I've been thinking lately about the days of the week, now each one seems to arrive caring its own emotion.
I don't know if it comes from scripture, from years of punching a time clock, from learning to be self-employed and answering to my own, or from the invisible calendar of grief that keeps ticking inside us.
Maybe it's all of it.
Each day feels different to me now. Not better or worse, just different. Each one carries responsibility, even when I try not to assign it one.
Monday arrives strong. It feels like a get up and do it day. A day that pushes me forward whether I feel ready or not. There's purpose in Monday, but also pressure, a quiet expectation to show up, to function, to move.
As the week unfolds, i find my footing. Some days I cooperate with the rhythm. Some days I direct it. And some days, if I'm honest, I resisted it all together.
I've learned I can often guide my response now. Not always, but more than before. That feels like growth.
And then there's Sunday.
I've said out loud, more than once, " Sundays are tough for me."
That wasn't always true. In younger years, Sunday was my favorite day. A day of rest. A day of faith, family, comfort, and predictability.
Now, Sunday moves slower, and sometimes heavier. There's a Stillness that feels different than the rest. A quiet that leaves room for memories to speak. Occasionally, a sadness I can't fully explain.
Maybe it's the pause. Maybe it's what no longer feels the space the way it once did. Maybe it's grief reminding me that time keeps moving, even when parts of my heart are still catching up.
I don't fight it the way I used to. I notice it. I honor it. I let Sunday be what it is.
Because I'm learning this: Everyday carries something. Expectation. Memory. Responsibility. Grace.
And maybe the goal isn't to feel the same about every day, but to meet each one honestly, with the heart we have today.
Some days ask for strength, others ask for rest, and both are necessary.