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I firmly hold the belief that it is never too late to evolve. I believe you truly can instruct a veteran learner, provided that the mature being is receptive and willing to learn. Provided that the person is ready to confess when it was in error, and strive to be a better dog.

OK yes, I am the old dog. And the skill I am trying to learn, although I am set in my ways? It is an major undertaking, something I have battled against, repeatedly, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to grow less fearful of the common huntsman. Pardon me, all the other spiders that exist; I have to be grounded about my potential for change as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is imposing, dominant, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. This includes three times in the recent past. In my own living space. I'm not visible to you, but I'm grimacing and grimacing as I type.

I doubt I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but my project has been at least attaining a standard level of composure about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders since I was a child (unlike other children who adore them). During my childhood, I had plenty of male siblings around to guarantee I never had to confront any personally, but I still freaked out if one was visibly in the immediate vicinity as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had crawled on to the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, almost into the next room (for fear that it chased me), and emptying a generous amount of pesticide toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and disturb everyone in my house.

In my adult life, my romantic partner at the time or living with was, by default, the least afraid of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I made whimpers of distress and ran away. If I was on my own, my strategy was simply to exit the space, turn off the light and try to erase the memory of its existence before I had to re-enter.

Recently, I visited a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the sill, primarily hanging out. To be less scared of it, I imagined the spider as a her, a gal, in our circle, just lounging in the sun and overhearing us gab. It sounds rather silly, but it had an impact (somewhat). Alternatively, actively deciding to become more fearless did the trick.

Be that as it may, I've made an effort to continue. I reflect upon all the sensible justifications not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I understand they eat things like buzzing nuisances (creatures I despise). It is well-established they are one of the world's exquisite, non-threatening to people creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to move like that. They propel themselves in the utterly horrifying and almost unjust way imaginable. The sight of their multiple limbs carrying them at that terrible speed causes my primordial instincts to enter panic mode. They ostensibly only have the typical arachnid arrangement, but I am convinced that multiplies when they get going.

However it isn’t their fault that they have scary legs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I have discovered that employing the techniques of making an effort to avoid have a visceral panic reaction and run away when I see one, working to keep calm and collected, and intentionally reflecting about their good points, has begun to yield results.

Simply due to the reality that they are fuzzy entities that move hastily at an alarming rate in a way that invades my dreams, is no reason for they deserve my hatred, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I am willing to confess when I’ve been wrong and motivated by baseless terror. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and relocating it outdoors” stage, but you never know. Some life is left left in this old dog yet.