I did it! Or at least I'm doing it.

For months, I bemoaned the loss of my former nature-loving, trail-hiking, wild berry-eating, squirrel-high-fiving, bareback-riding self. I wholeheartedly admitted my embarrassing fears that had crept in over the years and nestled comfortably like a bear hibernating in a warm cave. I spoke freely about soul-searching, wondering whether I could even access the fearless warrior of the wild I once was. Would I even dare to leave the house? Just looking out the window tickled my spine with the sensation of spiders crawling up my back. And you know how I feel about spiders.

But the days have a way of passing, and the sun has a way of rising, and like the season changing from summer to autumn, I began to evolve. I took my daily walks in the woods — first with fear and then with mild concern. I took the paddleboard out on the lake, and my concern changed from the more ludicrous fear of water snakes I had never seen to fear of the inexplicably large snapping turtle who stalked my board. I stopped checking for ticks every five minutes. I stopped insisting that everyone wear hiking boots when leaving the house, even if only to get the newspaper. I let my toes stretch out in the grass. I let my kid climb a tree. I was doing it.

Then, the other night, we were blessed with a supermoon. Neighbors came over and spoke nervously about the packs of coyotes that had been traipsing through our yards and howling at the moon. They said it was terrifying. And I heard myself say, "Why?"

It was incredulous. Full of judgment. I sounded like a snarky, elitist, bandana-wearing, coconut oil-instead-of-deodorant-applying, boho bozo. The type of person who exclusively eats from the bird feeders children make by applying peanut butter and seeds to pine cones. The type of person who kept asking friends to nominate her for the ice bucket challenge, not because of the desire to help folks with ALS but because it is the only environmentally friendly way to take a shower. I've never been so proud.

That is, until a buggy evening brought me back to reality.

First there was the spider. He was huge. Clearly, the secret ooze slowly turning my lake's snapping turtle into the full-size teenage mutant ninja kind also was swallowed by this evil arachnid. I first saw him in the dark. I thought he was a mouse. That's how big he was. Mice don't scare me. We aren't exactly at the "high-five a squirrel" comfort level, but they are at least fist-bump material. Elbow tap-worthy if I'm having a particularly skittish day. But when I turned on the light expecting to meet Stuart Little, I found an eight-legged monstrosity and I ran from the room.

After a little research, I discovered that the spider is known as a rabid wolf spider, which is probably the most terrifying name to ever be attributed to a nonpoisonous animal. It's like renaming the koala the furry fire-breathing harbinger of death. Or the manatee the man-eating son of Satan. Now with fangs! But despite the apparent misnomer, a spider of that size was not something I was ready to cope with, no matter how much I had progressed into becoming a person who filters my own water through homegrown moss.

It was unsettling, but the lack of danger enabled a return to my snooty superiority. Then the scorpion arrived. And not in the hallway like the rabid wolf but rather in the kids' playroom. Discovered by my son and salivated over by my daughter, as she aimed to put the creepy-crawly in her mouth. Luckily, I got there first. Then came the same debate that followed the spider capture. What to do with the bug? In my old life, I would have said, "Squash him! Flush him! Kill! Kill! Kill!" In my new life, in my new setting, it just feels wrong.

They were let outside.

But now, once again, the outside feels a bit scary. Which is probably good. No need to become the kind of person who falsely thinks she can run with a pack of coyotes. And if I ever start eating your kid's pine cone bird feeder, please, take me to a home. There has to be a rehab for wannabe nature lovers.

Katiedid Langrock is author of the book "Stop Farting in the Pyramids," available at http://www.creators.com/books/stop-farting-in-the-pyramids. Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. To find out more about her and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.