By: Mia Thompson
You’ve probably seen those funny memes featuring a creepy critter, often a spider, with captions suggesting it’s time to set the house ablaze. Hilarious, right? I can vividly picture myself pouring gasoline on a spider, tossing a match, and sprinting away flailing like one of those inflatable figures outside car dealerships, completely oblivious to the chaos of losing all my belongings. Because, honestly, spiders are just the worst.
I recall one particular incident when my sister and her family were visiting. We spotted an enormous spider scuttling across the floor and completely lost it. All of us screamed, leaping onto furniture, nearly spilling our strawberry daiquiris everywhere. In a panic, I grabbed a flip-flop and delivered a decisive smack to that giant spider, only to watch in horror as it burst into a swarm of tiny spiderlings. We hadn’t realized that the reason it looked so plump was that it was a mother spider carrying her brood. I sprayed the babies with a household cleaner—I didn’t have bug spray handy—and felt no remorse whatsoever. My skin crawled at the thought of that mama spider parading her legion of creepy spawn across my living room. I even snapped a photo of the carnage and shared it on social media. It pops up in my Facebook memories every year.
Now, I view that image entirely differently. Instead of feeling disgust, I feel a twinge of sympathy for those little spiderlings.
It may sound strange, but my change in attitude toward bugs coincided with my journey of self-acceptance regarding my sexuality. Trapped in a heterosexual marriage for over a decade, I felt suffocated, trying to conform to a life that wasn’t mine. I didn’t want to be gay; the thought of it felt unacceptable. But, like that spider and her babies, I had no control over who I was.
I remember the moment it clicked. One evening, after my husband had gone to bed, I sat alone on the couch, working on my novel about two women falling in love. A spider darted across the floor in front of me, and for a moment, I reached for something to squash it. But then I hesitated. It was just a little spider, probably confused about its surroundings. I lifted my feet off the floor, not wanting it to touch me, but then I realized it was kind of… cute. I couldn’t help but empathize. What was that spider doing besides existing? It didn’t choose to be a spider, just as I hadn’t chosen my identity. No one should be punished for simply being who they are.
Eventually, I let the spider go. The next day, I felt uneasy about it wandering freely in my house, so now I trap any bugs I find under a Tupperware and have my son bring them outside. I may not want to touch them, but I don’t believe they deserve to die.
Since then, I’ve moved into a new home after ending my marriage. My kids still engage in “bug rescue missions” whenever we find an insect indoors. Sometimes, I leave them be, especially if they’re in a spot where they won’t disturb us. For instance, I have a lovely spider named Felix who has spun an elaborate web above my dryer, and I make sure not to disturb him when I need to use it. He’s not causing any harm by just existing, and his web helps keep the smaller insects at bay.
Just recently, I noticed a trail of ants on my sunroom doorknob. They were likely there because I had opened the door to let the dog out after applying coconut oil to my hands. I decided to let them stay, figuring they would take what they needed and move on. The next day, they were gone, probably satisfied after their little feast, and my doorknob was none the worse for wear.
While I do treat the perimeter of my house every few months to keep bugs out—after all, living in Florida means being surrounded by a jungle—I no longer feel the urge to incinerate my home just because a spider wanders in. They may be lowly creatures, but that’s not their fault. I do my best to let them live.
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In summary, my relationship with bugs has transformed from one of fear to understanding. Instead of viewing them as pests to be eradicated, I now recognize their right to exist, much like I’ve learned to honor my own identity.