It’s Sunday. Snow is falling steadily, the kind that quiets a city. We’re under a Polar Vortex, the kind that makes staying inside feel less like avoidance and more like common sense. After an emotionally draining week, bad news cycling endlessly, worry about money because it’s mid-month and the funds are thin, I decided today is a snow day.
I’m writing this in soft indoor clothes. I’m not going anywhere. The errands were handled yesterday, crowds and all. Dinner is already planned. Today has been deliberately left blank, and that feels like the most responsible choice I could make.
There’s a subtle but important shift that happens when you give yourself permission to slow down. The nervous system, especially one that’s been living in a near-constant state of alert, finally gets the message that it can stand down. No bracing. No scanning. No urgency. Just a quiet signal that says, “You’re safe enough right now.”
I can feel it in my body when I do this. The shoulders drop a little. Breathing deepens without effort. Thoughts don’t stop, but they stop racing. Instead of reacting to everything, I can sit with music playing low in the background and read a few pages of Breathing the Night Out, letting someone else’s words carry the weight for a while. Or get caught up with some classic movies I’ve wanted to watch, but “never had the time.”
This kind of rest isn’t about productivity or optimization. It’s about regulation. When the world feels loud and unpredictable, slowing down is a way of protecting my nervous system from overload. It’s not checking out, it’s checking in. Giving my body a break from constant input allows it to recalibrate.
There’s also something grounding about knowing things are handled. Food is in the fridge. A warm meal is coming later. There’s nowhere I need to be. That sense of containment matters more than we realize. It tells the nervous system that, at least for today, there are no fires to put out.
Slow Sundays don’t fix the world. They don’t magically resolve financial stress or erase the heaviness of the news. What they do is create a pause. A buffer. A chance to recharge so you’re not carrying yesterday’s tension into tomorrow.
If today is small, that’s okay. If all you do is rest, read, listen to music, and let the snow fall outside your window, that counts. Especially on days like this, doing less can be exactly what helps you stay steady.
Sometimes the most healing thing you can say to yourself is simple: today, I’m allowed to rest.
