As we transition from adolescence into adulthood, many of us are innocently optimistic about our social ties. We see the world as malleable — eagerly approaching each potential friendship under the assumption that everyone will leap at the chance to be part of our collective. It has taken a decade of rebuttals for me to learn a critical lesson of being an adult: Not everyone is going to like me.

This revelation was a personal lightning bolt. In high school and college, I had always been the most gregarious person in the room — the one always ready with a gut-busting story. But was it all in vain? I wanted to deny it, but as the failed friendships and relationships accumulated, the crisp edges of my wit lost their zeal for extroversion.

I realized I had two options: I could either retreat into a cocoon, or I could act like a grown-up and find a way to deal with it.

The first option may seem simpler. Rather than risk disappointment, it would be easier to avoid forming any friendships and instead focus on oneself – an island oasis. However, we’re not naturally autonomous. As much as we may vehemently deny it, humans are communal. For example, the last time you had magnificent, earth-shattering news, were you able to just keep it to yourself? Of course not.

By default, then, I needed to find a way to maintain enjoyable adult relationships. I found it unintentionally of course, because of a girl.

We lived in the same apartment building. Our brief elevator conversations over several months were always fascinating, a stimulating blend of intelligence and wit. I was slowly building the courage to ask her out for coffee, when one day, as I reflexively pushed the fourth floor button for her, she invited me over for a dinner party. Maybe she’d picked up on my subterranean signals.

I arrived early, anticipating the conversation we would undoubtedly have in some quiet corner later that evening. She opened the door, and in her crisp New England accent, said “Hi, come in. I’d like you to meet my friend Blah Blah from Blah. I think you two will really hit it off”

She might as well have kicked me in the kidneys. I suddenly felt ill and misplaced. I croaked out some lame excuse and quickly went home. At my apartment, though, I couldn’t sit still. I paced back and forth with nervous energy, like a cheetah in a 6-foot cage. I wasn’t overreacting, rather this incident seemed to be the culmination of dozens of disappointing misinterpretations and failures with not only the opposite sex, but people in general. A hundred staccato questions surged through my head: “Why does this keep happening? Why do I always read people wrong? What am I not learning?” In an act of desperation, I grabbed my running shoes and rushed outside, gasping for release.

The first few footsteps were chaotic, fueled only by my bruised male ego. However, by the end of the block, I settled into a pattern that, despite the sharpness in my lungs, was cathartically soothing. My feet against the ground, over and over again. Rhythmic. By the end of the run, which barely lasted 10 minutes, I had forgotten all about my discouraging evening and instead felt energized. Whatever tension had accumulated, it had steamed off and floated away through my sweat-drenched pores.

It can be frustrating to pour your efforts into building a dynamic with someone, only to see it crumble. Trust and confidence change like the weather. However, I found my social armistice, in the space between my feet and the pavement.

With each successive run, my daily concerns became more manageable. It became easy to spend time with people. I could abide any irritating conversation if I knew that later that day, I could lace up my trainers. By the end of my roadwork session, each issue was mentally and emotionally collated into neat simple files.

Now, years later, friendships and relationships still confuse me. I constantly misinterpret boundaries and irritate myself by my own impulsiveness. So, like any resolute adult, I still run. A lot. When I pass fellow runners, their faces contorted in agony, I get it.

Maybe they aren’t out there for the same reasons, but perhaps they are. They might need to run today to get along with me tomorrow – to pummel their relationships into the ground, and turn them into flowers.