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I firmly hold the belief that it is forever an option to evolve. I think you can in fact train a seasoned creature, provided that the mature being is receptive and eager for knowledge. Provided that the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was mistaken, and endeavor to transform into a more enlightened self.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am attempting to master, although I am decrepit? It is an important one, something I have grappled with, frequently, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to grow less fearful of those large arachnids. 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 imposing, commanding, and the one I run into regularly. This includes a trio of instances in the recent past. Inside my home. I'm not visible to you, but I'm grimacing with discomfort as I type.

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

I have been terrified of spiders from my earliest years (unlike other children who adore them). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to ensure I never had to handle any personally, but I still panicked if one was visibly in the immediate vicinity as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and trying to deal with a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by retreating to a remote corner, almost into the next room (for fear that it ran after me), and spraying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it did reach and disturb everyone in my house.

In my adult life, my romantic partner at the time or sharing a home with was, as a matter of course, the least afraid of spiders in our pairing, and therefore tasked with handling the situation, while I emitted low keening sounds and beat a hasty retreat. If I was on my own, my strategy was simply to exit the space, turn off the light and try to ignore its being before I had to return.

Not long ago, I visited a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who made its home in the sill, primarily hanging out. As a means to be less fearful, I envisioned the spider as a female entity, a girlie, in our circle, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. This may seem rather silly, but it had an impact (a little bit). Put another way, actively deciding to become more fearless proved successful.

Whatever the case, I've made an effort to continue. I contemplate all the rational arguments not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I recognize they prey upon things like buzzing nuisances (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They travel in the utterly horrifying and almost unjust way possible. The vision of their many legs propelling them at that frightening pace induces my primordial instincts to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I maintain that multiplies when they are in motion.

Yet it is no fault of their own that they have frightening appendages, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. My experience has shown that implementing the strategy of making an effort to avoid instantly leap out of my body and retreat when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their beneficial attributes, has begun to yield results.

Simply due to the reality that they are hairy creatures that move hastily with startling speed in a way that invades my dreams, is no reason for they deserve my hatred, or my girly screams. I am willing to confess when I’ve been wrong and motivated by baseless terror. I’m not sure I’ll ever attain the “catching one in a Tupperware container and relocating it outdoors” stage, but you never know. There’s a few years for this old dog yet.