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I am someone who believes that it is never too late to change. I believe you truly can train a seasoned creature, as long as the mature being is receptive and ready for growth. So long as the old dog is ready to confess when it was wrong, and work to become a better dog.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the skill I am trying to learn, although I am set in my ways? It is an major undertaking, something I have struggled with, repeatedly, for my whole existence. I have been trying … to become less scared of the common huntsman. Pardon me, all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be grounded about my capacity for development as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is large, in charge, and the one I run into regularly. Encompassing on three separate occasions in the recent past. Within my dwelling. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me and grimacing as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but my project has been at least achieving a standard level of composure about them.

I have been terrified of spiders from my earliest years (as opposed to other children who adore them). Growing up, I had ample brothers around to make sure I never had to handle any directly, but I still freaked out if one was clearly in the general area as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and attempting to manage a spider that had crawled on to the living room surface. I “managed” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, almost into the next room (for fear that it ran after me), and spraying half a bottle of pesticide toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and irritate everyone in my house.

As I got older, my romantic partner at the time or cohabiting with was, by default, the bravest of spiders between us, and therefore responsible for handling the situation, while I produced low keening sounds and fled the scene. When finding myself alone, my tactic was simply to leave the room, plunge the room into darkness and try to ignore its existence before I had to return.

In a recent episode, I visited a pal's residence where there was a very large huntsman who lived in the window frame, mostly just lingering. As a means to be more comfortable with its presence, I conceptualized the spider as a female entity, a gal, in our circle, just lounging in the sun and eavesdropping on us yap. Admittedly, it appears extremely dumb, but it was effective (to some degree). Or, actively deciding to become less phobic worked.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the logical reasons not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I recognize they consume things like flies and mosquitoes (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, benign creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to scuttle like that. They propel themselves in the most terrifying and almost unjust way conceivable. The appearance of their many legs propelling them at that terrible speed induces my primordial instincts to enter panic mode. They claim to only have eight legs, but I am convinced that increases exponentially when they are in motion.

However it is no fault of their own that they have scary legs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I have discovered that employing the techniques of working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and run away when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their good points, has actually started to help.

The mere fact that they are fuzzy entities that scuttle about at an alarming rate in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, doesn’t mean they warrant my loathing, or my high-pitched vocalizations. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and driven by irrational anxiety. I’m not sure I’ll ever reach the “catching one in a Tupperware container and escorting it to the garden” level, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains for this veteran of life yet.