How one writer used working out to get over a breakup.

After a sudden breakup, AMY GRIER found herself asking: “Can exercise heal a broken heart?”

“TUMMY IN. GLUTES TIGHT. SQUEEZE YOUR BUM. HOLD IT.

You’ve got this.” It’s a relief to have these words flood my mind, crashing loudly over the thoughts that I need to drown out. Thoughts such as: Why did he leave me? Why wasn’t I good enough? Will I ever find a love like that again? Will I end up alone? That last one is the real kicker. The one that wakes you up in the middle of the night like a loud bang in a dark room. The homing device your inner being returns to, even when you try to divert its course with shiny treats or fun distractions.

My ex and I were together for five years. We met in a flurry of lust and serendipity when we were both 28 and built something kind of wonderful together. But over the years, small cracks appeared. Nothing to worry about—all relationships have their ups and downs. Being an optimist (and a woman

in her early 30s who wanted children), I chose to ignore those cracks. After all, the house looked so pretty from the outside. It was gorgeous inside too: full of laughter, sun-dappled vacation photos and nights curled around each other on the sofa. We would be okay; we were in love. But eventually those cracks became impossible to ignore. They pulled at our attention—at his attention, really—and when he stopped to interrogate them, the entire house came crashing down. He packed his stuff and moved out, and I sat in the rubble for a very, very long time.

In the few months that followed, all of my normal routines went out the window. I stopped cooking properly and survived on small snacks, pre-prepared food, wine, coffee and adrenalin. Instead of going out four nights a week with friends or for work, I limited my social circle to those in the inner sanctum. My huge life, one that had felt full of people and the promise of the future, suddenly became very small.

There was one constant, though—one relationship that predated him, a place where I could go where everyone only knew me as an “I” instead of a “we.” That place? My gym. When I met my ex, fitness was a huge part of my life. I loved it, and he loved it too. He loved that I loved it, and we became one of those insufferable couples who ran together and went to the gym on holidays. He got me into Parkrun, and most Saturdays we would do the weekly five-kilometre before going for brunch.

I didn’t go back to Parkrun for five months after we broke up. But the gym? The gym was my space. I eased back in. I wasn’t eating much, and I knew not to push too hard: the odd weights class here, a morning yoga session there, lots of swimming.

Gradually, as the weeks passed and winter turned into spring, I built myself back up. I tried new classes, and instead of having my headphones in, I spoke to people around me. I became part of a community. While I felt fragile inside, it was good to have a daily reminder that my physical body was strong. It was resilient. It could lift things, withstand huge pressure and not crumble.

When I was exercising, I didn’t feel alone. Exercise gave me a much-needed sense of purpose and routine at a time when I didn’t have either. If I was feeling down, I’d do a class and then cry it out in the steam room. The endorphins helped, naturally, but exercising also made me ravenous, forcing me to cook and nurture myself properly, as I’d always done before.

When I started dating again, I’d regularly find myself out until midnight a few nights a week, but I still forced myself to get up for a 7:30 a.m. gym class. I was exhausted; I was running on empty a lot of the time and so focused on showing the world I was “fine” that I didn’t think to check if that was true or not. My Instagram shimmered with pictures of a bronzed me hiking in L.A. or posing in a neon bikini while on holiday. I was definitely happier. But I still wasn’t happy.

Then, one October morning last year, I bent down to tie my trainers for the gym and my lower back went out. I was in agony. Determined to still exercise, I went for a swim instead. I took a load of ibuprofen and went out after work. I drank four double gin and tonics and then booty-called a guy I was seeing. I was on autopilot, hurtling away from a crash at full speed.

In the middle of the night, I woke up in a cold sweat. With the adrenalin and booze draining from my body, shock set in. I lay down on my bedroom floor, the only place it didn’t hurt to be, and asked the guy to leave immediately. I’d compressed the lumbar muscle in my lower back. I’d spent too much time flinging weights around, trying to prove my own strength, and not enough time working on my core and looking after my spine. “You can still train,” said my osteopath. “You just need to be kinder to yourself.”

Exercise had filled the void left by the end of my relationship. It had created a positive-feedback loop of physical prowess and superficial aesthetics that had me hooked. But I had let it get too powerful. Being injured for the first time in my life was the wake-up call I needed. Now, I still work out most days. The gym is still my haven from the stress and strain of the outside world. But I am mindful. I warm up and down very carefully. I know my limits. I work more on the muscles that no one can see. Most of all, I am kind to myself. And that, I’ve realized, is the biggest strength of all.

Exercise had filled the void left by the end of my relationship.