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I firmly hold the belief that it is always possible to change. I think you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, as long as the old dog is willing and willing to learn. As long as the individual in question is willing to admit when it was in error, and endeavor to transform into a better dog.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am attempting to master, although I am a creature of habit? It is an important one, a feat I have grappled with, repeatedly, for my all my days. I have been trying … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. Apologies to 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 large, dominant, and the one I run into regularly. Encompassing three times in the last week. Inside my home. You can’t see me, but I'm grimacing with discomfort as I type.

I doubt I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but my project has been at least achieving a baseline of normalcy about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders dating back to my youth (in contrast to other children who are fascinated by them). During my childhood, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to make sure I never had to engage with any myself, but I still panicked if one was clearly in the general area as me. One incident stands out 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 “dealt” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, practically in the adjoining space (for fear that it chased me), and emptying a generous amount of bug repellent toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and annoy everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whoever I was dating or living with was, by default, the bravest of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore responsible for handling the situation, while I made low keening sounds and fled the scene. When finding myself alone, my tactic was simply to exit the space, plunge the room into darkness and try to erase the memory of its being before I had to enter again.

Recently, I visited a friend’s house where there was a very large huntsman who made its home in the sill, primarily hanging out. To be less fearful, I conceptualized the spider as a female entity, a one of the girls, part of the group, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it had an impact (a little bit). Put another way, actively deciding to become more fearless did the trick.

Be that as it may, I've made an effort to continue. I contemplate all the rational arguments not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I know they prey upon 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 most terrifying and somehow offensive way possible. The appearance of their numerous appendages propelling them at that terrible speed triggers my ancient psyche to enter panic mode. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I maintain that increases exponentially when they move.

Yet it isn’t their fault that they have unnerving limbs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. I have discovered that implementing the strategy of working to prevent immediately exit my own skin and run away when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and deliberately thinking about their positive qualities, has actually started to help.

The mere fact that they are fuzzy entities that move hastily extremely quickly in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, doesn’t mean they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. I can admit when I’ve been wrong and fueled by irrational anxiety. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “catching one in a Tupperware container and taking it outside” phase, but one can't be sure. Some life is left for this old dog yet.