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I firmly hold the belief that it is forever an option to evolve. I believe you truly can teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the mature being is open-minded and eager for knowledge. As long as the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was mistaken, and strive to be a better dog.

OK yes, I am the old dog. And the skill I am working to acquire, even though I am decrepit? It is an major undertaking, a feat I have battled against, repeatedly, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. Pardon me, all the other spiders that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my potential for change as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is sizeable, dominant, and the one I run into regularly. This includes a trio of instances in the recent past. In my own living space. You can’t see me, but I'm grimacing at the very thought as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least becoming a standard level of composure about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders since I was a child (in contrast to other children who are fascinated by them). In my formative years, I had plenty of male siblings around to guarantee I never had to confront any directly, but I still freaked out if one was obviously in the immediate vicinity as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “handled” with it by standing incredibly far away, nearly crossing the threshold (lest it ran after me), and discharging a significant portion of insect spray toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and irritate everyone in my house.

As I got older, whoever I was dating or living with was, as a matter of course, the least afraid of spiders between us, and therefore in charge of handling the situation, while I emitted whimpers of distress and beat a hasty retreat. When finding myself alone, my strategy was simply to leave the room, plunge the room into darkness and try to forget about its being 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 window frame, for the most part lingering. To be less fearful, I imagined the spider as a her, a gal, in our circle, just relaxing in the sun and listening to us gab. This may seem quite foolish, but it was effective (to some degree). Alternatively, actively deciding to become less phobic worked.

Regardless, I've made an effort to continue. I reflect upon all the logical reasons not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders won’t harm me. I know they consume things like buzzing nuisances (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, non-threatening to people creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to move like that. They travel in the deeply alarming and somehow offensive way conceivable. The sight of their numerous appendages carrying them at that alarming velocity induces my caveman brain to enter panic mode. They claim to only have eight legs, but I am convinced that multiplies when they move.

Yet it isn’t their fault that they have scary legs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – if not more. My experience has shown that employing the techniques of working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and run away when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their beneficial attributes, has proven somewhat effective.

Just because they are furry beings that move hastily extremely quickly in a way that haunts my sleep, doesn’t mean they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and motivated by baseless terror. I doubt I’ll ever make it to the “scooping one into plasticware and relocating it outdoors” level, but one can't be sure. A bit of time remains within this seasoned learner yet.