The Ambivert’s Guide to French Sundays

Riquewihr, France c. 2011

Sundays and I have always had a complicated relationship.

On paper, I’m the perfect candidate for those “Americans should live like the French on Sundays” videos. I’ve watched more YouTube explainers and TikTok mini-essays on “French Sundays” than I care to admit. The message is always the same: slow down, savor life, embrace leisure, protect your day of rest. It sounds romantic, grounded, and very chic.

But in my real life, it feels like a tug-of-war.

The Ambivert Tug-of-War

I’ve learned there’s a word for the way I move through the world: ambivert. I’m not fully extroverted, not fully introverted—I live in the middle. When I’m working or traveling for engagements, I can turn it all the way on. I’m present, engaged, attentive, “on stage.” But when I get home, the switch flips in the opposite direction.

Sometimes that means I fall into long stretches of doing absolutely nothing. Not the cute, curated “nothing” of a cozy Pinterest board—more like drifting from the couch to the bed to the kitchen and back, doom-scrolling and half-listening to podcasts I won’t remember later. I’m not resting, exactly; I’m just… offline.

And yet, the guilt is loud.

The Conundrum of Doing “Nothing”

Here’s where the conundrum kicks in: part of me truly needs to shut down. After pouring all my energy into work, meetings, performances, and travel, it feels like my body and brain are demanding a hard reset. But another part of me is whispering (okay, yelling): “You should be doing something.”

On any given Sunday—or a bank holiday Monday—it goes something like this:

• “I should be writing a song.”

• “I should be outlining that book.”

• “I should be filming a new video.”

• “I should be building that new strategy.”

If I give in and start working, I swing to the extreme: I’m all in, treating my “day off” like bonus grind time. Then I burn out and dread the coming workday even more. If I refuse to work and try to rest, I feel like I’m wasting precious time and falling behind on every dream I say I care about.

So I sit there, stuck between exhaustion and ambition, feeling bad either way.

What a French Sunday Stirred Up in Me

The idea of a “French Sunday” pokes directly at this wound.

In all those videos and articles, a French Sunday is not a productivity hack, it’s a cultural expectation. Shops are slower or closed. People linger at meals. There is an unspoken agreement that the day is allowed to be gentle. Rest is not cheating—it’s built into the rhythm of life.

When I hear that, part of me lights up with longing. Imagine a world where doing nothing on Sunday doesn’t require justification. Imagine not having to earn your rest with overwork. Imagine leisure being normal, not a guilty pleasure.

But the American hustle voice in my head is loud: “Must be nice. That’s not real life.” It’s funny how quickly I’ll absorb someone else’s grindset but hesitate to absorb their grace.

Giving Myself Permission

The truth is, nobody is going to show up at my door with a certificate saying, “Permission granted: you may rest on Sundays.” If I want a French Sunday, I have to choose it—and defend it.

For me, that starts with redefining “doing nothing.”

Maybe “nothing” can mean:

• Sitting on the lanai with coffee, no agenda.

• Taking a slow walk just to feel the air on my face.

• Listening to music without turning it into a songwriting session.

• Reading something purely for pleasure, not for self-improvement.

• Letting my brain wander without demanding it produce a new idea.

It also means reframing the guilt. Instead of “I’m wasting time,” I want to practice saying, “I’m restoring the person who does the work.” Rest isn’t the opposite of ambition; it’s the fuel for it.

A Gentle Plan for My Sundays

I’m still experimenting, but here’s the loose “French Sunday” framework I’m trying to build for myself:

• One simple morning ritual
  Maybe it’s a slow breakfast, no phone. Maybe it’s a quiet spiritual practice or journaling. The rule: it can’t be about work, self-promotion, or performance.

• One nourishing connection or pleasure
  A long lunch, a phone call with someone I actually want to talk to, a good book, a solo date, or a long walk. Nothing that needs to be posted or polished.

• A tiny peek at the week—on my terms
  If I start to dread Monday, I’ll give myself 10–20 minutes to glance at the week, jot a few priorities, and then close it. Not a work session, just a gentle preview so my brain doesn’t spiral.

• An evening wind-down ritual
  A bath, a favorite show, candles, stretching—something that clearly signals: “Today was for restoration, not performance.”

The key is this: I’m not allowed to turn a Sunday into a stealth workday disguised as “rest.” If I create, it has to be play, not pressure. If I work, it has to be brief and intentional, not a full takeover.

You’re Not Alone If You Feel This Too

I don’t feel like I’m “telling on myself” by admitting this, because it feels like so many of us are stuck in the same loop—especially those of us who live somewhere between introvert and extrovert. We give so much of our energy away, then judge ourselves for needing to plug back in.

So this is where I am right now: learning to let Sundays be soft. Letting “nothing” be something. Letting the French Sunday idea be less of an aesthetic and more of a boundary.

I’m not there yet. Some Sundays, I still overwork. Other Sundays, I still doom-scroll and call it rest. But I’m starting to ask a better question:

What if grace, not guilt, set the tone for my week?

If you’ve ever felt that Sunday tug-of-war—the urge to do everything and nothing at the same time—maybe this is your permission slip too.