Latest / The Beauty Edit: Skincare, Makeup, Wellness & Confidence / Why I Ditched the Scroll for the Sunday Paper | The Beauty Edit
Transcript
- I haven’t looked at a screen since sunrise, and honestly, my shoulders have dropped three inches just from the weight of holding actual paper instead of glass. There is a specific kind of quiet that only happens when you can hear the rustle of ink on newsprint, and it feels like taking a deep breath after holding it for years. Let’s get real for a second about how we start our days. Most mornings, before your feet even hit the floor, your hand is reaching for that cold, smooth rectangle in your nightstand drawer. You wake up, you unlock it, you swipe. Swipe through someone’s highlight reel, swipe through breaking news, swipe through ads for things you don’t need. It’s a reflex. It’s automatic. And for a long time, I thought that was just what adulthood looked like. But last week, I did something that felt almost rebellious. I bought a physical newspaper. Not a digital subscription, not an app, but a literal stack of paper delivered to my door. And let me tell you, the first thing I noticed wasn’t the news itself. It was the silence. The absence of the ping. The lack of the blue light washing over my face while I’m still half-asleep. It felt like I had reclaimed the first thirty minutes of my life from a machine that didn’t care if I was tired or not. There’s something deeply grounding about the texture of a newspaper. I know, I know, some of you are thinking this sounds like I’ve stepped into a period drama. But hear me out. When you hold a broadsheet, there is a weight to it. A density. You feel the layers. You smell the ink, that distinct, sharp scent that says 'important information.' It demands your attention in a way a glowing screen never does. On a phone, everything is flat. Everything is the same distance from your eyes. Everything competes for your focus with equal aggression. But with paper, you choose where to look. You fold a page over to hide the gossip section while you read the serious journalism. You crinkle the corner when you’re annoyed. You mark a story with a pen if it matters. It’s a conversation between you and the world, not a broadcast screaming at you. It slows you down. And in a world that prizes speed above all else, slowing down feels like a radical act of self-care. We’ve been sold this lie that being connected means being informed. That if you aren’t scrolling, you’re falling behind. That if you miss a headline, you’re missing out on culture, on safety, on relevance. But here’s the truth: most of what we consume in those endless scrolls is noise. It’s anxiety disguised as awareness. By switching to a physical paper, I realized how much mental clutter I was carrying around without even knowing it. The newspaper has boundaries. It ends. The front page is big, the sports are there, the weather is right there, and then… it stops. You finish it. You put it down. You go make coffee. You don’t fall into an infinite void of algorithmically generated outrage. You don’t get sucked into a rabbit hole of videos about people fighting over parking spots. You get the news. You get the context. And then you close the book. Or rather, you fold the paper. And you breathe. This isn’t about rejecting technology entirely. We live in a digital age, and I use my tools every day for work. But intentionality matters. When I read the physical paper, I am present. I am not multitasking. I am not checking my email while reading the economy section. I am just reading. It forces a single-tasking mode that my brain desperately needed. I found myself actually retaining information. I remembered facts. I understood the nuance of articles because I wasn’t distracted by a notification popping up from a friend’s vacation photos. It reminded me of how I used to read books as a child, completely absorbed, losing track of time. That sense of immersion is rare now. It’s precious. And protecting that space in my morning routine has changed my entire day. I walk into my workspace calmer. I feel less reactive. I feel like I’m approaching my tasks from a place of clarity, not chaos. Let’s talk about the sensory details, because they matter more than we admit. The crispness of the paper. The sound of turning pages. The way the sunlight hits the black text on white background. It’s analog beauty. In a world of pixels and refresh rates, there is a purity to print. It doesn’t buffer. It doesn’t lag. It doesn’t die if you forget to charge it. It just sits there, waiting for you. And when you do engage with it, it engages back fully. I started noticing small things. The layout. The photography. The typography. I began appreciating the craft of journalism again, not just the headlines. I saw stories I would have scrolled past on a feed because they were longer, deeper, more complex. The newspaper rewards patience. It asks you to sit with ideas. And in doing so, it respects your intelligence. It doesn’t try to hack your dopamine receptors with bright colors and auto-play videos. It trusts that you want to understand the world, not just skim its surface. You might be wondering how this ties into beauty and confidence. Bear with me. Because mental well-being is the foundation of physical beauty. If your mind is cluttered, anxious, and constantly stimulated by external inputs, your skin shows it. Your posture slumps. Your eyes look tired. By creating a boundary around your consumption, you create space for peace. And peace? Peace glows. Trust your skin, not the algorithm, but also trust your mind, not the feed. When I protect my mornings, I protect my energy. And when I have energy, I show up better for myself. I make better choices about what I put on my face, what I eat, how I treat my body. It’s all connected. The comfort of that physical paper is a reminder that you are allowed to disconnect to reconnect. You are allowed to step away from the noise to find your own voice. And that voice, calm and clear, is the most beautiful thing you can wear. I hope you’ll give yourself permission to unplug, even for just a little while, this week. Maybe it’s a paper, maybe it’s a book, maybe it’s just five minutes of staring at the ceiling. Whatever it is, I hope it brings you that same quiet joy. I’m Ashlee Nunez. Take care of yourselves, and your minds, beautifully. Bye for now.