The Sundays of my early adulthood largely followed the patterns of my childhood, and were filled with going to church, helping out with Sunday School, and cooking roast lunches. These things tended to make me tired, but if I didn't do them, the guilt I felt after wrestling with myself was just as exhausting.
Within these Sabbath days, there were some lovely moments, such as crispy roast potatoes, singing Bruckner's Locus Iste, and going for late afternoon strolls in Attingham Park.
It took a while to de-programme myself from the expectation that waking up on a Sunday meant it was time to get spruced up for church / heat up the oven for a chicken / prepare (last minute) for whichever activity I'd volunteered to run.
Since I have stopped going to church, Sundays have come into my week like new gifts. At first, a novice at this new-found freedom, I treated them a bit like Saturdays: days to catch up on work and chores or to rush around seeing friends. These days, I've put myself under a new commandment - that is, to Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it wholly devoted to bike rides, walks, writing poetry, eating simply cooked food and lounging around watching films. I find this to be an entirely satisfactory means of recreation.