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I firmly hold the belief that it is never too late to transform. My view is you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the experienced individual is receptive and ready for growth. As long as the individual in question is ready to confess when it was in error, and work to become a more enlightened self.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am trying to learn, even though I am decrepit? It is an important one, an issue I have grappled with, frequently, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my capacity for development as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. Including on three separate occasions in the previous seven days. Inside my home. You can’t see me, but I'm grimacing at the very thought as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I’ve been working on at least attaining Normal about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders dating back to my youth (unlike other children who are fascinated by them). During my childhood, I had ample brothers around to ensure I never had to confront any directly, but I still freaked out if one was obviously in the general area as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and attempting to manage a spider that had crawled on to the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by standing incredibly far away, nearly crossing the threshold (for fear that it ran after me), and discharging a generous amount of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and annoy everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, as a matter of course, the least afraid of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I produced frightened noises and beat a hasty retreat. When finding myself alone, my method was simply to leave the room, plunge the room into darkness and try to forget about its existence before I had to enter again.

Recently, I was a guest at a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who resided within the window frame, for the most part hanging out. In order to be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a her, a girlie, part of the group, just lounging in the sun and eavesdropping on us chat. Admittedly, it appears extremely dumb, but it had an impact (a little bit). Alternatively, making a conscious choice to become less scared worked.

Regardless, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I reflect upon all the sensible justifications not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I recognize they eat things like insect pests (my mortal enemies). I am cognizant they are one of the world's exquisite, benign creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to walk like that. They propel themselves in the most terrifying and almost unjust way imaginable. The appearance of their multiple limbs carrying them at that alarming velocity causes my caveman brain to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have a standard octet of limbs, but I am convinced that triples when they are in motion.

However it isn’t their fault that they have scary legs, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – perhaps even more so. I have discovered that taking the steps of trying not to immediately exit my own skin and retreat when I see one, attempting to stay calm and collected, and intentionally reflecting about their good points, has proven somewhat effective.

The mere fact that they are hairy creatures that dart around at an alarming rate in a way that invades my dreams, doesn’t mean they deserve my hatred, or my shrieks of terror. I can admit when I’ve been wrong and motivated by baseless terror. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and escorting it to the garden” phase, but one can't be sure. There’s a few years for this seasoned learner yet.