Why Film Matters

I carry two cameras to every birth. One is digital — reliable, fast, forgiving in low light, capable of capturing thousands of frames without pause. The other is a medium format film camera loaded with Portra 400. It gives me twelve exposures per roll.

Twelve chances. That's it.

The discipline of limitation

Digital abundance is a gift and a trap. When you can shoot endlessly, you start looking with your finger instead of your eye. You press the shutter reflexively, trusting that volume will yield at least something good. Film doesn't allow that. Every frame costs money, time, and intention. Every press of the shutter is a commitment: this moment is worth one of my twelve.

That discipline sharpens everything. It forces me to see more carefully, to wait longer, to trust my instincts instead of hedging.

What film sees differently

There is a quality to film that digital hasn't fully replicated, despite years of trying. It's in the grain — the way it breathes, softens, holds skin tones with a warmth that feels almost human. Film renders light the way memory does: slightly soft, slightly warm, slightly imperfect. It feels like remembering.

A digital birth image says this happened. A film birth image says this is how it felt.

The ritual of it

Loading a roll of film in a birth space is its own small ceremony. The click of the back closing. The deliberate wind of the advance lever. It slows me down in a way that serves the moment. In a culture obsessed with speed and volume, choosing to work slowly is a radical act.

I'll never stop shooting digital — the reliability is essential. But I'll never stop loading film, either. Some moments deserve to be held by silver halide and light, developed in darkness, printed by hand. Some moments deserve the weight of permanence.