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I maintain the conviction that it is never too late to transform. I think you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, as long as the experienced individual is open-minded and eager for knowledge. As long as the old dog is willing to admit when it was wrong, and strive to be a improved version.

OK yes, I am the old dog. And the trick I am trying to learn, although I am set in my ways? It is an major undertaking, an issue I have battled against, often, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to grow less fearful of the common huntsman. Apologies to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be realistic about my possible growth as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is imposing, in charge, and the one I run into regularly. Including three times in the recent past. In my own living space. I'm not visible to you, but I’m shaking my head and grimacing as I type.

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

I have been terrified of spiders since I was a child (as opposed to other children who adore them). In my formative years, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to make sure I never had to engage with any myself, but I still became hysterical if one was clearly in the immediate vicinity as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and attempting to manage a spider that had made its way onto the living room surface. I “handled” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, almost into the next room (in case it ran after me), and spraying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it did reach and annoy everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whomever I was in a relationship with or sharing a home with was, by default, the least afraid of spiders between us, and therefore tasked with managing the intruder, while I produced frightened noises and beat a hasty retreat. When finding myself alone, my tactic was simply to exit the space, douse the illumination and try to forget about its existence before I had to re-enter.

In a recent episode, I was a guest at a pal's residence where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the casement, mostly just hanging out. As a means to be less scared of it, I conceptualized the spider as a female entity, a girlie, in our circle, just lounging in the sun and listening to us chat. It sounds rather silly, but it worked (to some degree). Or, actively deciding to become less phobic did the trick.

Whatever the case, I’ve tried to keep it up. I reflect upon all the logical reasons 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 the world's exquisite, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to walk like that. They propel themselves in the deeply alarming and somehow offensive way possible. The appearance of their numerous appendages transporting them at that frightening pace induces my caveman brain to go into high alert. They are said to only have eight legs, but I believe that multiplies when they move.

But it isn’t their fault that they have frightening appendages, and they have just as much right to be where I am – perhaps even more so. I’ve found that taking the steps of trying not to instantly leap out of my body and retreat when I see one, trying to remain still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their beneficial attributes, has begun to yield results.

The mere fact that they are fuzzy entities that dart around with startling speed in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, is no reason for they merit my intense dislike, or my shrieks of terror. I can admit when my reactions have been misguided and driven by unfounded fear. I’m not sure I’ll ever attain the “catching one in a Tupperware container and relocating it outdoors” level, but miracles happen. Some life is left left in this veteran of life yet.