The one change that worked: I began a quiet, satisfying rebellion against the digital age
There’s something magical about holding a physical print of a moment you’ve captured. I first experienced this feeling as a teenager, when my aunt gave me a film camera for my 16th birthday. At the time, it felt like an antique. I left it in a drawer, overlooked, while I relied on my phone for photos – quick snaps that were shared but rarely revisited.
Like most teenagers growing up in the digital age, I was obsessed with curating the perfect Instagram feed. My profile was a polished collection of photos intended to impress my peers, designed to fit an idealised version of reality. Each image was meticulously selected, cropped and edited. But something began to shift.
The transition from sharing images for validation to capturing memories for myself wasn’t immediate. It began with a simple act: flipping through family photo albums at my grandmother’s house. Unlike many people, who might cringe at the awkwardness of old photos, I found myself captivated by the images from my family’s past, before war and displacement reshaped their lives. They weren’t polished, but they held stories that words often couldn’t convey – of birthdays in Sweden, bridal henna ceremonies in the Netherlands, family portraits in Somalia. Some of the photos had travelled across the globe, arriving from Canada and the US in envelopes filled with pictures of new additions to the family.
I spent hours poring over those albums, fascinated by the posed and proud faces of relatives I had never met. In those photographs, I saw resilience and connection. I realised that every image was a piece of something larger: a history that had been passed down, a story of survival, of migration, of home. These images weren’t just photographs; they were keepsakes of a life lived.
It was this realisation that led me to pick up my film camera. Why, in an era dominated by instant digital technology, would anyone choose something so old-fashioned? The answer lay in the nature of film itself. With just 36 exposures per roll, each photo required intention, a slowing down to see the world around me. There was no instant gratification, no delete or edit button to fix mistakes. If a picture didn’t turn out as I had hoped, it didn’t matter. The imperfections became part of the story.
Related: ‘Mistakes are romantic’: the revival of point-and-shoot cameras
I now take photos of the things that matter most: friends’ weddings, holidays, small moments of joy. When I flip through my collection, the photos ensure those moments stay with me, long after they’ve passed. They weren’t meant for likes or comments – they were meant for me, for family and friends, for those quiet moments of nostalgia.
The joy of analogue photography is in the waiting – the days, weeks, or even months between taking a photo and seeing how it turned out. There’s a sense of rediscovery when I finally open an envelope of developed prints. I’m transported back to those moments, some of which I had already let go of. If the images are flawed – blurry, overexposed or scratched – that just makes them feel more alive, more real. And in that sense, my shift to film photography feels like a quiet rebellion against the digital age, a desire to reclaim the permanence and intimacy that comes with holding a memory in your hands.
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