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I maintain the conviction that it is never too late to change. I believe you truly can teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the experienced individual is open-minded and eager for knowledge. Provided that the individual in question is ready to confess when it was mistaken, and work to become a improved version.

Alright, I confess, I am that seasoned creature. And the lesson I am trying to learn, despite the fact that I am set in my ways? It is an significant challenge, something I have battled against, often, for my whole existence. I have been trying … to grow less fearful of those large arachnids. My regrets to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is imposing, in charge, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. Including a trio of instances in the last week. Within my dwelling. I'm not visible to you, but I'm grimacing and grimacing as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I’ve been working on at least attaining Normal about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders from my earliest years (as opposed to other children who find them delightful). In my formative years, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to ensure I never had to handle any directly, but I still freaked out if one was visibly in the general area as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and attempting to manage a spider that had crawled on to the lounge-room wall. I “handled” with it by standing incredibly far away, nearly crossing the threshold (in case it pursued me), and spraying a significant portion of pesticide toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and annoy everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, by default, the bravest of spiders between us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I emitted frightened noises and beat a hasty retreat. If I was on my own, my strategy was simply to exit the space, douse the illumination and try to forget about its existence before I had to enter again.

Recently, I was a guest at a friend’s house where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who made its home in the window frame, for the most part stationary. As a means to be less fearful, I imagined the spider as a her, a girlie, in our circle, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. This may seem quite foolish, but it had an impact (somewhat). Or, making a conscious choice to become more fearless worked.

Regardless, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I think about all the rational arguments not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I recognize they eat things like insect pests (the bane of my existence). I know they are one of the world's exquisite, non-threatening to people creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They propel themselves in the utterly horrifying and somehow offensive way imaginable. The appearance of their many legs carrying them at that terrible speed triggers my primordial instincts to enter panic mode. They are said to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I maintain that increases exponentially when they are in motion.

But it cannot be blamed on them that they have scary legs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. I’ve found that implementing the strategy of trying not to instantly leap out of my body and flee when I see one, attempting to stay calm and collected, and deliberately thinking about their positive qualities, has begun to yield results.

Simply due to the reality that they are hairy creatures that dart around with startling speed in a way that haunts my sleep, is no reason for they merit my intense dislike, or my high-pitched vocalizations. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and driven by baseless terror. I’m not sure I’ll ever make it to the “scooping one into plasticware and taking it outside” phase, but miracles happen. Some life is left left in this old dog yet.