Nobody warned me that heartbreak would ruin my relationship with Beyoncé. I had always associated music with the happiest times in my life: going to Glastonbury, seeing Madonna play at Madison Square Garden, singing along to Kylie Minogue’s greatest hits on a road trip across Australia. Just over a year ago, after my first real relationship ended unexpectedly, things changed.

When I listened to the artists I loved most, I was ambushed by memories and reminded of all the love and intimacy I had lost. My usual playlists, filled with indie bops and pop girl anthems, became unbearable. I’d never noticed before, but almost every song was about love, yearning, romance and sex. Every time I pressed play, I found myself sobbing in the shower or ugly-crying in public.

Tired of burning through tissues, I decided to go no contact with music. In fact, I was determined to avoid the topic of love at all costs. You would be surprised how much that limits what you can do, because, to paraphrase Hugh Grant in Love Actually, love is – unfortunately – all around. I swapped my playlists for journalism podcasts, true-crime audiobooks and soothing ambient noise, but nothing seemed to fill the space that the lack of music had left in my life.

“What’s the genre furthest away from my usual taste?” I wondered, scrolling through Spotify, a few months post-breakup. I clicked recklessly, ending up in a hardcore punk playlist. Not knowing where to begin, I pressed play on the first band on the list.

It worked. Loud, heavy music came screaming out of my speakers, so frantic and raw that I could barely make out what the songs were about. I was delighted when I realised I could listen to bands such as Malevolence and Every Time I Die without crying so much that I had to press cold spoons over my swollen eyes afterwards.

Knocked Loose, a hardcore punk band from Kentucky, became a fast favourite. A week after discovering them, I found out they had a special midnight show coming up in Manchester. It felt serendipitous that they were arriving in town when I needed them most, so I booked a ticket.

“I’m going to die,” I thought a few weeks later, chewing my lip with worry as the Albert Hall in Manchester exploded with activity. It was 2am when Knocked Loose finally took the stage. I pressed myself against the wall while the crowd turned into a huge, pulsing crush of bodies. People were throwing their limbs about violently, slamming into one another at full force and clambering on top of each other to get on stage, only to immediately throw themselves back into the crowd.

I hadn’t seen anything like it before. I was spellbound by the music, but terrified of ending up in A&E. Yet, when the lead singer, Bryan Garris, called out for more movement, I felt unable to resist. I walked forward and let the crowd swallow me.

Being inside the crowd was like that moment in Dirty Dancing when Baby sees Johnny and his friends dancing in the staff quarters. I was intimidated, but possessed by a deep longing to join in. But I had no clue how and no Johnny to lift me up by the hips. Then suddenly, someone barged into my shoulder, sending me stumbling into the person beside me. I looked around anxiously, but nobody was mad and nobody was hurt. I smiled. This wasn’t scary; it was fun.

I quickly felt myself become a part of the hive mind of the crowd. It was such a relief to move my body however I wanted. I didn’t care where I ended up, whom I crashed into or what I looked like. And, gloriously, there wasn’t a single sad thought about my ex in my head. I had no desire to check my phone or doomscroll through his social media. I was safe in this sweaty bubble.

By ghosting my playlists, I had been desperately trying to control my feelings. The music I loved had been urging me to accept my sadness and heartbreak, but I’d pushed it away and hidden behind loud, abrasive bands. However, as the night progressed and the band raged through their songs, I began to feel those familiar difficult feelings creep in. I’d been distracted by the noise, but suddenly I was hit by the blunt realisation that hardcore was emotional, too.

Underneath Knocked Loose’s noisy exterior was the same vulnerability and grief from which I had been running. The difference was that, in their moshpit, I didn’t have to mope around. With every shove and collision, my feelings were spilling out of me. I realised that it hadn’t been music causing me pain: it was me and everything I was refusing to feel or accept. The whole night felt like a weird, radical form of therapy that I’d signed up for unconsciously.

Afterwards, I gradually stopped avoiding my playlists. I began letting myself experience the difficult feelings music stirred up and my broken heart started to mend. Last week, I listened to the latest Ariana Grande album and I didn’t so much as sniffle. Of course, some Fleetwood Mac and Phoebe Bridgers songs still sting; I’m only human. But the sad feelings those songs inspire no longer feel so consuming.

I don’t have beef with Beyoncé these days. I owe it to the people of the hardcore community, who hauled me back to my feet. Now, when I don’t feel so crazy in love, I go to a hardcore show, throw myself into a moshpit and hope it knocks some of those sad feelings loose.