Taking Back Sundays

On rest, the history of the weekend, and giving yourself permission to do nothing on a Sunday afternoon

“What is a weekend?”

If you have ever watched Downton Abbey, you know that line. It is delivered by Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, played by the incomparable Maggie Smith, who passed away in 2024 and left a considerable hole in the world. Matthew Crawley mentions he will have the weekend to manage his new responsibilities, and the Dowager looks at him with that expression of magnificent bewilderment and asks simply: “What is a weekend?”

It gets a laugh every time. But the more I think about it, the more I think the joke is actually on us.

Because here is something most people do not know: the weekend, as we know it, is barely a hundred years old.

What Is a Weekend, Anyway?

The week itself is man-made. The earth rotates around the sun, the sun rises and sets, but the seven-day cycle we organize our entire lives around exists only because we invented it. And the idea of a day of rest at the end of it is newer than most people realize.

It was Henry Ford, not out of kindness but out of a desire to reduce worker turnover, who standardized the two-day weekend when he moved his factories to a five-day work week, in 1926. Other companies followed, Congress made it official in 1938, and that was that. One hundred years ago. That is all.

The Dowager Countess was not being obtuse. She was being historically accurate. For most of human history, there was no such thing as a weekend. There was work, there was church, there was sleep, and there was more work.

If you want to know more, Witold Rybczynski’s Waiting for the Weekend is the book to read. Beautifully written, and perfect Sunday reading.

And Now We Are Giving It Back

Here is the irony. We fought for the weekend. Workers have organized and marched and in some cases died for the right to a day of rest since the 19th century. It took decades of labor movement pressure and an act of Congress to give Americans two days at the end of the week that belonged to them. And then, with the arrival of a small glowing rectangle that fits in our pocket, we handed most of it back.

We carry the office with us everywhere. We answer emails at ten o’clock on Sunday night. We feel guilty if we are not producing something, optimizing something, responding to something.

Bragging that you never take a weekend(or a vacation) has become a strange kind of status symbol. As though rest were weakness. 

I find this absolutely crazy. 

What Sunday Used to Feel Like

I grew up with real Sundays. Long lazy days. After church there was Sunday dinner, and after Sunday dinner there was nothing, unless you wanted something. My grandmother read. My grandfather napped. My mother might put something on to bake simply because she felt like it. My dad would take us for a long bike ride. Nobody was accomplishing anything and nobody felt guilty about it.

That was just Sunday. A day to rest and relax.

I did not understand until I was an adult what a gift that was. That the day had a different feel, a different pace and frankly a little peace and maybe even quiet. That the world collectively agreed to slow down for a few hours and just be.

I am not sure younger women have ever had that. I think some of them have grown up in a world where every day runs at the same relentless speed and the weekend just means you are tired in a different location, a baseball field, at the side of a bouncy house, or tackling a house project. That makes me sad.

Taking It Back

I have been quietly reclaiming my Sundays. Not perfectly. Not every week. But intentionally over the last two years.

Sunday mornings begin the way they always do. A cup of drinking chocolate, the bird bath outside the window, my gratitude journal, prayer, and Patches settled on the ottoman. After church, the afternoon belongs to nobody’s agenda but mine. Some Sundays that means the Indigo Room with a book and all three dogs arranged around me in their preferred positions. Some Sundays it means baking something simply because I want the house to smell like something good and feel like a sweet treat. Some Sundays Bill and I read in the same room and occasionally share a passage that made us think. And then there are the Sundays that you simply do nothing but lay by the pool and soak up some vitamin D.

There is no productivity in any of this. There is no output. There is nothing I am supposed to be doing that I am not doing and if there is it can wait until the work week starts on Monday.

It took me longer than I care to admit to stop feeling guilty about that.

The Permission You Did Not Know You Needed

You are allowed to rest.

Not after everything is finished, because everything is never finished. Not once the inbox is empty and the laundry is done and the week is perfectly organized. Not as a reward. Just because it is Sunday and you are a human being, and human beings require rest the way they require water and light and the occasional afternoon with absolutely nothing scheduled.

We won this time. People fought hard for it. The least we can do is actually use it.

So here is what I want to suggest. This Sunday, close the laptop. Put the phone in the other room. Make something warm to drink in a cup you love. Find yourself a comfy spot. Let the afternoon go where it wants to go, sit on the porch and soak up the sun, take a walk, enjoy time with your grandkids.

Do nothing in particular, and do it without apology.

The Dowager Countess would approve. She would probably also have something withering to say about people who spend their Sundays answering work emails, and I think we all know she would be right.

Tell me — do you still have real Sundays? Or has the week quietly swallowed them? I would genuinely love to know. 

If you enjoyed this post, I would love it if you shared it. You can find me on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterestand X — I would love to have you along.

Have a wonderful weekend, friends.

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