You know those memes featuring a creepy crawler, often a spider, accompanied by captions implying it’s time to incinerate your home? Quite humorous, right? I can vividly picture myself pouring gasoline on a spider, tossing a match, and fleeing like one of those wacky inflatable figures outside car dealerships, completely unfazed by the thought of losing all my belongings. Because, yuck, spiders!
I recall a particular instance when my sister and mother visited with their families. An unusually plump spider darted across the floor, and we collectively lost our minds. We screamed, leaping onto couches and tables, nearly spilling our strawberry daiquiris. I took a flip-flop and gave that big spider a solid whack, only to watch in horror as it burst into a swarm of baby spiders. We hadn’t realized that the “fat” spider was actually a mother carrying her brood. In a panic, I sprayed the babies with household cleaner (bug spray was nowhere to be found), feeling absolutely no guilt. I was covered in goosebumps, and I firmly believed that mother spider had no business traipsing her creepy offspring across my floor. I even snapped a photo of the chaos and shared it on social media. Every year, that image resurfaces in my Facebook memories.
Today, however, I perceive that moment through a different lens. Instead of feeling repulsed by those tiny, dead spiderlings, I now feel a pang of sympathy.
This might sound odd, but my change in attitude towards bugs coincided with my journey of self-acceptance regarding my sexuality. I spent years feeling trapped in a heterosexual marriage, trying to uphold an identity that wasn’t true to who I was. I didn’t want to be gay; embracing that felt unacceptable. Yet, like the mother spider and her babies, I had no control over my own identity.
I can still remember the moment everything shifted. One night, after my then-husband went to bed, I sat on the couch, working on my novel—centered around two women falling in love, naturally. A spider scurried across the floor, and instinctively, I reached for something to squash it. But then I hesitated. This little spider was just minding its own business, likely confused about its surroundings. I found myself thinking it was kind of… adorable. I lifted my feet off the floor to avoid contact, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of empathy. Why should it face punishment for simply existing?
I decided to let the spider go. The next day, I felt uneasy about allowing it to roam free, so whenever I stumbled upon a bug, I’d trap it under a Tupperware and have my son escort it outside. I may empathize with them, but I still prefer not to touch them.
Since then, I’ve moved into a new home after ending my marriage. My children still conduct “rescue missions” for bugs, and depending on the situation, I sometimes just leave them be. My washer and dryer are in the garage, where a delicate spider I named Felix has spun a web. He helps manage the smaller bugs around, and I’m careful not to disturb his home when I press the dryer button. Felix isn’t harming anyone just by existing, so I welcome him to stay.
Recently, I spotted a line of ants on the doorknob leading to the backyard. They were likely attracted by the coconut oil residue from the previous night. I left them undisturbed, thinking they’d soon vanish, and they did. The next day, they were gone, presumably satisfied after enjoying their coconut oil feast. My doorknob remained unaffected. No one in my household was harmed by a tiny trail of ants enjoying a snack.
I do, however, treat the perimeter of my house every few months to deter bugs from entering. Living in Florida, surrounded by dense woods, I can’t allow complete chaos. I certainly don’t want any critters crawling on me while I sleep.
But I no longer feel the urge to torch my home upon encountering a stray spider. They may be lowly arachnids, but it’s not their fault. I strive to let them live.
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In summary, my relationship with bugs has transformed from one of fear and revulsion to empathy and respect. I’ve learned to coexist with these creatures and appreciate their role in our ecosystem.