (in case it ran after me), and spraying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and irritate everyone in my house.

As I got older, whoever I was dating or sharing a home with was, as a matter of course, the least afraid of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore tasked with handling the situation, while I made whimpers of distress and fled the scene. In moments of solitude, my method was simply to vacate the area, douse the illumination and try to erase the memory of its being before I had to re-enter.

Recently, I stayed at a friend’s house where there was a very large huntsman who resided within the sill, primarily stationary. To be less scared of it, I conceptualized the spider as a female entity, a gal, part of the group, just lounging in the sun and listening to us gab. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it was effective (a little bit). Put another way, the deliberate resolution to become less phobic worked.

Whatever the case, I've made an effort to continue. I contemplate all the logical reasons not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I understand they eat things like buzzing nuisances (creatures I despise). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to move like that. They travel in the utterly horrifying and almost unjust way imaginable. The appearance of their multiple limbs propelling them at that frightening pace induces my caveman brain to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I believe that increases exponentially when they are in motion.

But it cannot be blamed on them that they have frightening appendages, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I have discovered that taking the steps of working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and retreat when I see one, attempting to stay calm and collected, and deliberately thinking about their positive qualities, has actually started to help.

Simply due to the reality that they are hairy creatures that scuttle about with startling speed in a way that invades my dreams, does not justify they warrant my loathing, or my shrieks of terror. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and driven by baseless terror. I’m not sure I’ll ever make it to the “scooping one into plasticware and taking it outside” stage, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains left in this veteran of life yet.