Sundays, am I right?

When I was younger, I had a complicated relationship with Sundays. I wouldn’t say I hated them… but I definitely felt something heavy about them. Sundays were this weird in-between day. They were too close to Monday to fully enjoy and too far from Saturday to feel free. It always felt like time was slipping and like the day started already half gone.

I remember them in two versions. They were either cloudy, rainy, slow… the kind of day where you were stuck inside and nobody did anything except watch whatever movie the TV networks decided to play. Or they were sunny and loud with everyone outside, the extended family gathering at my grandparents, us kids on bikes or playing tag, and that perfect kind of light that makes the world feel happier than it should. But even on the good Sundays, there was always this race with sunset, or this countdown. It would start to get darker and you could almost feel the air change. This little voice whispering, “Go inside, get ready, tomorrow’s coming.”

It’s wild how you can physically feel freedom leaving your body just because the sky gets darker.

As a kid, I thought what I hated was school. I thought it was the grades, the routines, and the eyes on me. But looking back now, I think it was deeper than that.
Sunday didn’t just mean school is tomorrow. It meant you’re about to lose comfort. You’re about to lose being yourself. Home was the place I didn’t have to perform. So, Sunday melting into Monday felt like someone slowly closing a door on the safest parts of me.

And tbh, it’s not like that magically disappear in adulthood. Work just became the new school. The dread still showed up. The pressure, too. I used to always ask myself “did I do enough?” like it was some competition. Or the classic “I should’ve gotten more done yesterday.” Sunday always felt like being out of time.

But, of course, somewhere along the line, something shifted. And, it wasn’t Sunday.
It was me.

I think it started with maturity… learning there’s more to be grateful for than to complain about, realizing that responsibility and freedom aren’t enemies, that life actually allows both, that waking up early doesn’t mean joy is gone, and that working hard doesn’t mean I’m trapped. But I think beyond that, it’s also that I finally feel secure in my own life.

I know which pressures are mine to carry and which ones aren’t. I set my own standards now, not some grade book or someone else’s expectations. I love the life I live, and I understand what the hard work that starts on Monday actually affords me. I see now that it’s not taking from me anymore, it’s building something with me. And so, suddenly, Sundays look and feel different.

They’ve stopped being the end of freedom, and have started feeling like extra room to breathe. I don’t see Sunday as “running out of time” anymore.
It feels like all the time in the world, now.

I think we all feel that there’s something universally slower about Sundays. The world isn’t in as much of a hurry and the day stretches differently. You can actually hear yourself think. And one of the more profound thoughts for me lately has been that there’s no need to brace for Monday. There’s a need to lean into the space Sunday gives me. It gives me more time to actually listen to the music I’ve been too busy to sit with all week. It lets me watch the comfort movie I haven’t rewatched in too long (there’s a reason TV networks still run them every Sunday. I swear they know). And it lets the sunlight stay on my face a little longer… weather granted, of course.

It’s more space to lean into the simpler things that make me… well, me.

Back then, I spent Sunday focused on what was coming. Now, I spend it focused on what’s right in front of me. And that’s probably the biggest lesson, here. Because I think worrying about what’s ahead is always the beginning of loss. When we live in tomorrow, we lose today before it’s even over.

I mean, sure… going back to work can suck. The 9-to-5 loop can feel like a trap sometimes. If not, most of the time. I’m not pretending it’s all romantic. But that doesn’t mean we have to hand over the rest of our time just because Monday exists.

Sunday isn’t the warning sign of what’s next.
It’s the invitation to savor what’s here. And I don’t want to waste that anymore.

db.