Why Your Sabbath Feels Broken: A Recovering Perfectionist’s Guide to Real Rest

I’ll never forget the Sunday I snapped at my 6-year-old for spilling cereal during our “family Sabbath.” I’d spent hours planning the perfect day: homemade pancakes, Scripture journaling, a nature walk. But between my husband’s work texts buzzing nonstop and my obsession with Instagram-worthy moments, I was more stressed than on a Monday. That’s when I realized: We’ve turned Sabbath into a performance instead of a gift. Here are the 5 thieves I’ve battled—and the messy, grace-filled solutions saving my Sundays.

1. The “Productivity Demon” (aka My Inner Pharisee)

For years, I treated Sabbath like a holy to-do list: Read 5 Psalms ✔️ Bake organic bread ✔️ Family devotions with matching shirts ✔️ But when my toddler threw a tantrum during prayer time, I’d seethe inside. One rainy Sunday, I broke down sobbing over burnt casserole. My husband gently said, “Babe, you’re more Martha than Mary today—and Mary wasn’t even perfect.”

My wake-up call: Jesus healed on the Sabbath (Mark 3:1-6). If He prioritized people over rules, why was I gatekeeping rest? Now, I ask:

• Does this activity restore my soul or just check a religious box?
• Can I let the laundry pile up without guilt? (Spoiler: Yes—it’s still there Monday.)

Try this: Set ONE simple Sabbath intention. Mine is “Notice God’s goodness”—whether through my daughter’s laughter or the smell of rain. The rest is gravy.

2. The “Just One Email” Trap

I run a small ministry from home. For two years, I’d sneak “quick checks” on Sabbath… until I missed my son’s first bike ride because I was replying to a donor’s email in the bathroom. When I emerged, he said, “Mommy, I waved but you didn’t see me.” Cue the mom guilt tsunami.

Science backs this up: Stanford researchers found 5 minutes of work email on rest days spikes anxiety by 37%. But God knew this first—He commanded even our animals to rest (Exodus 20:10).

My hack: I now use a $10 timed lockbox for my phone from 6pm Saturday to Sunday night. My kids call it “Mommy’s sin jail.” Extreme? Maybe. But after 3 months, my team learned not to panic when I go dark.