Have you ever had one of those moments where you’re in the grocery store, minding your business, silently debating whether you already have sour cream in the fridge, and you look up only to lock eyes with someone who clearly recognizes you from a former job, a long-ago friendship, or some other plotline that got canceled without warning?
You both freeze. There’s a flicker of mutual recognition, followed by what I can only describe as the universal “Oh no” face. And then—before you can even decide what to do—they dart away, disappearing behind a display of baked beans like a ninja in business casual.
Now, I’d love to say I’ve never been on the other end of that moment. But I have. I am no hero here. I, too, have seen someone from my past mid-aisle, pretended to be very interested in the back of a cereal box, and made a full U-turn with my cart like I was dodging a traffic stop. Because here’s the thing: I am deeply uncomfortable with small talk. Like, Olympic-level uncomfortable. And grocery store small talk, with someone you haven’t seen in years, sprinkled with a dash of awkward history? That’s a sport I have not trained for.
One time, I rounded the corner by the canned goods and spotted a former coworker I hadn’t seen in five years. I was holding a 24-pack of toilet paper like a riot shield, which, in hindsight, probably didn’t help set the tone. We made eye contact. I smiled too big. He nodded too small. And then we performed the sacred rite of the Midwestern Grocery Store Encounter: vague pleasantries, eye contact avoidance, and a slow backward shuffle toward the dairy section.
There’s something so bizarre about these chance run-ins with people from another era of your life. Maybe you used to work together. Maybe you were close, once. Maybe you had a falling out. Maybe you didn’t, but time just unstuck you. You both drifted into separate universes where the other doesn’t really make sense anymore. And then suddenly—boom—you’re both standing next to the produce, pretending to care about avocados while silently wondering, Do I say something? Do they hate me? Do I owe them an apology? Or worse: Do they owe me one?
Some of these moments have stuck with me longer than they should. I’ll think about them on the drive home, or two days later when I’m brushing my teeth. (Why did I say “Hey, you!” like a camp counselor? Why didn’t I just go to Aldi instead?) And I’ll wonder: Did I do something wrong? Was I too much? Not enough? Did I overshare at that one work lunch in 2012, and that’s why they can’t look me in the eye while I’m holding a bag of frozen peas?
But here’s what I’ve come to understand: sometimes, people avoid you because they’re uncomfortable. And sometimes, you avoid them because you are. It doesn’t always mean anyone did something horrible or unforgivable. It just means that the shared context that used to make conversations easy is gone—and without that scaffolding, interaction feels fragile. Artificial. Like trying to revive a sitcom that ended on a cliffhanger you never resolved.
It’s taken me some time (and quite a few therapy sessions, if we’re being honest) to realize that these moments aren’t indictments. They’re just intersections. Places where two people once walked together and now don’t. It’s okay.
And it’s okay to not be liked by everyone you’ve ever known. That’s a sentence that looks very rational when written down. But my inner people-pleaser would still like a second opinion.
See, for a long time, I thought I could control the narrative. That if I were kind enough, helpful enough, funny enough, whatever enough, I could guarantee a legacy of warm feelings and smooth transitions. But life has shown me otherwise. You can be someone’s favorite coworker and still be ghosted when they leave the company. You can share your heart with someone and still become a footnote in their story. You can work incredibly hard to build bridges—and still find out they’ve quietly been dismantled when you weren’t looking.
And what I’ve realized is this: trying to be universally liked is exhausting. Not just emotionally, but existentially. It means you’re constantly editing yourself—scrubbing out anything that might be “too much” or “too honest” or “too uncomfortable.” It turns you into a walking apology for being a whole person.
And honestly? No, thank you.
We live in a world that treats being “liked” like it’s a prerequisite for safety and success. Especially for those of us raised in the “don’t rock the boat” generation. If people liked you, they included you. If they included you, you belonged. So we learned to adapt. To make ourselves agreeable. To make our personalities fit like soft, squishy puzzle pieces into whatever space we were given.
But here’s a thought that helped me exhale: Sometimes, your role in someone else’s story is to move the plot forward.
That’s it. You weren’t meant to be the main character. Maybe you were the lesson. The comic relief. The wake-up call. The friend who reminded them of what not to do. The person who introduced them to their next boss. The colleague who held the line when they didn’t want you to. The one who left first, and they never quite forgave you for it.
And maybe they were that for you, too.
We don’t talk enough about the grief of outgrowing relationships, especially the non-catastrophic ones. The ones that just faded. Or got weird. Or never found their rhythm again after a hard season. The grocery store aisle becomes a kind of emotional minefield, where each turn might land you face-to-face with someone you miss or someone you don’t or someone you’re still not sure how to feel about.
And then there’s the new version of this same tension: You don’t run into them in person. You notice they’re no longer watching your Facebook Stories. Or they unfollowed you during your feral posting era. Or they suddenly pop up with a new last name and you’re left thinking, When did that happen? It’s the digital version of ducking behind the baked beans. Quiet, slightly passive-aggressive, and just uncomfortable enough to make you question your whole vibe.
So now, when I bump into someone who avoids me, or I catch myself doing the same, I try to show grace on both ends. I remind myself:
— I don’t owe everyone a conversation.
— Not every connection needs closure.
— Avoidance isn’t always about harm; sometimes it’s about history.
— It’s okay to have been part of someone’s life and not stay there.
And most importantly: It’s okay to not be everyone’s person.
It doesn’t mean you failed.
It might mean you were growing.
It might mean you were tired.
It might mean nothing at all.
I still get a little jolt of anxiety when I see someone from “before”—whatever “before” happens to mean that day. But I’m learning not to assign meaning to every awkward moment. Not everything needs dissection. Sometimes it’s just awkward. Sometimes the weird vibe is mutual. Sometimes they ducked behind the cereal because they, too, were worried about small talk and unresolved tension, and also maybe didn’t want to explain why they’re buying Pop-Tarts at 9 a.m. in pajama pants and crocs.
We’re all doing our best.
And some days, our best is just not making eye contact in aisle nine.
So if you see me in the grocery store one day and we make eye contact, and it’s weird? Know that I’m rooting for you. Even if we don’t stop and talk. Even if we only ever shared a cubicle wall, or a season of life, or a handful of Instagram likes before the algorithm forgot us.
I hope you’re doing well.
I hope you found peace.
And I hope, deeply and truly, that you remembered to buy the sour cream.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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