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I firmly hold the belief that it is forever an option to evolve. I think you can in fact instruct a veteran learner, on the condition that the experienced individual is open-minded and eager for knowledge. As long as the old dog is prepared to acknowledge when it was in error, and strive to be a improved version.

Well, admittedly, I am the old dog. And the skill I am attempting to master, although I am set in my ways? It is an major undertaking, a feat I have grappled with, often, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to become less scared of huntsman spiders. My regrets to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is sizeable, dominant, and the one I run into regularly. Including a trio of instances in the previous seven days. Inside my home. Though unseen, but I'm grimacing at the very thought as I type.

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

A deep-seated fear of spiders dating back to my youth (in contrast to other children who find them delightful). During my childhood, I had plenty of male siblings around to make sure I never had to handle any directly, but I still became hysterical if one was visibly in the immediate vicinity as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and attempting to manage a spider that had made its way onto the living room surface. I “handled” with it by standing incredibly far away, nearly crossing the threshold (in case it pursued me), and emptying a generous amount of insect spray toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it did reach and irritate everyone in my house.

As I got older, my romantic partner at the time or living with was, as a matter of course, the least afraid of spiders between us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I produced whimpers of distress and beat a hasty retreat. If I was on my own, my method was simply to exit the space, plunge the room into darkness and try to ignore its existence before I had to enter again.

Not long ago, I was a guest at a friend’s house where there was a notably big huntsman who made its home in the casement, mostly just lingering. As a means to be more comfortable with its presence, I conceptualized the spider as a female entity, a gal, in our circle, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us chat. Admittedly, it appears quite foolish, but it was effective (a little bit). Or, actively deciding to become less scared proved successful.

Regardless, 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 understand they consume things like insect pests (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, non-threatening to people creatures.

Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They propel themselves in the utterly horrifying and borderline immoral way conceivable. The sight of their multiple limbs propelling them at that alarming velocity causes my caveman brain to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I maintain that triples when they get going.

Yet it is no fault of their own that they have frightening appendages, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – perhaps even more so. My experience has shown that taking the steps of making an effort to avoid immediately exit my own skin and flee when I see one, trying to remain still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their beneficial attributes, has begun to yield results.

The mere fact that they are fuzzy entities that dart around with startling speed in a way that haunts my sleep, is no reason for they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. It is possible to acknowledge when fear has clouded my judgment and driven by irrational anxiety. I doubt I’ll ever make it to the “catching one in a Tupperware container and relocating it outdoors” phase, but you never know. There’s a few years left in this old dog yet.