Confronting Creepy-Crawlies: How a Garden Pest Forced Me to Overcome My Deepest Fears

There are moments in life when you’re faced with a task that fills you with an almost primal dread. You don’t want to do it. You don’t even want to entertain the thought of doing it. Yet, a powerful, undeniable force compels you forward. For me, that force recently manifested in the form of protecting these guys:

Today, I’m sharing a rather personal revelation – a little “get to know me better” tidbit that might surprise some. I possess an intense, deeply ingrained fear of creepy crawlies. We’re talking about almost any insect or arachnid imaginable. And gosh, especially the ones that fly. From buzzing bees to skittering spiders and everything in between, I’m honestly just not a fan of any insect, of any kind.

My beloved garden, a place usually teeming with life and my constant source of joy, has been somewhat sadly neglected these past couple of weeks. Life’s schedule has been relentlessly crowded, leaving me little mental or physical energy to get my hands dirty. This admission genuinely saddens me, as gardening is typically a solace. This past weekend, my grandfather paid a visit, and we ventured out to inspect the state of things. My spirits soared when I spotted a magnificent, huge tomato beginning to ripen. Eagerly, I reached in with my hand to get a better look, only to recoil in utter disgust as my fingers brushed against a truly ginormous, green, spotted, and unequivocally gross caterpillar. Its head was unapologetically buried deep into the flesh of my beautiful, burgeoning green tomato.

In that instant, my initial revulsion quickly morphed into pure, unadulterated anger.

I genuinely do not like bugs. They don’t just annoy me; they completely freak me out, triggering a deeply unsettling panic that can momentarily transform me into what I can only describe as a crazy person. Just yesterday, while enjoying a sunny afternoon at the park, I spotted a neon green spider leisurely crawling up the leg of my shorts. My mind immediately raced through a series of increasingly frantic options: screaming at the top of my lungs, tearing off my shorts in public, and even rolling around on the ground in a desperate attempt to dislodge and kill it. I swear, even now, hours later, I can still feel phantom sensations of it crawling on my skin. Is this level of visceral reaction, this persistent phantom itch, normal? My wonderful husband has, by mutual agreement and sheer necessity, been officially dubbed the “spider killer” in our household. In return for his heroic bug-dispatching duties, I’ve taken on the somewhat less terrifying role of “lizard catcher” – a task I find significantly less horrifying, though still requiring a certain level of bravery. It makes me wonder, is this an unusual arrangement?

The intensity of my entomophobia truly knows no bounds. I can completely panic when a wasp or even a seemingly harmless bee ventures anywhere remotely near me. Today’s unexpected encounter with a queen bee in the backyard immediately transported me back to a vivid, paralyzing memory from my childhood. I must have been five or six years old, frozen in terror on my aunt’s front porch, screaming for my dear life, much to the bewildered amusement of the neighbor kid I used to play with. I don’t think we played together much after that rather dramatic display. This intense, almost debilitating fear of insects, it seems, goes back pretty deep into my psyche, shaping experiences and interactions in ways I’m still coming to terms with.

So, the unexpected moral of this story, born from a moment of disgust and anger, is this: that stupid caterpillar, the harbinger of my renewed fear, ultimately brought me back out to the garden today. Despite every fiber of my being screaming in protest, I had to consciously move past my deeply uncomfortable feelings to take care of things. The thought of losing my precious tomatoes, a symbol of my hard work and connection to nature, was a powerful motivator. Armed with a deep breath and a determined resolve, I ventured back, scanning the vibrant green foliage for any sign of those plump, destructive creatures. Each rustle of a leaf, each shadow, sent a tiny jolt of anxiety through me. My heart raced, my palms grew clammy, but I persevered, meticulously checking each plant, gently removing the offending caterpillars and relocating them far from my vulnerable tomatoes. It was a slow, deliberate, and emotionally taxing process, requiring immense focus and a constant battle against my own ingrained phobia.

And in return for this intense internal struggle, this forced confrontation with my fears, the garden offered an unexpected, profound reward. It gave me an hour of profound peace, a mental calm that I haven’t truly stopped to experience lately. The quiet focus required for the task, the rhythmic searching among the leaves, the fresh air, and the sheer concentration on the present moment, provided a much-needed respite from the usual mental clutter. It offered a few precious minutes to simply breathe, to consciously think happy thoughts, and to completely reset my often-overwhelmed mind. This quiet, almost meditative process, paradoxically brought about by something I dreaded, truly embodied the essence of the don’t forget to stop and smell the flowers mentality. It was a powerful reminder that sometimes, the most challenging tasks can lead to the most unexpected forms of solace and self-discovery. The act of tending to my garden, even with its creepy crawly inhabitants, reconnected me to a sense of purpose and groundedness that had been missing.

So, deep down, and for only a fleeting second, I feel a strange, almost grudging need to give that troublesome caterpillar a tiny flicker of gratitude. It was, after all, the unlikely catalyst for an invaluable hour of mindfulness and personal growth. But I must emphasize, only a little gratitude, as my underlying aversion to its kind remains firmly intact.

Tonight is Friday night, and the promise of homemade pizza awaits. After successfully navigating the minefield of my garden, I felt a surge of renewed confidence. My dear friend Jennie, though virtually, held my hand and guided me through the kitchen this morning as I confidently taught myself how to make her renowned pizza dough. It was a new challenge, a different kind of precision, but after facing down giant caterpillars, mixing flour and yeast felt surprisingly manageable. So far, the dough looks fantastic, rising beautifully, and I’m optimistic about a delicious outcome. It seems that confronting one fear can surprisingly empower you to tackle others, even those in a completely different domain.

Here’s to facing challenges, finding unexpected peace, and enjoying the simple pleasures of life. Have a truly wonderful weekend, my lovely readers!