You know those memes showcasing a creepy bug—most often a spider—paired with some exaggerated caption about needing to set your house on fire? Hilarious, right? I can easily picture myself dousing a spider in gasoline, tossing a lit match at it, and then fleeing the scene like one of those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships, completely indifferent to the chaos I’d cause. Because, ew. Spiders.
I vividly recall a time when my family was visiting, and a particularly hefty spider darted across the floor. We collectively lost it—screaming, leaping onto furniture, nearly spilling our drinks. I grabbed a flip-flop and gave that spider a solid whack—only to be horrified as it burst into a swarm of tiny spiderlings. We hadn’t realized that the “fat” spider was a mother carrying her babies. I sprayed the little ones with household cleaner (since I had no bug spray handy) without a shred of remorse. My skin crawled at the thought of her marching her parade of monstrous offspring across my living room. I snapped a photo of the aftermath and shared it online. Every year, the image resurfaces in my Facebook memories.
Now, when I see that photo, my feelings have changed dramatically. Instead of goosebumps, I find myself feeling pity for those tiny spider babies.
This shift in perspective might seem odd, but I believe it coincided with my journey to embrace my true self. I was trapped in a heterosexual marriage for over a decade, desperately trying to conform to an identity that felt wrong. I didn’t want to be gay; I feared it was unacceptable. But like that spider and her brood, I had no control over who I truly was.
I remember the moment everything changed. One night, after my then-husband went to bed, I sat on the couch working on a novel about two women finding love. A spider scurried across the floor, and instead of reaching for something to squash it, I hesitated. This little creature was just going about its life, probably bewildered by its surroundings. As it wandered back and forth, I found it oddly… cute. I lifted my feet to avoid stepping on it, but I couldn’t shake the thought: What was this spider doing other than simply existing? It hadn’t chosen to be a spider, just as I hadn’t chosen my identity.
Should I be punished for who I am? For existing? In some places, the answer could be yes. Just like that spider, societal fears and ignorance can lead to dire consequences.
Eventually, I let the spider go. I felt a bit uneasy leaving it to roam my house, so from then on, I’d trap bugs under Tupperware and have my son take them outside. While I empathized with them, I still didn’t want to touch them.
I now live in a different home, having ended my marriage a year ago. My kids still engage in “rescue missions” for bugs we find indoors. Depending on the situation, sometimes I let them be. In my garage, a delicate spider I named Felix has spun an intricate web above my dryer. He’s welcome to stay, as he helps control the local bug population without bothering anyone.
Just the other day, I noticed a line of ants marching across the doorknob of my sunroom. They were likely attracted by the coconut oil residue from when I let the dog out. I decided to let them be, and the next day, they had vanished—presumably happy after their little feast. My doorknob remained unchanged, and no one was harmed by their brief visit.
I do take precautions, treating the perimeter of my home every few months since I live in Florida, surrounded by dense woods—it’s practically a jungle out there. But I no longer feel the urge to set my house ablaze at the sight of a stray spider. Each creature, no matter how small, deserves to live.
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In summary, my perspective on creepy-crawlies has transformed from one of fear and disgust to one of empathy and respect. I’ve learned to coexist with them, recognizing that, like me, they are simply trying to navigate their existence in this world.
Keyphrase: embracing empathy towards insects
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