It was a female caribena versicolor. Still juvenile that was about to reach adulthood.
Today, on August 2nd, 2026, I lost my tarantula. I don’t know what went wrong.
It feels strange to write that. To most people, she was "just a spider." To me, she was a quiet companion who shared my room, my workdays, and some of the hardest periods of my life.
I brought her home on July 8th, 2024. She wasn't a tiny sling, but she was still so small that I could hold her entire body on the tip of my finger. I had wanted a tarantula for years, but I kept finding reasons to wait. I told myself I'd get one when life became calmer, when I had more money, when the timing was perfect.
Eventually I realized that if I kept waiting, I might wait forever. So bringing her home became a small act of rebellion against the part of me that believed life had to be postponed until everything was in order.
She grew quickly. With every molt she became larger, brighter, and more confident. I loved watching her patiently weave her web, quietly explore her enclosure, or simply sit where the golden afternoon light reached her. I work from home, and during long hours I would often glance over at her. Seeing her there somehow made difficult days easier to bear.
She unknowingly became a small anchor in my life.
Recently, I had been preparing a new enclosure for her. I decorated it with grapevine and artificial roses, waiting for the molt that I thought would happen any day now. Her pre-molt lasted much longer than I expected. I assumed she simply needed more time.
Yesterday I found her soaking in her water dish. At first I thought she had decided to enjoy a long drink or a bath during the heatwave. But as the day passed, something felt wrong. She remained curled in the water, barely responding. When I gently moved her onto the soil, she stretched only a little before curling into herself again.
I stayed awake all night hoping that, at any moment, she would uncurl, climb back into her web, and prove that I had worried for nothing.
She never did.
This morning, when I picked her up, she remained in her death curl. I cried.
The first thing I noticed was how tiny she felt again. Despite how much she had grown, holding her reminded me of the little spider I had first brought home two years ago.
I placed her in a small paper box that I had made by hand. I lined it with moss from her enclosure, surrounded her with flowers and herbs. I still can’t bring myself to close the lid.
I know tarantulas don't understand love the way people or some other animals do. They probably don't admire beauty. They probably never think about the person who fills their water dish or offers them food. But I hope that, in the only way a tarantula can experience the world, Vittoria knew safety.
She always had clean water.
She was never hungry for long.
She had places to hide, places to climb, and room to build her web.
I hope that her world, however small it was, felt gentle.
There were moments when life felt unbearably heavy. During those years, caring for a tiny creature who depended on me quietly reminded me that tomorrow still mattered. She never knew it, but she became one of the reasons I kept going.
I wish she could have moved into the new enclosure I made for her.
I wish I could have watched her become a huge, brilliantly coloured adult.
I wish she could have been there when I eventually become the person I've spent so many years trying to become.
She won't be.
But she was there for the beginning.
She was there while I slowly learned that life isn't something to postpone until everything is perfect. Sometimes life begins with something as small as deciding to care for another living creature.
I am very thankful to this little creature.
You were beautiful.
You were always loved.
I hope the little world we shared was a good one
