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I firmly hold the belief that it is forever an option to transform. I think you can in fact teach an old dog new tricks, on the condition that the old dog is willing and eager for knowledge. As long as the person is prepared to acknowledge when it was wrong, and work to become a improved version.

Well, admittedly, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am working to acquire, although I am decrepit? It is an significant challenge, a feat I have battled against, frequently, for my entire life. I have been trying … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. My regrets to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be realistic about my potential for change as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is sizeable, commanding, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. Encompassing a trio of instances in the last week. Within my dwelling. I'm not visible to you, but I’m shaking my head and grimacing as I type.

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

An intense phobia regarding spiders from my earliest years (as opposed to other children who are fascinated by them). During my childhood, I had plenty of male siblings around to guarantee I never had to engage with any myself, but I still freaked out if one was clearly in the general area as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and trying to deal with a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by standing incredibly far away, almost into the next room (for fear that it ran after me), and emptying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it managed to annoy and irritate everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, my romantic partner at the time or cohabiting with was, by default, the most courageous of spiders between us, and therefore responsible for dealing with it, while I produced frightened noises and beat a hasty retreat. In moments of solitude, my tactic was simply to exit the space, douse the illumination and try to ignore its existence before I had to re-enter.

In a recent episode, I was a guest at a friend’s house where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who resided within the sill, for the most part hanging out. In order to be less fearful, I conceptualized the spider as a 'girlie', a gal, in our circle, just chilling in the sun and overhearing us chat. It sounds quite foolish, but it was effective (a little bit). Or, the deliberate resolution to become less scared worked.

Regardless, I’ve tried to keep it up. I think about all the logical reasons not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I know they eat things like flies and mosquitoes (my mortal enemies). It is well-established they are one of the planet's marvelous, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They move in the utterly horrifying and almost unjust way imaginable. The appearance of their multiple limbs carrying them at that terrible speed causes my caveman brain to enter panic mode. They are said to only have eight legs, but I maintain that multiplies when they get going.

However it cannot be blamed on them that they have frightening appendages, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. I’ve found 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 positive qualities, has actually started to help.

Just because they are hairy creatures that dart around with startling speed in a way that invades my dreams, does not justify they deserve my hatred, or my shrieks of terror. I am willing to confess when I’ve been wrong and driven by baseless terror. It is uncertain I’ll ever reach the “catching one in a Tupperware container and relocating it outdoors” phase, but one can't be sure. Some life is left for this old dog yet.