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I am someone who believes that it is forever an option to transform. I believe you can in fact teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the old dog is open-minded and willing to learn. Provided that the old dog is ready to confess when it was mistaken, and work to become a improved version.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am working to acquire, even though I am a creature of habit? It is an important one, something I have struggled with, frequently, for my all my days. My ongoing effort … to develop a calmer response toward the common huntsman. My regrets to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be realistic about my potential for change as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is large, in charge, 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 a shudder runs through me at the very thought as I type.

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

A deep-seated fear of spiders since I was a child (unlike other children who find them delightful). Growing up, I had ample brothers around to guarantee I never had to engage with any myself, but I still became hysterical if one was clearly in the general area as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and trying to deal with a spider that had crawled on to the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by standing incredibly far away, practically in the adjoining space (in case it ran after me), and spraying a significant portion of insect spray toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and annoy everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whoever I was dating or cohabiting with was, by default, the most courageous of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore tasked with dealing with it, while I made frightened noises and fled the scene. When finding myself alone, my tactic was simply to exit the space, douse the illumination and try to erase the memory of its presence before I had to enter again.

Recently, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the casement, mostly just stationary. In order to be more comfortable with its presence, I conceptualized the spider as a 'girlie', a one of the girls, one of us, just lounging in the sun and overhearing us chat. This may seem rather silly, but it worked (somewhat). Put another way, making a conscious choice to become less phobic did the trick.

Be that as it may, I've made an effort to continue. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I understand they consume things like flies and mosquitoes (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They move in the deeply alarming and borderline immoral way possible. The sight of their many legs transporting them at that terrible speed induces my caveman brain to enter panic mode. They ostensibly only have the typical arachnid arrangement, but I maintain that triples when they are in motion.

Yet it isn’t their fault that they have unnerving limbs, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I’ve found that employing the techniques of making an effort to avoid have a visceral panic reaction and retreat when I see one, attempting to stay calm and collected, and intentionally reflecting about their good points, has proven somewhat effective.

Just because they are fuzzy entities that move hastily at an alarming rate in a way that invades my dreams, doesn’t mean they deserve my hatred, or my high-pitched vocalizations. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and driven by baseless terror. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and relocating it outdoors” phase, but you never know. A bit of time remains within this seasoned learner yet.