Sundays always feel like a blank page, where the ink of routine has not yet been spilled. And like a nervous student in an echoing examination hall I look at it and I stress. What will I write on this day to make it worth it? How can I use this page to prove that there is something more to my life than the revolving door of wake, eat, work, sleep, repeat?

Some Sundays I do manage to make it out the door and into the day, returning triumphant to scrawl my empty activities onto the page. Others, I don’t.

Others I plan my draft and find myself tossing it into the bin to cry over the phone to my sister. To put my laundry in the washing machine and then hang it out underneath bright sunshine. To watch a movie while baking (and burning fingers). And to use the quiet solitude to heal my tired soul from a week that stretched and strained it a little more than usual.

Then I pull that crumpled draft from bin. Smooth out the creases and scratch out the words:

‘Today, I let myself breath.’