For most of my life, I treated taste as fixed. There were things I liked and things I didn’t, and that was that. Hobbies, foods and even social situations were quietly written off with the certainty of personal preference. But sticking to that sentiment had left me in a bit of a rut.

When I moved to London, I threw myself into work: long hours, commuting and networking. In the process, I stopped making time for hobbies or trying anything new.

My housemates were endlessly creative, often heading to unusual theatre shows, dance classes or events I had never considered. Salsa lessons? No thanks. Interactive theatre? Not for me.

But my automatic “no” to anything that “wasn’t my thing” only kept me trapped in the same routine of work, sleep, eating, and that left me feeling flat and a little empty.

So, in an effort to break the monotony, I began to question whether my taste is fixed at all, or whether it might be something I could train. I had read that children need eight to 15 tries to accept a new food; why shouldn’t the same principle apply to social activities for adults?

I started small. When a friend invited me to a book club, I resisted the instinct to dismiss it, despite my longstanding dislike of reading. Being dyslexic, reading always felt like a mental workout that left my brain exhausted.

But I went anyway. I listened to the first book on audiobook and, to my surprise, enjoyed the discussion, the people and, naturally, the pints. By the next month, I challenged myself to read the physical book on my commute. Now, not only do I look vaguely literate on the tube, but I spend mornings reading instead of scrolling aimlessly.

Then came music and performance: jazz clubs, spoken word nights, line dancing, contemporary performance – all things I had previously disregarded.

At first it was awkward, and sometimes downright bewildering. One show featured an entire cast in morphsuits, and I spent the first 15 minutes convinced I had wandered into an avant-garde exercise class. By the end though, I was captivated and quite proud of myself for surviving the front-row seats my friends had insisted on.

Trying things you think you won’t enjoy, I found, becomes oddly addictive. I didn’t love everything straight away, but I stopped saying no before I had even begun. Running clubs were intimidating, but the more I showed up – and actually spoke to people – the more I realised how much easier conversation becomes when you start from a shared activity.

Most recently, I tried out my local library’s chess club. I was easily 30 years younger than everyone else, but that didn’t matter. Sitting opposite people with wildly different life stories made me realise how rarely I speak with people from other generations outside work or family. We talked about their past careers, local news, and I learned new chess moves. And honestly, there’s nothing quite like being wiped off the board by someone who’s been playing since before your parents met. It was comforting, if a little humbling, and I felt more of a connection with others there than at any organised twentysomethings social event I’ve attended.

Research published last year suggests that engaging your curiosity in new activities can help protect against age-related cognitive decline and support long-term brain health. So stepping into unfamiliar experiences isn’t just good for your social life – it’s good for your brain, too.

What surprised me most was how these new activities began to spill into one another: book club conversations led to theatre recommendations, theatre nights to art exhibitions, exhibitions to conversations I wouldn’t have had otherwise.

That, in itself, became the reward – not just the hobbies, but the people who, without judgment, helped me find value in experiences I had long dismissed. Putting “try something new” in my diary once a week broke up the work-commute-collapse cycle I had accidentally built my life around.

Getting out of my comfort zone now gives me a buzz. I simply count to five, approach the friendliest-looking person with a “hello”, and any initial awkwardness quickly fades.

Next week? Who knows. Maybe magic lessons. Maybe life drawing. Maybe both.