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I am someone who believes that it is always possible to change. I believe you absolutely are able to instruct a veteran learner, provided that the mature being is willing and ready for growth. As long as the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was mistaken, and strive to be a improved version.

OK yes, I am that seasoned creature. And the trick I am trying to learn, although I am decrepit? It is an major undertaking, an issue I have battled against, often, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward the common huntsman. Apologies to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be grounded about my possible growth as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is large, dominant, and the one I encounter most often. Encompassing three times in the recent past. In my own living space. You can’t see me, but I’m shaking my head at the very thought as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least achieving Normal about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders dating back to my youth (unlike other children who adore them). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to guarantee I never had to confront any personally, but I still became hysterical if one was visibly in the same room as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had made its way onto the lounge-room wall. I “dealt” with it by standing incredibly far away, nearly crossing the threshold (for fear that it chased me), and spraying a generous amount of pesticide toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and disturb everyone in my house.

In my adult life, my romantic partner at the time or living with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders between us, and therefore tasked with handling the situation, while I produced frightened noises and ran away. When finding myself alone, my tactic was simply to leave the room, plunge the room into darkness and try to forget about its being before I had to enter again.

In a recent episode, I was a guest at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who made its home in the sill, mostly just stationary. To be less scared of it, I imagined the spider as a female entity, a gal, in our circle, just chilling in the sun and listening to us yap. This may seem quite foolish, but it worked (somewhat). Put another way, the deliberate resolution to become less scared proved successful.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I reflect upon all the logical reasons not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders won’t harm me. I recognize they prey upon things like insect pests (the bane of my existence). I am cognizant they are one of the world's exquisite, benign creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to scuttle like that. They move in the most terrifying and almost unjust way possible. The appearance of their multiple limbs carrying them at that terrible speed induces my primordial instincts to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I am convinced that multiplies when they move.

Yet it is no fault of their own that they have unnerving limbs, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I’ve found that implementing the strategy of working to prevent immediately exit my own skin and retreat when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their good points, has proven somewhat effective.

Just because they are fuzzy entities that dart around extremely quickly in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, is no reason for they deserve my hatred, or my high-pitched vocalizations. It is possible to acknowledge when fear has clouded my judgment and motivated by irrational anxiety. I doubt I’ll ever attain the “trapping one under a cup and relocating it outdoors” phase, but one can't be sure. A bit of time remains left in this veteran of life yet.