Sunday Anxiety
Sunday, Without the Spiral
I try to cram joy into Saturday as if I am storing sunlight for the week ahead. Then Sunday arrives, and I am not sure what to do with the shadows that follow. A quiet heaviness settles in before breakfast, and my mind starts planning before my body is even awake.
I walk through the week in my head: the deadlines, the appointments, the meals I have not planned, the people I might disappoint. My body is on the couch, but my mind is already sprinting through Monday’s maze.
Part of this tension comes from the culture around me that worships exhaustion and calls it ambition. I am expected to recover from a fifty-hour week with one nap, one brunch, and one clean kitchen, then wonder why rest does not work. I do not just want rest; I expect transformation. I want to wake up Monday reborn, calm, and full of gratitude. That pressure alone can break a person.
For a long time, that was my Sunday. I yearned for peace, but beneath the quiet there was a sense of impending doom. My phone would buzz with work messages that were not urgent but felt urgent. By sunrise, I was somewhere between planning, performing, and pretending to be ready.
Sunday is not the enemy; the system is. The weight I carry comes from expectations I did not design but still obey. I was taught to treat the weekend like a reset button, but I am not a machine that can be rebooted. I need more than forty-eight hours to stitch myself back together.
The tension does not live only in my mind; it lives in my body. A tight chest. Restless legs. Shallow breath. These are signs that my nervous system has not caught up to the idea of rest. My body does not recognize weekends. It only recognizes safety and threat.
When the week demands too much, my body stays alert even when the calendar says relax. I feel the pull of a mind that wants to slow down and a body still bracing for what is next. The stillness of Sunday often brings up what I was too busy to feel: fatigue, irritation, and sometimes grief.
From a somatic perspective, this is not failure. It is awareness. My body is telling the truth about how much it has been holding.
Instead of forcing rest, I practice listening.
I ask:
What do I need more of today: movement, quiet, sunlight, or connection?
Where do I feel tension, and can I soften just a little?
What do I need to relax?
Over time, Sunday has become a practice of compassion instead of control. The anxiety is not gone, but I meet it differently. Sometimes I rest. Sometimes I move. Sometimes I play. Sometimes I do nothing at all.
It is not about doing Sunday right. It is about creating space to feel human again.
If Sunday still feels heavy, it does not mean I am doing it wrong. It means I am learning what safety feels like after years of running on empty. That is allowed.
Before I start preparing for Monday, I return to one small question:
What would help me feel more like myself today?
Not what will make me productive.
Not what will make everyone else comfortable.
What helps me feel like me.
That is the doorway back to nervous system safety. That is where rest begins to feel possible. That is where joy returns, not as a reward, but as something I am allowed to have.
Healing Arts Center | Virginia Beach & Virtual
