The Invisible Black Woman

There’s a quiet cruelty in the way Sunday afternoons can turn on us. The sun is still high, the day is not yet over, and yet the dread creeps in like an unwelcome guest, whispering about all the emails, meetings, and obligations waiting on the other side of midnight. It’s a phenomenon we’ve dressed up with nicknames—the Sunday Scaries, the Sunday Blues—but strip away the humor, and what we’re left with is a truth too many of us know: rest that carries the scent of dread isn’t rest at all.

Sundays, at their best, should soothe. They should remind us that we are human beings, not just human doings. They should offer softness after a week of sharp edges. They should restore us in ways no productivity hack ever could. Yet for many, Sunday suffocates. It compresses the chest, quickens the pulse, and casts a shadow over what should be a day of restoration.

And here’s why: the problem isn’t Sunday. The problem is what Monday represents.

If you find yourself unable to breathe easy on Sunday, it’s worth asking: what am I returning to tomorrow? A role that diminishes you? A boss who devalues you? A workplace that drains you? When dread steals your Sunday, it’s often an alarm bell that something deeper needs to be addressed. Because real rest cannot coexist with fear of what’s next.

But let’s be clear: this isn’t just about corporate toxicity, though that’s part of it. It’s also about boundaries. Too often, we give work permission to own not just our weekdays but our weekends, our evenings, our peace of mind. And the truth is, we can’t keep waiting for companies to grant us space. They will always take what we’re willing to give.

So what do we do? We reclaim Sunday.

Reclaim it by slowing down, on purpose. By making the morning sacred. Whether that means brewing coffee slowly, journaling, or walking in silence. By filling the afternoon with joy rather than dread—cooking, reading, laughing, resting without guilt. And by setting boundaries that remind you: rest is your right, not a reward you have to earn.

This doesn’t mean the Monday machine disappears. It doesn’t mean deadlines won’t exist or emails won’t flood in. But it does mean Sunday can become a shield. A sanctuary you protect fiercely. A day where you breathe freely, knowing your worth isn’t tied to what’s waiting tomorrow.

Until next time, I wish you nothing but sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns, which are no less fictitious than the spectacular creature you are.