Sundays are sacred to me. Not because of religion, tradition, or some deeply philosophical reason — but because I’ve turned them into a soft cocoon of solitude. My Solo Sundays are the one day a week I don’t answer to anyone. I don’t dress up. I don’t make plans. I don’t even check my phone until after noon, if at all.

In a city as alive and vibrant as Barcelona, where something is always happening, choosing to step back is an act of quiet rebellion — and deep self-love.

The Slow Start

There’s no alarm on Sundays. I wake up naturally to the sound of doves cooing from the rooftops and church bells ringing in the distance. The light comes in soft through my curtains, filtering in like warm silk. I stay in bed a little longer, not sleeping, not thinking, just being.

Eventually, I shuffle into the kitchen, barefoot and wrapped in an oversized sweater. I make tea on Sundays — jasmine or mint — and drink it slowly on the balcony with my journal. The streets below are quieter than usual, as if the whole city agrees we need to move a little slower today.

Journaling as a Ritual

I’ve kept a journal since I was a teenager, but it’s only in recent years that I’ve made it a true ritual. Sundays are when I go deep. I write pages without filters: dreams, desires, doubts, gratitude, poems, plans, and the things I’m too shy to say out loud.

Some days I doodle. Other times I write letters I’ll never send. Often, I just pour my thoughts out like water — not to solve anything, just to release them.

There’s a strange kind of power in meeting yourself on paper. No masks. No edits. Just truth.

Soundtrack of My Sundays: Jazz & Soul

Music fills the flat. Always. My Sunday playlist is a mix of jazz classics and slow soul. Nina Simone, Miles Davis, Billie Holiday, Norah Jones. The kind of music that wraps around you like a velvet robe.

I let it play as I clean a little, water the plants, light incense. I might dance around the living room in my underwear with no one watching, or sit cross-legged on the floor for a full album, eyes closed, feeling every note.

This is the opposite of productivity. It’s presence. It’s pleasure. It’s peace.

A Walk Without Purpose

Later, if the mood strikes, I’ll head out for a walk. No destination. Just my tote bag, headphones, and curiosity. I love wandering the lesser-known corners of El Born or climbing the steps near the Cathedral to sit and people-watch. Sometimes I stop for fresh juice, or a cinnamon roll from that little bakery tucked near Carrer dels Banys Nous.

I might visit a gallery. Or browse a flea market. Or just sit by the sea, letting the breeze mess up my hair while I listen to waves and wonder about everything and nothing.

Dinner for One

Evenings are usually spent at home. I’ll cook something simple — roasted veggies, pasta with olive oil and garlic, or a warm bowl of soup if the weather calls for it. Candles are a must. Sometimes I read at the table. Sometimes I eat in silence, watching the city lights flicker outside my window.

There’s something beautifully intimate about cooking just for yourself. No need to impress. No performance. Just nourishment.

Joyful Silence

The best part of Solo Sundays is the silence. Not the absence of sound — but the absence of noise. Of obligations. Of expectations. I don’t need to be anyone on Sundays. I don’t need to explain myself. I don’t need to show up for the world.

I just show up for me.

It’s in that silence that I find answers. Or sometimes, the comfort of not needing them. It’s where I recalibrate. Refocus. Refill.

People sometimes ask me if I ever get lonely. And the truth is — no, not really.

Because I’ve learned to keep myself company in the most delicious ways. In stillness. In creativity. In the quiet joy of knowing that who I am — without distractions, without validation — is enough.

So here’s to Solo Sundays. To softness. To slowness. To sacred silence.

To being alone — and deeply, deeply okay with it.