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I am someone who believes that it is always possible to transform. I think you can in fact train a seasoned creature, as long as the experienced individual is receptive and eager for knowledge. So long as the old dog is willing to admit when it was wrong, and endeavor to transform into a improved version.

Well, admittedly, I am the old dog. And the skill I am trying to learn, even though I am set in my ways? It is an significant challenge, something I have battled against, frequently, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward huntsman spiders. My regrets to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be grounded about my possible growth as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is imposing, commanding, and the one I encounter most often. This includes three times in the previous seven days. Within my dwelling. Though unseen, but I’m shaking my head with discomfort as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but my project has been at least attaining a standard level of composure about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders from my earliest years (in contrast to other children who find them delightful). Growing up, I had ample brothers around to make sure I never had to engage with any directly, but I still freaked out if one was obviously in the general area 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 crawled on to the family room partition. I “dealt” with it by standing incredibly far away, practically in the adjoining space (in case it chased me), and emptying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and annoy everyone in my house.

As I got older, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore tasked with managing the intruder, while I made frightened noises and ran away. In moments of solitude, my tactic was simply to exit the space, douse the illumination and try to forget about its presence before I had to enter again.

Not long ago, I was a guest at a friend’s house where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the casement, primarily hanging out. As a means to be less scared of it, I conceptualized the spider as a her, a gal, in our circle, just chilling in the sun and listening to us chat. This may seem rather silly, but it had an impact (somewhat). Or, the deliberate resolution to become less scared worked.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I think about all the logical reasons not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I understand they prey upon things like insect pests (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of the world's exquisite, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to move like that. They move in the deeply alarming and almost unjust way possible. The vision of their many legs propelling them at that terrible speed induces my caveman brain to enter panic mode. They are said to only have eight legs, but I am convinced that triples when they are in motion.

Yet it isn’t their fault that they have unnerving limbs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I’ve found that implementing the strategy of trying not to have a visceral panic reaction and run away when I see one, working to keep calm and collected, and deliberately thinking about their good points, has begun to yield results.

The mere fact that they are hairy creatures that scuttle about extremely quickly in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, is no reason for they merit my intense dislike, or my girly screams. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and motivated by baseless terror. I doubt I’ll ever make it to the “catching one in a Tupperware container and relocating it outdoors” level, but you never know. There’s a few years left in this old dog yet.