The Month I Took Myself Off the Market: Dancing, DMs, and Detoxing from Men

One month ago, I hit pause on dating. Not a soft pause. A full-blown, “shut the shop, burn the merchandise” kind of break. After Harry, whirlwind lover, spiritual zaddy, emotional sucker punch. I realised I wasn’t just heartbroken. I was soul-exhausted.

It wasn’t just the end of a connection. It was the sharp jolt of waking up to how far I’d drifted from myself in the name of finding the one. And so, I declared June the Month of Me. No dating apps. No flirty texts. No “maybe I’ll just see what he’s up to” late-night Instagram stalking. A hard reset.

Breaking Up With the Idea of Love (For Now)

There’s something disturbingly addictive about the pursuit of romance. The dopamine drip-feed of a well-timed message. The fantasy factory that churns out “what ifs” on repeat. After Harry, I was dangerously close to spiralling into the next “maybe.” But the truth hit me like a cold wash of Pinot Gris: I didn’t want another connection. I needed a disconnection.

My nervous system was fried. My libido? Missing in action. The idea of a man touching me made my stomach turn. Not because of trauma, not even because of Harry, but because I was done handing over my precious energy to people who hadn’t earned it. My body, my bed, my Sunday mornings were all officially on lockdown.

Running (Literally) from Heartache

I started running again. Not metaphorically, although let’s be honest, I’ve legged it from my fair share of emotional entanglements, but actual pavement-pounding, lung-burning, Nike-wearing running.

At first, it was grim. My body complained. My hips made noises that sounded like mid-life crisis jazz. But then, something shifted. With every kilometre, I wasn’t just sweating out toxins. I was clearing mental fog. Processing rage. Channelling rejection into rhythm.

Running gave me structure when I wanted to collapse into chaos. It reminded me that movement is medicine, even when your heart feels like a dropped vase in a Bunnings carpark.

Tango: Touch Without Tension

Here’s the twist: I took up tango.

voluntarily touching strangers after during a month of man-repulsion? But tango isn’t about sex. It’s about trust, tension, and micro-connection. You lean in. You listen. You surrender just enough, but not too much.

Every Thursday night I walked into the dance studio and re-learned intimacy without expectation. I discovered I could be held without having to give anything away. That I could move with a man and not need to explain myself afterwards.

Friday Night Aerobics: Camp, Cardio, and Zero Creeps

The crown jewel of my man detox routine? Friday night aerobics. Think neon leotards, high kicks, and Madonna remixes. It’s everything good about being alive, minus unsolicited dick pics.

I sweated out my sadness in a room full of women screaming the lyrics to “she’s a maniac.” No one cared what they looked like. No one was trying to be hot for the sake of a stranger. We were there for us.

Aerobics became my church. My temple. My weekly reminder that joy is a full-body experience, and sometimes the answer to heartbreak is grapevines and glitter.

When the Ghosts Came Knocking

Of course, as if summoned by the sacred algorithm of Single Girl Peace, the ghosts of exes past rose from their digital graves.

One slid into my DMs with a casual “Hey stranger.” Another reacted to a story with a fire emoji. And one, bless him, tried to reignite something with a message so vague it could’ve been about a houseplant or our failed situationship.

But here’s the kicker: none of it worked. Their attention didn’t thrill me. It repulsed me. I wasn’t flattered. I was done.

It’s not that I hate men. (Okay, sometimes. But not always.) It’s that I now require a whole lot more than a hot take and a handsome face. I need depth. I need someone who sees me beyond the Instagram highlight reel. And frankly, I haven’t met that person yet and I’m in no rush.

What I Found When I Stopped Looking

You know what’s wild? When you stop scanning the apps for your future husband, you start noticing yourself again. Noticing how good your legs look in those running tights. How strong your arms feel after lifting groceries solo. How you laugh when no one’s watching.

I stopped performing romance and started practicing presence. And you know what? I like myself better single. Not forever, maybe. But for now? Hell yes.

I also noticed my daughter noticing. Noticed how she picked up on the shift. The calm. The energy in our home. The way I cooked more, danced around the kitchen more, didn’t have one foot out the door chasing someone who couldn’t be bothered to text back.

She deserves that version of me. I deserve that version of me.

The Verdict: Would Recommend

Taking a month off from dating wasn’t just a self-care act. It was a self-respect revolution.

In a world that tells women we’re only worth as much as our romantic value, I reclaimed my narrative. I proved to myself (again) that I am not defined by who’s beside me but by how I show up for myself when no one else is.

So to the next guy who slides into my inbox with a “Hey,” I’ve got an answer ready:

“Sorry, babe. I’m busy falling back in love with myself.”

And guess what? I’m enjoying it so much, I’m extending this dating hiatus indefinitely. No timeline. No deadline. Just me, waking up every day asking myself what I need and how I can give it to myself without compromise.

Next month, my daughter and I are packing our bags and heading to Europe for four glorious weeks of adventure, croissants, train rides, and absolutely no men. Just mother-daughter memories, museums, messy gelato smiles, and dancing under foreign skies. I can’t think of a better love story to write next than this one with her, and with me.

Because this chapter? It’s not about who I might meet.

It’s about the woman I’ve become. And she’s not just enough, she’s everything.