The Art of Sunday

Somewhere between doing nothing and doing too much.

There’s something strange about Sundays. They’re supposed to be slow, but they come with this weird amount of pressure. Like you’re meant to relax, but not too much. Make use of the day, but don’t overdo it. It’s not Saturday anymore, and Monday’s already looming in the distance, even if you’re trying not to notice it.

I’ve realized that Sunday brings out a certain kind of indecision in me. I wake up with the intention of doing something…anything. But end up in this in-between space where nothing really sticks. Should we go out for breakfast? Should I clean the garage? Should I do nothing and feel guilty about it later? Time kind of slips through your hands on Sundays in a way it doesn’t on any other day.

During the week, I’m hit with decision fatigue before noon. There are too many tabs open in my head, too many things I could be doing, should be doing, or might forget to do. That constant low hum of analysis paralysis. Sunday is one of the only days where I try to turn all that off. To stop making decisions and just go with the obvious ones. Eat what’s in the fridge. Wear what’s comfortable. Do what’s going to make me feel the best.

Most of my Sundays start the same. I’m up early, before the rest of the house. I let the dogs out, take my time crafting a barista level cortado without waking anyone up, and just sitting in the quiet. No emails, no texts, just a couple hours that feel entirely mine. There’s a kind of relief in not having anything or anyone to answer to. No obligations disguised as “just circling back” or “quick question.” Just me, a cup of caffeine, and whatever mood the morning decides to bring.

That said, I still get the itch. The urge to check one thing off the list. Be productive. Send a quick email. Jump ahead on something for Monday so I can feel like I’m “on top of it.” I have to force myself not to give in to that. To let the work sit where it is, and be okay with not getting a head start. It’s not easy, but I know if I don’t draw a line somewhere, the whole week starts bleeding into the one day that’s meant to feel different.

When I was younger, weekends felt sacred. A true break. Two full days without school, where time felt like it belonged to me again. spending every waking hour outside. And even now, working for myself without the structure of a Monday through Friday job, I still hold onto the weekend like it’s earned. Like I need to justify slowing down. I don’t, really. But I still do.

And now, being a dad, Sundays carry a different kind of weight. There’s no time to be selfish with the day, it’s not really mine anymore, and I’m okay with that. I think about the kind of Sundays I want my daughter to remember. Not just the slow ones, but the ones where something happened. A road trip. A new place. Her favorite breakfast spot. That feeling of a day set aside for fun, for family, for whatever idea we come up with that morning. I’m excited to get to the point where I can ask her what she wants to do today and whatever random thing she requests, we do it without question.