Sunday Night Anxiety Hypnosis | Listen 7 Nights

Before we begin, take a moment to notice that you are here. Not at work. Not in Monday morning. Here. If you're listening to this, there's a good chance Sunday has started to tighten around you. The light shifts in the afternoon, and something inside you braces. A small voice begins listing what's waiting on Monday. Your chest gets a little heavier. The evening that should belong to you starts to feel borrowed against the week ahead. I want you to know something important. The dread isn't a flaw in you. It's a very human response to a part of life that asks a lot of you. It's a part of you trying, in its own clumsy way, to prepare. To protect. To brace. So we're not going to fight it. We're not going to argue with it or shame it or push it down. We're going to soften it. With kindness. With breath. With the quiet authority of your own deeper mind. Settle into wherever you are. Let your body have the support of the chair, the couch, the bed. And let's begin.

Let your eyes close. And take a slow breath in through the nose. And a longer breath out through the mouth. Again. In through the nose. Out, slow and long. Each exhale a little longer than the inhale. Each exhale telling your body it is safe to soften now. Notice the weight of your body. The places that touch the surface beneath you. Your shoulders. Your hips. The backs of your legs. Let gravity do the work for you. Now bring your attention to your forehead. And let it smooth. Soften the space between the eyebrows. Soften the jaw. Let the tongue rest on the floor of the mouth. Drop your awareness down into the throat. Into the chest. Into the soft hollow at the center of you. If you notice tightness there, you don't have to fix it. Just notice. The way you might notice a friend who is having a hard day. With each breath out, the body remembers it doesn't have to hold everything at once. The week isn't here yet. Only this breath is here. And this one. Notice how, with each exhale, something quiet inside you begins to settle. Like sand drifting slowly to the bottom of still water. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to try. You only have to keep breathing. And let yourself arrive.

I'd like you to picture a place that holds you gently. Maybe a small wooden cabin in the late afternoon. Or a quiet room with the warm spill of a lamp. Or a garden as the day begins to lower itself toward evening. Wherever you've gone, notice the light there. Soft. Honeyed. The kind of light that doesn't ask anything of you. There is a place to sit in this scene. A chair, a bench, a cushion on the floor. Whatever feels right. Let yourself settle into it. And here, in this place, time moves differently. Sundays don't tilt toward Monday here. Evenings are allowed to just be evenings. Notice that beside you, on a small table, there is a warm drink. Whatever you'd choose. Steam rising slowly. The cup warm against your hands. And outside, the world is softening into dusk. There is nowhere you have to be. Nothing you have to prepare for. This is your Sunday. The one underneath the dread. The one that has always belonged to you.

Now imagine, in front of you, ten small candles. Each one lit. Each flame steady and warm. In a moment, you'll watch them go out one by one. And with each candle that softens into smoke, you'll drift twice as deep. The tenth candle. Watch the flame slow. Watch it fade. Twice as deep. The ninth. A soft curl of smoke. Twice as deep again. The eighth. Deeper still. The seventh. The sixth. Notice how with each one, the noise of the week recedes a little further. The fifth candle. Halfway home. The fourth. Your body heavier. Your mind quieter. The third. The second. And the first candle. The last small flame. Watch it gentle itself out. And here you are. Deep. Held. Soft. Receptive to every word that follows.

From this quiet place, I want you to bring to mind the part of you that gets scared on Sunday afternoons. Not the whole of you. Just that one part. Maybe it lives in your chest. Maybe in your stomach. Maybe it's a tightness behind the eyes. Wherever it lives, place a hand there if you'd like. I want you to understand something about that part. It isn't broken. It isn't weak. It isn't dramatic. It is the part of you that has been trying, week after week, to protect you from feeling caught off guard on Monday morning. It has been working overtime. Bracing. Rehearsing. Scanning. Trying to make Monday smaller by worrying about it ahead of time. And it has never once been thanked. So let's start there. Silently, in the warmth behind your closed eyes, say to that part: I see you. Say: I know you're tired. Say: You don't have to carry Monday alone anymore. Notice what happens in your body when those words land. Maybe a small loosening. Maybe a breath that goes deeper than the last one. Maybe nothing yet, and that's okay too. Now hear this clearly. You are allowed to have a hard week ahead and a soft Sunday evening. These two things are not in conflict. Suffering on Sunday does not make Monday easier. It only steals a day you already paid for. Your unconscious mind hears this and begins to update an old pattern. The pattern that said: brace early, brace often. A new pattern is taking its place. Meet the week when the week arrives. Be here for the evening you're actually in. When the dread begins to rise next Sunday, you will notice it sooner. And instead of fighting it, you will place a hand on your chest. And you will speak to that anxious part the way you would speak to a tired child. With warmth. With patience. With a soft, low voice. You'll say: I know. I know it feels like a lot. You'll say: We've done this many Mondays before. We'll do this one too. You'll say: Right now, you're safe. Right now, it's Sunday. And something extraordinary will happen. The dread, which has always been louder when ignored, will quiet when it is met. Because dread isn't asking to win. Dread is asking to be heard. You will also begin to notice something else. That Monday itself is rarely as heavy as Sunday's imagination of it. The brain is a brilliant predictor and a terrible fortune teller. It rehearses worst cases that almost never arrive. So when those rehearsals start playing on Sunday afternoon, you will gently remind yourself: This is a forecast, not a fact. I do not have to live Monday twice. And in this softer way of meeting yourself, your Sunday evenings begin to return to you. The dinner. The bath. The book. The slow conversation. The quiet on the couch. All of it allowed to be exactly what it is, without Monday's shadow draped across it. You are learning, deep in the body, that kindness toward yourself is not a soft skill. It is the most reliable nervous system regulator you have. And the part of you that used to dread Sundays is learning, slowly, that it gets to rest now. That it is not alone. That you have its back.

I'd like you to drift forward in time. Just a few days from now. It is next Sunday. Late afternoon. The light is doing the thing it does. Lowering. Shifting toward gold. You feel the first familiar flicker. The small tug in the chest. The beginning of the loop. But this time, something is different. You notice it sooner. You recognize it for what it is. You pause whatever you're doing. You place a hand on your chest. You take one slow breath, longer on the exhale. And quietly, inside, you say: I see you. I've got you. We're okay. Watch yourself in this scene. See the softening in your shoulders. See the way your face relaxes. See the way the evening, instead of narrowing, opens back up. You make yourself something warm to drink. You turn on a lamp. You let yourself sink into the couch, or the bath, or the chair by the window. Monday is still coming. But it is not here. And you are no longer paying for it in advance. This Sunday evening belongs to you. And so does the next one. And the one after that. Notice how that feels in the body. Take it in. Let it become familiar. This is your new Sunday.

In a moment, I'll count you up from one to five. And with each number, you'll bring more of this softness back with you into the room. One. Awareness returning slowly to the body. The breath. The weight of you in the chair. Two. A gentle stirring in the fingers and toes. Three. The kindness you offered yourself in here, coming with you out there. Four. Eyes beginning to want to open. The room coming back into focus behind your eyelids. And five. Eyes open when you're ready. Awake. Soft. Returned. Still carrying the warmth of this place inside you.

Before you step back into your evening, take one more slow breath. And remember: tonight is allowed to be tonight. If the dread visits again, you know what to do. A hand on the chest. A longer exhale. A few kind words. Listen to this session whenever Sunday starts to tighten. The more your nervous system rehearses softness, the more naturally it will choose it. You are not behind. You are not failing at rest. You are a person learning to be gentler with a very human part of yourself. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday. It belongs to you.