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I firmly hold the belief that it is never too late to evolve. I believe you absolutely are able to train a seasoned creature, on the condition that the old dog is willing and eager for knowledge. So long as the individual in question is ready to confess when it was mistaken, and work to become a improved version.

Alright, I confess, the metaphor applies to me. And the skill I am trying to learn, despite the fact that I am set in my ways? It is an important one, an issue I have struggled with, often, for my all my days. My ongoing effort … to grow less fearful of those large arachnids. Apologies to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my capacity for development as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is large, dominant, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. Encompassing three times in the last week. In my own living space. I'm not visible to you, but I’m shaking my head at the very thought as I type.

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

An intense phobia regarding spiders since I was a child (as opposed to other children who adore them). During my childhood, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to guarantee I never had to engage with any myself, but I still became hysterical if one was visibly in the general area as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the family room partition. I “managed” with it by retreating to a remote corner, almost into the next room (lest it chased me), and discharging a significant portion of insect spray toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and disturb everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whoever I was dating or sharing a home with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders in our pairing, and therefore tasked with handling the situation, while I produced whimpers of distress and ran away. In moments of solitude, my tactic 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 visited a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the sill, for the most part lingering. As a means to be less fearful, I conceptualized the spider as a her, a girlie, part of the group, just chilling in the sun and listening to us chat. Admittedly, it appears extremely dumb, but it was effective (a little bit). Or, the deliberate resolution to become less scared proved successful.

Whatever the case, I've made an effort to continue. I contemplate all the logical reasons not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I know they eat things like insect pests (the bane of my existence). It is well-established they are one of the planet's marvelous, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to walk like that. They move in the utterly horrifying and somehow offensive way imaginable. The appearance of their multiple limbs propelling them at that terrible speed induces my primordial instincts to enter panic mode. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I maintain that multiplies when they are in motion.

However it cannot be blamed on them that they have scary legs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I have discovered that taking the steps of trying not to have a visceral panic reaction and run away when I see one, working to keep composed and breathing steadily, and consciously focusing about their good points, has proven somewhat effective.

Simply due to the reality that they are fuzzy entities that dart around with startling speed in a way that invades my dreams, doesn’t mean they merit my intense dislike, or my shrieks of terror. I am willing to confess when fear has clouded my judgment and motivated by unfounded fear. I doubt I’ll ever make it to the “catching one in a Tupperware container and relocating it outdoors” level, but miracles happen. Some life is left for this old dog yet.