Sunday, nine in the evening. The day felt like mine. Not just on the calendar — I really felt free: no calls, no urgent emails, the phone barely buzzed. Woke up without an alarm. Had breakfast slowly, stretching the coffee to the last drop. Cooked lazily, music playing somewhere in the background. Just went out for a walk around the neighborhood — not to get steps in, but because I wanted to walk. Watched a movie in the afternoon, didn’t put off the pleasure. Read a bit. Peeked into a chat — just briefly.

And now, for some reason, I’m more tired than after the busiest Tuesday at the office. But my body doesn’t complain — something inside feels squeezed tight. Like that same drained feeling after a long stretch of small tasks and endless meetings, when even breaks are scheduled. Though today there were none.

It’s a weird feeling: this exhaustion hits right at the end of the weekend, like Sunday pulls your energy deeper than any workday. Friday night can feel easier — even though work thoughts creep in till late. Sometimes a day at the office goes smoother; there, breaks are built into the routine: lunch at exactly one, coffee when everyone goes together.

Here, everything’s free — and somehow that makes it harder.

Suddenly I remembered the phrase “decision fatigue.” It’s about getting tired not from work itself, but from making constant choices: what to eat in the morning, which route to take for a walk, whether to read the news or not. Usually, they talk about judges or bosses: too many decisions — the brain overheats and can’t tell what’s important from what’s not.

But why does this hit so hard on a day off? You’d expect the opposite: finally living for yourself.

Turns out it’s the other way around: every moment of free time demands a new choice. Even small things weigh down — watch that long-promised movie or the familiar series again? Go out in the rain or stay home? Order dinner or cook it yourself? You have to decide right then — and then analyze if you even spent your time right.

There’s this inner counter — how much “rest” did you actually get. The to-do list for recharging: did you move around? Did you at least make some progress in a book? Learn something new? If the answer is “no” somewhere — anxiety sneaks up fast. Like you wasted Sunday and tomorrow there’ll be nothing to remember by the coffee machine at work.

Maybe it’s the inner controller — the boss who never leaves, even on weekends. Or maybe it’s the opposite: when there’s too much freedom and no one demands anything, the structure of time disappears. You’re left alone with emptiness.

And that’s where it gets tough. When there’s absolutely nothing to do — a strange kind of anxiety comes out.

In Italy, these days go differently: a long family lunch in the middle of the day (no one’s rushing anywhere), a mandatory pause until four after eating, shops closed on Sundays; nowhere to go; you just float inside a long ritual of familiar things.

Childhood Sundays were predictable almost to boredom: first everyone went somewhere (church or guests), then came back for a shared lunch, then a walk on the same route around the yard or to the park behind the school. The feeling of life being full was almost missing — but so was the tiredness.

Now everyone makes up their Sunday anew every week. Full freedom looks like a win from the outside; in reality, it’s new work — only you set the tasks yourself.

What if real rest is impossible without repetition and sameness? Monotony saves the brain from endless forks in the road… A few hours of the same thing day after day suddenly bring that very relaxation: you finally stop waiting for new decisions for yourself.

Only now, holding that emptiness feels almost impossible.

Like the lack of outside structure scares you more than the busiest week ever.

If the fear of a long, same-old Sunday is stronger than the fear of work — maybe we’ve forgotten how to be free?