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I maintain the conviction that it is forever an option to transform. I think you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the mature being is willing and willing to learn. So long as the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was mistaken, and endeavor to transform into a better dog.

Well, admittedly, the metaphor applies to me. And the skill I am trying to learn, despite the fact that I am a creature of habit? It is an important one, an issue I have grappled with, often, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. My regrets to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be realistic about my capacity for development as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is sizeable, commanding, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. Encompassing on three separate occasions in the last week. Inside my home. I'm not visible to you, but I'm grimacing and grimacing as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but my project has been at least attaining a baseline of normalcy about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders since I was a child (as opposed to other children who adore them). Growing up, I had ample brothers around to ensure I never had to confront any myself, but I still became hysterical if one was visibly in the same room as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had ascended the living room surface. I “dealt” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, nearly crossing the threshold (lest it chased me), and discharging half a bottle of insect spray toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it did reach and irritate everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders in our pairing, and therefore tasked with dealing with it, while I produced frightened noises and ran away. If I was on my own, my method was simply to exit the space, turn off the light and try to ignore its presence before I had to enter again.

In a recent episode, I visited a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who lived in the window frame, for the most part hanging out. As a means to be less fearful, I conceptualized the spider as a female entity, a gal, one of us, just chilling in the sun and listening to us chat. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it was effective (a little bit). Put another way, the deliberate resolution to become more fearless worked.

Whatever the case, I’ve tried to keep it up. I reflect upon all the sensible justifications not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they eat things like insect pests (the bane of my existence). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, non-threatening to people creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to move like that. They propel themselves in the utterly horrifying and somehow offensive way conceivable. The vision of their many legs propelling them at that frightening pace causes my primordial instincts to kick into overdrive. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I am convinced that triples when they are in motion.

Yet it cannot be blamed on them that they have frightening appendages, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – if not more. I have discovered that implementing the strategy of working to prevent have a visceral panic reaction and run away when I see one, trying to remain composed and breathing steadily, and deliberately thinking about their good points, has proven somewhat effective.

The mere fact that they are hairy creatures that dart around extremely quickly in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, doesn’t mean they merit my intense dislike, or my girly screams. I can admit when my reactions have been misguided and fueled by irrational anxiety. It is uncertain I’ll ever attain the “catching one in a Tupperware container and escorting it to the garden” level, but miracles happen. Some life is left for this seasoned learner yet.