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I firmly hold the belief that it is forever an option to transform. My view is you truly can teach an old dog new tricks, on the condition that the mature being is willing and willing to learn. As long as the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was in error, and endeavor to transform into a more enlightened self.

Alright, I confess, I am the old dog. And the trick I am attempting to master, despite the fact that I am decrepit? It is an significant challenge, an issue I have struggled with, frequently, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward huntsman spiders. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my potential for change as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is imposing, dominant, and the one I encounter most often. This includes on three separate occasions in the recent past. Within my dwelling. You can’t see me, but I’m shaking my head with discomfort as I type.

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

A deep-seated fear of spiders from my earliest years (in contrast to other children who find them delightful). Growing up, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to make sure I never had to confront any personally, but I still panicked if one was visibly in the general area as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, practically in the adjoining space (for fear that it pursued me), and discharging a significant portion of insect spray toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it did reach and annoy everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, as a matter of course, the most courageous of spiders in our pairing, and therefore in charge of dealing with it, while I made frightened noises and ran away. If I was on my own, my method was simply to vacate the area, turn off the light and try to ignore its existence before I had to return.

Not long ago, I visited a friend’s house where there was a notably big huntsman who resided within the sill, mostly just stationary. To be less fearful, I envisioned the spider as a 'girlie', a one of the girls, one of us, just relaxing in the sun and eavesdropping on us chat. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it was effective (a little bit). Or, actively deciding to become more fearless did the trick.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I think about all the sensible justifications not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders won’t harm me. I understand they consume things like insect pests (my mortal enemies). I am cognizant they are one of nature’s beautiful, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They travel in the deeply alarming and somehow offensive way conceivable. The appearance of their numerous appendages propelling them at that alarming velocity induces my caveman brain to go into high alert. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I believe that multiplies when they are in motion.

Yet it isn’t their fault that they have scary legs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – perhaps even more so. My experience has shown that implementing the strategy 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 good points, has begun to yield results.

Simply due to the reality that they are fuzzy entities that scuttle about extremely quickly in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, does not justify they deserve my hatred, or my girly screams. I am willing to confess when I’ve been wrong and fueled by irrational anxiety. I’m not sure I’ll ever attain the “trapping one under a cup and relocating it outdoors” phase, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains for this old dog yet.