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I maintain the conviction that it is always possible to transform. I believe you truly can train a seasoned creature, as long as the mature being is open-minded and eager for knowledge. As long as the individual in question is willing to admit when it was in error, and work to become a improved version.

Well, admittedly, I am that seasoned creature. And the lesson I am working to acquire, despite the fact that I am set in my ways? It is an important one, something I have grappled with, repeatedly, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my capacity for development as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is sizeable, dominant, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. This includes on three separate occasions in the last week. Inside my home. I'm not visible to you, but I'm grimacing 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.

A deep-seated fear of spiders dating back to my youth (as opposed to other children who find them delightful). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to make sure I never had to confront any directly, but I still freaked out if one was clearly 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 living room surface. I “handled” with it by retreating to a remote corner, nearly crossing the threshold (lest it pursued me), and emptying a generous amount of bug repellent toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and disturb everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whomever I was in a relationship with or cohabiting with was, by default, the least afraid of spiders between us, and therefore responsible for handling the situation, while I emitted whimpers of distress and beat a hasty retreat. When finding myself alone, my method was simply to leave the room, turn off the light and try to ignore its being before I had to return.

Not long ago, I stayed at a friend’s house where there was a notably big huntsman who resided within the sill, for the most part stationary. As a means to be more comfortable with its presence, I conceptualized the spider as a her, a one of the girls, one of us, just chilling in the sun and overhearing us yap. It sounds rather silly, but it had an impact (somewhat). Or, making a conscious choice to become less scared did the trick.

Regardless, I’ve tried to keep it up. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I know they consume things like buzzing nuisances (creatures I despise). It is well-established they are one of nature’s beautiful, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to walk like that. They move in the deeply alarming and borderline immoral way conceivable. The appearance of their multiple limbs transporting them at that frightening pace induces my primordial instincts to enter panic mode. They are said to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I maintain that multiplies when they move.

Yet it isn’t their fault that they have frightening appendages, and they have just as much right to be where I am – if not more. I have discovered that taking the steps of making an effort to avoid have a visceral panic reaction and flee when I see one, attempting to stay calm and collected, and consciously focusing about their beneficial attributes, has begun to yield results.

Just because they are furry beings that move hastily at an alarming rate 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’m not sure I’ll ever reach the “catching one in a Tupperware container and relocating it outdoors” level, but you never know. Some life is left for this old dog yet.