People like to think that monastic life is serene, but boring; they're wrong on both counts. A year ago, after losing the love of my life I fled to live with celibate monks. The man hadn't even died – just slept with someone else. Yet for months I felt genuinely grief-stricken. My world fell apart. It's natural to be hurt, but I couldn't believe something as harmless as a man getting frisky could have this effect on a rational adult. I knew I needed to get my priorities straight – so I'd stop feeling suicidal if nothing else.

So I turned to Throssel Hole, a Zen Buddhist abbey hunched on the Northumbrian moors. I can't imagine what the abbot thought of my self-absorbed heartbreak, but he welcomed me in. I rented my flat out and told my family. In one way I was the perfect Zen student – I had no wish whatsoever to dwell on the past or future. I'd lost the will to engage with anything.

Hundreds of people pass through Throssel Hole every year. I think we newbies assumed we'd meditate, see reality for what it really was in one dramatic bang, and be serene and famous ever after: like the fairytales, except with enlightenment instead of men. In reality, things were very different.

Around 25 monks train at the abbey. Many came from careers in medicine, science and the arts, and they struck me as open, sharp and wise. At night trainees slept on folding mattresses on the ceremony hall floor. Red altar lights flickered in the dark, and a monk would perform the silent prayer of blessing to ensure another safe night's sleep.

The community didn't pivot on the usual social rules. Aside from neatness and cleanliness, external appearances were disregarded. As I'd lived alone and worked as a model since my early teens, I'd had my share of stalkers and exhibitionists and spent my adult life constantly on the defence, physically and mentally. I was cynical and exhausted.

Now, next to the monks' classic robes and modestly shaven heads, I felt like a hairy harlot and was amazed when I wasn't treated like one. The monks afforded every person, cat, worm and plant the same respect. Daily necessities from carrot-cutting to pit-digging were met with patient grace and dignity. The meticulous standards and almost total lack of privacy were challenging, but I thought I'd landed in a heavenly enclave.

But what are you like in heaven? I was left to tame my emotional life without interference. Sometimes in the private spiritual counselling sessions I would howl in pain, while the attending monk sat and gazed at me, or told me that I'd got the wrong end of the stick. It seemed cruel and I felt starved of affection. At one point I considered hiding behind a bush and surprise- hugging someone.

Then there was zazen –sitting meditation – which is the keystone of Zen practice. Trainees spend between two and five hours a day doing this. Sitting cross-legged is painful when you're not used to it but with persistence I became accustomed to it. The mental pain was worse. The instruction, handed down by 13th century sage Dogen Zenji, is to "think non-thinking" in other words, "neither try to think, nor try not to think". I spent several months interpreting an interesting paint stain on the cupboard in front of me. It's enough to drive you up the wall.

When I finally decided not to give in to distraction, the feelings I was left with almost overwhelmed me. Sadness grew into grief, irritation into rage. After four months of sitting I was very close to getting up, hollering wild profanities and bashing someone just so I'd have to leave. I looked for an escape route but the fear of hurting the monks held me back. And once I had admitted to myself that I cared about others meditation was easier.

As I studied, meditated and swept the floors over the next six months, I gained a clearer sense of a shared purpose. We were encouraged not to talk, and I saw how there is far more to friendship than chatting or overt affection. I trusted people more by living and working with them quietly over time, than I ever had in a romantic relationship. Any thoughts of needing a boyfriend went out of the window.

Yet I also knew I wasn't a monastic – I feel more at home in a whisky bar than an abbey. Thankfully it's perfectly possible to be a contemplative who enjoys drinks and fashion, with the right priorities.

On my first day back after 11 months in the monastery I marvelled at how full of love and humour everyone is and that there is beauty in the most mundane places. I had learned how to see my own defences had only caused me grief. And when I looked past criticism, I realised often people were just trying to connect and conflicts were easier to resolve. While life is often hard, it isn't personal.

As for the "love of my life", he's happily married. And I am finally, happily, single. In losing a lover I'd woken up to a different world.

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