slow sundays

for the ones who feel everything, and still choose to stay open

There’s something deeply refreshing, and dare I say it, luxurious about a slow Sunday. It invites you to slow down, take stock, greet the moment. For me, it means choosing softness over cynicism. Choosing to write, to speak, to pause and feel into how unbearable it can sometimes be to care this deeply—about others, about the state of the world, about one’s own internal landscape. It’s overwhelming.

To feel this much, when the world so often tells you it’s too much, is a kind of activism. But I’ve learned that letting myself feel is a sacred and holy thing.

Just as it is sacred to navigate the world with the kind of sensitivity and tenderness that’s so often stripped from us, by family systems, institutions, and a culture that rewards performance over presence, and celebrates everything you are not.

To liberate yourself from that conditioning, to tune out the noise and turn inward, to listen to the part of you that is kinder, gentler, wiser—this is resistance.

To step into uncertainty and do the opposite of everything you’ve been taught to believe takes relentless courage. To challenge your own limiting beliefs about what’s possible. To soften, and to stand up to the inner critic and say: “I see you. Thank you for trying to keep me safe. But I’ve got this.”

To simply show up to the page.
To refuse to abandon the little one inside you who knows that on the other side of fear is an unwavering, joyful, creative, intelligent being who has endured so much, and in spite of it all, found her way.

Slow is steady.
It’s sacrosanct.
It’s all-knowing.
It’s where the mana lives.

There is nothing more sacred than slow.

© Alana Foy 2025