When Did Owning the Camera Matter More Than Knowing How to Use It?

When Did Owning the Camera Matter More Than Knowing How to Use It?

Written by Sophia Horowitz

This week, I was struggling to come up with something new to try. But then it hit me late at night during my tap desk shift—as most good ideas do. I was going to try not to shrink in my basic cinematography class.

Which sounds dramatic. But trust me, this is a challenge.

It’s a four-hour, small, hands-on seminar. Two women, including me. And it’s hard to explain without sounding overly sensitive or overly angry. But it’s not blatant, screaming sexism. It’s subtle. It’s being handed a baby doll prop and asked if my “natural instincts” make me want to hold it. It’s saying an idea, watching it get debated for thirty minutes about why it won’t work, only for someone else to say the same thing louder, and suddenly it’s brilliant. It’s the exhaustion of trying to be heard more than trying to be right.

I am not the best in the room. I don’t need to be. I signed up to learn, to fail, to get better. I just didn’t realize that failing would sometimes be about fighting to feel seen.

I’ve directed multiple projects. I’ve worked in almost every role on set. I’ve been to festivals that most people my age haven’t set foot in. And yet, somehow, I still find myself having to preface every opinion with a résumé. Where I trained. Who I’ve worked with. What I’ve done. As if my ideas need citations before they can breathe. It’s the kind of room where the competition isn’t about story, light, or collaboration. It’s a dick size contest measured by what camera you own. And half the time, the people with the biggest toys don’t know how to use them.

It’s exhausting to feel like you have to be louder, sharper, and more masculine to be taken seriously. To raise your voice when that’s not who you are. To operate inside a system that wasn’t built with you in mind. The wildest part? The second you whisper that you’re struggling, it’s like opening floodgates. Every woman in the room suddenly exhales. “Me too.” The dam breaks.

And if any men reading this believe I'm exaggerating, let me put this into perspective:

I’ve been called unintelligent because I wore colorful clothes to the set.
I’ve been told I should never be a director and should stick to the lower jobs.
I’ve been told my scripts are “too risky” for a woman.

I’ve been talked over on almost every set in one way or another.

I’ve been told my feedback was too harsh and should be more motherly.
I’ve been told I need to be more demanding, more aggressive.

But that’s not me.

And here’s the thing: this week I finished my first major short film. Even writing that feels surreal. And I did it differently.

I hired a casting director.
I built an almost entirely green-producing team—because no one had given them a shot before.
I staffed a mostly women crew.
I over-communicated (Sorry for the emails).
I did heavy pre-production.
I delegated. Truly delegated. Not just those massive task lists we all have in our Google Sheets somewhere.
I made space for conversation and for fun.
I partnered with local women-owned businesses.
I raised money to pay composers and artists what they deserved.
We licensed the music. We paid the musicians who played live.
I never raised my voice.
I asked about people’s days, and wanted my crew's ideas.
We rehearsed—not just lines, but comfort.
And above all, I asked for help when I didn’t know something.

And at every stage, there was pushback. But now we’re at the end, and people are asking me how I did it. That’s the part that makes me dizzy. Because I know there’s a better alternative to the hamster wheel. I’ve done it. I’ve seen what happens when you lead with intention instead of ego. When you treat crew members like humans instead of stepping stones. When you value personalities and capabilities, not just proven talent. This is not saying i didnt make mistakes. I did. But it was my first time doing something of this scale, so I can only hope ot make a greater change for the next one. 

And yet some rooms still only want women for crafty. Or organization. Or once we’ve “proven” ourselves enough to be palatable. They’ll talk over you in meetings. Steal your ideas. Treat you like the secretary of a vision that was originally yours.

So this week, in that four-hour cinematography class, I didn’t shrink. I stepped up. I pulled focus. I executed the skills that usually evaporate from my brain the second everyone stares at me. I was kind. I was respectful. I was prepared. And I proved—to myself more than anyone—that I can do it just as well. It felt great. And it felt ridiculous. Ridiculous that pulling focus after one rehearsal was what it took to earn a sliver of respect. Ridiculous that competence feels like a performance.

Lately, I’ve been consciously stepping away from projects where I’m not valued. Which is terrifying. Because at 21, you’re told to say yes to everything. To collect connections like Pokémon cards. But I’m tired of fueling rooms that drain me, only to go home and listen to "What Was I Made For?" by Billie Eilish on repeat, trying to feel whole again.

I know what I bring to the table. How many 21-year-olds have been in major writers festivals, studied at top film schools, and signed with serious partners? And I’m proud of that… or trying to be.

But I don’t want to keep proving it. I just want to be Sophia. I want to show up, do good work, and for that not to be shocking.

When I was a kid, I played Barbies for hours. I built dramatic arcs. Love triangles. Betrayals. Entire worlds. That feeling—of creating something emotionally messy and meaningful—is the same one I chase now when I write. When I direct. When I sit in rehearsal, watching actors find something real. That part of me has always been there.

What’s exhausting isn’t the work. It’s fighting for space to do it.

So if you’re a woman in film—or in music, or in business, or anywhere—and you feel unseen, unheard, like you’re running on a wheel that never quite lets you arrive, you are not crazy. You are not alone. Somewhere, there is absolutely a group of women ranting after a producer’s meeting about the exact same thing.

You are not the issue. The system is. And most of the men participating in it don’t even realize they’re benefiting from it because it was built to support them. Stand your ground anyway. Build it differently anyway. Be you anyway.

And I couldn’t help but wonder, in a world that keeps daring women to shrink, is the hottest thing we can do simply try? Try again. Try louder. Try softer. Try differently. Try as ourselves.

Because maybe trying—despite the eye rolls, despite the doubt, despite the exhaustion and the million stupid comments—is kinda hot.