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I maintain the conviction that it is forever an option to change. I think you can in fact teach an old dog new tricks, as long as the old dog is willing and ready for growth. Provided that the old dog is ready to confess when it was mistaken, and strive to be a improved version.

Alright, I confess, the metaphor applies to me. And the skill I am attempting to master, despite the fact that I am a creature of habit? It is an significant challenge, a feat I have grappled with, frequently, for my entire life. I have been trying … to become less scared of the common huntsman. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be grounded about my possible growth as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is imposing, in charge, and the one I run into regularly. Including on three separate occasions in the recent past. In my own living space. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me and grimacing as I type.

I doubt I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least becoming a baseline of normalcy about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders since I was a child (unlike other children who are fascinated by them). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to ensure I never had to engage with any myself, but I still became hysterical if one was visibly in the same room as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had ascended the family room partition. I “dealt” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, nearly crossing the threshold (in case it chased me), and emptying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and disturb everyone in my house.

As I got older, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore tasked with managing the intruder, while I emitted frightened noises and ran away. When finding myself alone, my tactic was simply to vacate the area, turn off the light and try to ignore its existence before I had to enter again.

Recently, I visited a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who made its home in the window frame, mostly just lingering. In order to be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a female entity, a gal, part of the group, just lounging in the sun and overhearing us chat. It sounds extremely dumb, but it worked (somewhat). Alternatively, actively deciding to become more fearless worked.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the rational arguments not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I know they prey upon things like flies and mosquitoes (my mortal enemies). It is well-established they are one of the planet's marvelous, non-threatening to people creatures.

Alas, they do continue to move like that. They move in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way conceivable. The appearance of their multiple limbs carrying them at that terrible speed induces my caveman brain to enter panic mode. They claim to only have eight legs, but I maintain that triples when they get going.

Yet it is no fault of their own that they have frightening appendages, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. My experience has shown that implementing the strategy of trying not to immediately exit my own skin and run away when I see one, attempting to stay composed and breathing steadily, and deliberately thinking about their beneficial attributes, has proven somewhat effective.

Simply due to the reality that they are fuzzy entities that scuttle about extremely quickly in a way that invades my dreams, is no reason for they warrant my loathing, or my shrieks of terror. It is possible to acknowledge when my reactions have been misguided and fueled by irrational anxiety. I’m not sure I’ll ever make it to the “scooping one into plasticware and taking it outside” phase, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains left in this old dog yet.