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I firmly hold the belief that it is always possible to transform. I think you can in fact instruct a veteran learner, on the condition that the experienced individual is receptive and willing to learn. As long as the person is willing to admit when it was mistaken, and endeavor to transform into a improved version.

Well, admittedly, the metaphor applies to me. And the skill I am trying to learn, even though I am a creature of habit? It is an important one, something I have battled against, often, for my entire life. The quest I'm on … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. My regrets to all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be realistic 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. Encompassing a trio of instances in the last week. In my own living space. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me and grimacing as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I’ve been working on at least achieving Normal about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders since I was a child (unlike other children who find them delightful). During my childhood, I had ample brothers around to guarantee I never had to confront any personally, but I still freaked out if one was clearly in the same room as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the family room partition. I “handled” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, nearly crossing the threshold (in case it pursued me), and emptying a generous amount of pesticide toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and disturb everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, by default, the bravest of spiders between us, and therefore responsible for managing the intruder, while I made whimpers of distress and fled the scene. When finding myself alone, my strategy was simply to vacate the area, turn off the light and try to erase the memory of its existence before I had to enter again.

Not long ago, I visited a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who lived in the casement, primarily stationary. In order to be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a 'girlie', a one of the girls, part of the group, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. This may seem rather silly, but it worked (to some degree). Or, the deliberate resolution to become less phobic did the trick.

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 won’t harm me. I recognize they eat things like flies and mosquitoes (the bane of my existence). It is well-established they are one of the world's exquisite, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to walk like that. They move in the utterly horrifying and almost unjust way possible. The vision of their numerous appendages carrying them at that alarming velocity causes my caveman brain to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I am convinced that triples when they are in motion.

However it is no fault of their own 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 trying not to immediately exit my own skin and retreat when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and intentionally reflecting about their beneficial attributes, has proven somewhat effective.

The mere fact that they are hairy creatures that scuttle about at an alarming rate in a way that haunts my sleep, does not justify they merit my intense dislike, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I am willing to confess when I’ve been wrong and motivated by unfounded fear. It is uncertain I’ll ever make it to the “trapping one under a cup and taking it outside” level, but one can't be sure. Some life is left within this old dog yet.