Sunday is supposed to be the easy day (“easy like Sunday morning”). Nothing on the calendar, nowhere I have to be. And still, somewhere around mid-afternoon, something in me starts to sink.
It’s not about any one thing in particular. It’s the week coming, all of it at once, before any of it has even happened. The light changes a little earlier. The house gets quiet. I start doing the math on everything I didn’t get to.
For a long time I thought something was wrong with me for not enjoying the one day meant for rest. Then I started mentioning it, and almost everyone I told said some version of “oh, me too.”
I haven’t figured out how to make it go away. But a few things make it softer.
I try not to save the whole week’s worrying for Sunday night. If something’s on my mind, I write it down earlier in the day so it’s out of my head and on paper.
I keep Sunday evening small. Something easy to eat, something familiar on, lights low.
And I remind myself that the feeling is about tomorrow, not about right now. Right now is usually fine. Right now is a couch and a quiet room.
If Sundays get heavy for you too, you’re not the only one sitting with it.
I’ll send the next one. You can leave whenever you want.
Other Notes
The day it clicked
The small things
