The Sunday Night Dread That Finally Set Me Free

I still write for a living. But somewhere along the way, the words stopped feeling like mine

Photo by author.

Sunday nights in my Bangalore apartment have always had a certain weight to them. Not the standard Monday anxiety. This was something else. A kind of stillness that settled into the room and sat with me like an old, silent guest. The air would thicken. My half-finished coffee would go cold. And I’d feel it, this dull pressure in my chest that never quite had a name.

It wasn’t about hating my job. I still get to write. That’s the strange part. I use my skills every day. I work in marketing now, shaping stories, giving voice to brands, things that are “supposed” to matter. And on the surface, it works. I get the briefs. I hit the deadlines. The clients are happy.

But somewhere along the way, the words started to feel like they weren’t really mine.

Most of what I write these days feels like packaging. Clean. Clever. Polished. But empty. It’s writing without pulse. Selling ideas I don’t believe in, dressing up things I wouldn’t stop to look at myself. Telling stories that ask for attention but never offer anything real in return.

The shift happened quietly. I didn’t notice it at first. I was just grateful to be…