Sunday evenings used to feel heavy for me.
That familiar knot in my stomach would tighten as the day faded.
I’d tell myself it was just “a bit of Sunday dread,” but it was more than that.
It was resistance.
A quiet argument with reality that began long before Monday morning arrived.
Years ago, I had a boss who (it seemed to me) made those nights worse.
Sharp, demanding, unpredictable.
By the time I walked into work on Monday, I’d already spent hours in silent battle, replaying conversations, predicting criticism, trying to pre-empt what might go wrong.
Nothing had even happened yet, but I was riled from the fight.
That way of being can still show up in smaller ways.
Like this weekend, when two young guys parked on double yellows so they could eat lunch in the same café I was at with my son.
Blocking the pavement to pedestrians. Insisting on the window table so they see if they had to leg it when the warden came.
I felt my pulse rise.
A flash of annoyance.
A story in my head that went something like, “That’s so entitled…”
And then I caught myself.
Noticing the tension sitting in my chest.
Noticing how quickly I’d turned a moment of someone else’s life into my own private war.
But what was it in reality, when I dropped my story?
Two lads, eating lunch.
Me, enjoying lunch with my son, creating meaning that didn’t need to exist.
Photo by Liana S on Unsplash