In a modest apartment in Quezon City, 14-year-old “Maria” cradles her newborn son and quietly wonders what her life might have been if someone had simply told her what to expect. Her story is one among growing numbers in the Philippines, where teen pregnancy—especially among very young girls—is once more becoming an urgent social issue despite decades of campaigns to address it. The rise of these “bagong ina” (young mothers) reflects deep-seated cultural threads: the strong influence of the Catholic Church, the limits of sex education, and the structural fault lines of poverty and gender inequality.
According to recent data, live births among girls aged 10-14 climbed from 2,411 in 2019 to 3,343 in 2023—a 6.6 % increase in just four years. What’s more, for every one of those young mothers in that age bracket, 99 % had fathers significantly older—a flagrant sign of abuse, coercion or exploitation. Meanwhile, although pregnancies among 15–19-year-olds have trended downward (from 178,000 in 2019 to about 138,000 in 2023) the steep uptick in the under-15 cohort has raised fresh alarms.
In culture-rich Philippines, where the word “pagiging ina” (becoming a mother) holds deep meaning, the predicament of adolescent pregnancy has become a mirror reflecting so many conversations left unsaid. More than nine-in-ten Filipinos now support age-appropriate sex education in schools. A nationwide Pulse Asia survey found 73 % agreed that “teaching concepts of sexuality, sexual health and family planning in schools in an age-appropriate and culturally sensitive manner …” is important. Yet in practice the implementation of comprehensive sexuality education (“CSE”) remains inconsistent. Many faith-based schools, especially in rural areas, skirt around the topic or leave it at abstinence-only messages.
Why is it happening? One major cause is the gap in knowledge and access: the legal age of consent was raised to 16 in 2022, but young girls often lack realistic information about reproduction, consent or their rights. Poverty and out-of-school youth are disproportionately affected. Perhaps most troubling is the revelation that a large share of pregnancies among pre-teens stem directly from sexual abuse: older men taking advantage of power imbalances, weak enforcement of statutory-rape laws, and stigma that keeps families silent.
The influence of the dominant Catholic culture adds another layer. Many parents feel shy, ashamed or unsure about discussing “sugestyond” (suggestion) of safe sexual behavior with their children. Schools reliant on church networks may avoid full CSE out of fear of backlash. A 2025 analysis noted that even where policy mandates exist, local resistance and institutional bottlenecks stall progress. The result: children navigating puberty and sexual vulnerability with inadequate “manuals” and too much silence.
The consequences extend well beyond the immediate. Early motherhood often means dropping out of school, fewer economic opportunities, and intergenerational cycles of hardship. The health risks for both mother and baby—obstetric complications, neonatal problems, mental-health burdens—are alarmingly high. It’s not just a private family matter: the country’s development prospects, workforce potential and gender-equity goals are implicated.
On a hopeful note, local and international NGOs, along with government bodies like the Commission on Population and Development (CPD) and the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) are pushing for the passage of the Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention Bill, which aims to institutionalize access to CSE, adolescent-friendly reproductive health services, and data systems to monitor progress. Added to this, regions are launching pilot programmes—for example, the JPARAP initiative in Southern Leyte and Samar—to raise self-awareness of rights, improve services and shift social norms.
Still, the path forward is steep. It means convincing barangay leaders, parents and religious networks to engage openly about “pag-uusap” (conversations) on healthy relationships and consent. It means turning vague policy into classroom reality and village-door counselling. It means addressing the broader context of gender power dynamics, exploitation and poverty—not just handing out pamphlets. As one advocate put it: this isn’t primarily about telling girls “Don’t get pregnant” but ensuring that they know their rights, feel safe to refuse unwanted advances, stay in school, and access contraception if needed.
For young Maria, and the thousands like her, the urgency is real. A nation that cherishes “bayanihan” (communal togetherness) can perhaps adopt a new collective mindset: one where children are given the tools—not shamed for mistakes—to make informed choices, where teenage motherhood becomes the exception rather than the expectation. In a country where the next generation holds both hope and risk, the question remains: will we act in time?
Goodness… the “S” word — still whispered like a scandalous secret in too many homes and classrooms across Southeast Asia. “Sex.” We can talk about the economy, corruption, even death, but mention reproductive rights or condoms and suddenly everyone clutches their rosaries or turns into moral police. In the Catholic Philippines, it’s especially intense: generations have grown up learning that sex is dirty, desire is sinful, and silence is virtue. Yet silence has consequences — teenage pregnancies, unsafe abortions, and a whole generation learning about their bodies from TikTok instead of trusted adults.
When I was a teenager, my “sex education” was a biology class that rushed through the human reproductive system in 10 minutes flat. My teacher blushed so hard I thought she might faint. What I really learned came from gossip, badly drawn graffiti on restroom walls, and a cousin’s secret stash of romance comics. Fast-forward to today, and millions of Filipino teens are in the same boat — only now the internet fills the gap with misinformation, porn, and half-truths. When the Church and the state refuse to talk about sex, Google becomes the new sex ed teacher.
It’s not just a Filipino problem. In Indonesia, schoolbooks still mix morality with biology, teaching “abstinence before marriage” but rarely consent or contraception. In Malaysia, teachers risk backlash if they discuss LGBTQ+ issues, even as queer teens navigate harassment and confusion. Thailand, a global hub for gender-affirming surgery, still hesitates to give comprehensive sex education to its students. Vietnam, Cambodia, Myanmar — same story, different uniforms. A culture that fears open dialogue ends up producing ignorance, not innocence.
What I want to tell the aunties, priests, and politicians is simple: sex education is not about encouraging kids to have sex. It’s about teaching them boundaries, consent, respect, and health. It’s about preventing abuse, not promoting promiscuity. When we give teens the language to talk about their bodies, we give them power — the power to say no, to protect themselves, and to plan their futures.
If Southeast Asia wants to keep calling itself “family-oriented,” then maybe it’s time to protect families before they start — with honest conversations, not moral lectures. As an old tita I met in Quezon City said to me, “Kung hindi mo sila tuturuan, iba ang magtuturo” — if you don’t teach them, someone else will. And trust me, that someone might not have their best interests at heart.