Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD
We often
hear it with pride— “The Filipino is resilient.” It’s a phrase that echoes
across generations, printed on tarpaulins after typhoons and uttered on
television when tragedy strikes. And yes, I’ve seen it myself: families crammed
into shanties, sharing impossibly tight spaces with grace, even laughter. TIME
Magazine once called Filipinos some of the happiest people in the world. One of
their photos featured men drinking and joking in the middle of a flooded
street, water up to their knees.
It’s easy to
see the joy. We laugh. We sing. We dance. But beneath that surface lies a quiet
kind of sadness—one that we often keep hidden, even from ourselves.
You see,
when we say we’re masaya, it’s not always the kind of deep, inner joy others
might think. Masaya is more about shared cheer, external celebration, and
sometimes…a way to keep pain at bay. It’s how we cope. When someone passes
away, we don’t just mourn — we gather, we tell stories, and we even laugh at wakes.
It’s our way of handling grief together as a community.
There’s a
deep wisdom in that, actually. Long before Western psychology arrived, we
already had our own understanding of emotions. We knew that pain, if left
unchecked, could take root in the body. Our ancestors warned of dalamhati—that slow, quiet grief that sits in the heart (or liver, as some believed) and eats away at a person from the inside.
But here’s
the truth no one likes to admit: not all forms of resilience are good for us.
Sometimes, we push each other too hard to be okay. “Enjoy!” we say to someone
who’s clearly struggling, as if happiness can be forced. And because we often
value harmony over confrontation, many of us keep our pain bottled up—especially women.
Contrary to
the stereotype, Filipinas often don’t express their sadness outwardly. Instead,
they tiis (endure), they kimkim (suppress). Watch the next neighborhood
celebration—you’ll likely find the men drinking, laughing, letting go. The
women? They’re in the background, making sure there’s food on the table,
worrying about tomorrow. And yet, they stay silent.
Men, on the
other hand, are taught to be strong. Stoic. Unemotional. Crying is seen as
weakness. But that very pressure can be deadly. Many men end up suffering in
silence—until it shows up in the form of chest pain, constant fatigue, or
those headaches and stomach aches that doctors used to dismiss as “nasa utak
lang.”
We now know
this is called somatization—when emotional stress turns into physical pain.
In Filipino culture, we call it nerbyos, even though it’s not always about
anxiety. It could be high blood pressure. Or it could be deeper than that—a
stress so buried it takes root in the body.
Then there’s bangungot, one of our most chilling mysteries—young, seemingly healthy men dying in their sleep, often after a nightmare. Science has offered a few explanations: heart conditions, pancreatitis, and sudden arrhythmic death. But could stress be a part of it, too? The fear of letting others down, the pressure to succeed, the loneliness of being away from home?
We have a
word for that homesickness: namamahay. It’s not just about missing your family.
It’s about insomnia, constipation, anxiety, and feeling “not quite right” because
your soul is no longer where it feels safest. Imagine what that feels like for
our 8.5 million overseas workers—men and women who carry the burden of their
families’ futures, thousands of miles away from home.
And there’s
a deeper layer to all this—what scholars call the “political economy of
stress.” It’s the idea that the weight of stress is not shared equally. The
poor, for example, experience stress differently—more intensely, more
constantly. They fight traffic, breathe in more pollution, and endure abusive
bosses and exhausting jobs. They don’t get to take breaks or find safe spaces
to cry. And when a poor man loses his job, it’s not just about income. It’s
about dignity.
That’s where
machismo gets dangerous. A man who can’t provide may feel worthless. He might
turn down honest jobs out of pride, because in his eyes, they’re beneath him.
So instead, he drinks. The world calls it “resilience,” but really, it’s
resignation. Meanwhile, his wife looks for side hustles, sells food, and does
laundry—and takes on even more stress.
This is
where the spiral begins. The young, especially men, are at risk. When they
can’t express pain, they find release in other ways—drugs, alcohol, and aggression. And yes, sometimes, in violence.
You’ve
probably read about someone who ran amok—seemingly out of nowhere, someone
snaps. Western anthropologists once blamed this on race, calling it a “Malay
trait.” That’s nonsense. Amok isn’t about race. It’s about reaching the end of
your rope, the edge of your sanity. It’s about feeling so powerless, so crushed
by life, that violence becomes the only outlet.
Rich men may
vent on their employees or shout at their drivers. But the truly powerless?
They explode—often randomly, often tragically.
So when we
call ourselves resilient, let’s not forget what that really means. Yes, the
Filipino spirit is strong. Yes, we’ve learned to smile through tears. But true
resilience isn’t about suppressing pain or turning grief into a joke. It’s
about healing, growing, creating space for emotions—even the ugly ones.
We need to
stop asking people to “be strong” all the time.
Sometimes,
the bravest thing a person can do… is cry.
