Written by: Mahir Daiyan Ashraf
A few weeks ago, a friend of mine pulled out a film camera during a weekend trip. It wasn’t some modern digital device dressed up to look retro; it was an actual 35mm film camera, complete with the satisfying click of the shutter and the roll of film waiting to be developed. Watching him take a photo, carefully framing the shot without the instant feedback of a screen, I found myself quietly fascinated. In a world where everything moves quickly, it felt oddly grounding.
I’ve been noticing it everywhere: film photography is back in style. Vinyl records are selling better than CDs. Mechanical watches, once seen as outdated, are now prized possessions. Even handwritten letters, something that should have disappeared with the arrival of email and texting, are quietly making a comeback among certain circles.
But why are we, a generation raised on smartphones and streaming, reaching for technology that is slower, clunkier, and, in many ways, less convenient?
I think part of the answer is hidden in that word itself: convenience.
The digital world is designed for speed. Swipe, tap, scroll. Everything is instant, efficient, and optimized. Photos are snapped endlessly, stored in the cloud without a second thought. Songs play with a single voice command. Conversations flash across screens in blue and green bubbles.
And yet, for all this convenience, something feels missing—the life in it.
Old technology forces us to slow down. But more than that, it demands care and intention. Film photography makes you think before you shoot, knowing that every click counts. A roll of film is expensive. Each shot makes you pause, frame, and commit. A vinyl record demands your attention. You can’t shuffle tracks or skip ahead with a click. Writing a letter means sitting down, thinking about your words, and trusting that they will take days to reach their destination.
There is a kind of intention to it. A weight. A sense that what you are doing matters, even if only to you.
Maybe that’s why the imperfections of old tech feel less like flaws and more like features. Film photos with their grain and light leaks. The warm crackle of a vinyl record. The ticking of a mechanical watch that’s never quite as accurate as your phone. Interestingly, even film’s grain has a human touch: silver halide crystals are irregular in shape, so their texture feels organic and natural, unlike the rigid grid of pixels. These flaws remind us that the world isn’t supposed to be perfect. Life is textured. Messy. Human.
I’ve felt this myself. I still keep a physical notebook where I jot down thoughts and sketches. Last year, I switched to taking notes on my iPad, thinking it would be simpler. And it was. Everything tidy, synced, and searchable. But after a while, I missed the feeling of a pencil scratching across paper. Writing by hand felt slower, but also somehow more honest. Ideas took shape more naturally, and they stuck better when I physically wrote them down. There was no pressure to backspace and edit every sentence as I went. It felt more real. Maybe more human.
Even printed photographs carry that same weight. A few weeks ago, my mom unearthed a stack of old photos tucked away in a drawer: shots from my first birthday, my parents during their college years, my grandfather standing proudly in front of the small store he once owned. Their edges were worn, their colors slightly faded. But holding those moments in my hands felt different from scrolling through an endless camera roll. They were memories with presence, something tangible. Something that lasts.
And perhaps that’s what we’re searching for in these analog rituals: a sense of connection to something real. In a digital landscape where everything is designed to be smooth and efficient, physical objects give us something to hold onto.
It’s not just nostalgia for a past we never lived. Many of us who are drawn to these older technologies didn’t grow up with them. I’ve never used a rotary phone, and my first camera was very much digital. But I think it’s less about wanting to return to a specific time, and more about craving an experience we’ve never really had: depth in a world built for constant refresh.
There’s also something quietly rebellious about it. Choosing to shoot film, or listen to records, or write letters, is choosing to step outside the endless upgrade cycle. It’s saying no to the pressure to always have the newest phone, the fastest app, the latest update. In a way, old tech offers a break from the future.
I think about the photos we take today. Thousands of images, stored somewhere in the cloud, forgotten almost as quickly as they were taken. Compare that to a printed photograph—the way it ages, the way you can hold it in your hand, pass it down, frame it on a wall. There is permanence in that fragility. Once a digital photo is deleted, it’s gone. But a physical photograph carries a sense of presence, of memory solidified.
Even the visual aesthetic of the past has come back into style. The film grain effect is all over Instagram and TikTok, not because it improves image quality, but because it feels more real. More alive. Filters that mimic vintage cameras or scratched film aren’t attempts to hide flaws. They’re attempts to recreate warmth in images that otherwise feel too polished.
In the end, I think the resurgence of old tech is less about rejecting the modern world and more about finding balance within it. We’re not giving up smartphones or cloud storage anytime soon. But every now and then, reaching for something slower, something tactile, reminds us that life isn’t always meant to be optimized.
So maybe that’s why we romanticize old tech. Not because it’s better, but because it feels human.
And in a world obsessed with speed, choosing to slow down might just be the most radical thing we can do.
