Too young, too soon

By Herman M. Lagon

She was only twelve. Not a movie plot or a viral headline—just an actual case from the Iloilo City Civil Registry. That child, still learning to navigate her own growing up, gave birth while most of her peers were worrying about assignments and TikTok dances. She is one of nearly 300 recorded teenage mothers in the city last year. The numbers may be waving around, but the stories behind them are not fading. They are just falling silent—tucked under layers of shame, poverty, and cultural hush-hush. When childhood and motherhood blur into one, it is not just a detour—it is a crossroads. And we can no longer shrug it off with awkward lectures or vague school modules.

Much of our response still leans on the 2012 Reproductive Health Law. Important, yes—but teenage pregnancy barely gets a full paragraph. Access to contraception, sexuality education, and youth clinics are mentioned, but often clash with local values. In three towns we visited, as part of our collab research with the De La Salle University (DSLSU) team, in the central and north districts of Iloilo—pilot sites for the province’s Adolescent Health and Development Program (AHDP)—the gaps between policy and reality are wide. One popular town has the highest rates of adolescent births in the province. But behind that stat is a mother named Anna who told us, “Naga-atipan na sang lapsag and bata ko. Indi na sya kuno magbalik sa eskwelahan.” Her tone was calm, but the dream she had to set aside for her daughter hung heavy in the air.

That ache, I must admit, is not unfamiliar. I became a parent at 19. I was still juggling through my civil engineering degree and student activist life at the time, juggling plates, deadlines, rallies, and milk bottles. Law school was the plan, but that dream quietly dimmed as responsibility came crashing in. It was not easy. And yet, that rocky detour led me to places, path, and people I would not have known otherwise. Through all the chaos and quiet heartbreak, I somehow made it through—helped, mostly, by the support systems I was lucky enough to have: family who stayed, mentors who pushed, and friends who never made me feel smaller for stumbling. A single wrong move could have flipped my life 180 degrees. I just happened to land where I could still stand.

Now, decades later, on the edge of 50, I look at my two daughters—both future doctors in very different fields—and I see not perfection, but proof. Proof that even stories that begin in uncertainty can still find solid ground, through grace, small lifts, and kindness untold. Still, I know mine is not the usual outcome. Many never get that chance. That is why we cannot simply treat teen pregnancy as a matter of morality or misconduct. It is a maze of circumstances, often beyond one’s control. And for every one who survives it, like I did, too many others get stuck with no way out.

Efforts are underway. CPD (formerly PopCom) and DOH Western Visayas recently launched AHlam Na! 3.0, a mobile app we helped build through Iloilo State University of Fisheries Science and Technology (ISUFST). It is packed with health info, maps of teen-friendly clinics, even interactive games to make the uncomfortable topics a bit more engaging. Still, tech is not magic. The harder task is spreading and building trust—especially in places where saying “sex” out loud still feels like a sin.

And that is the real hurdle: not just resources, but silence. At home, in school, in church groups—conversations around bodies, boundaries, and relationships are often skipped or softened. Teachers hesitate. Parents dodge. Barangay clinics sometimes withhold contraceptives unless there is a signed consent. So young people turn to TikTok, porn sites, and half-baked stories from barkada. According to the Young Adult Fertility and Sexuality Study (2021), nearly half of Filipino teens lack any reliable source for sex-related info. That is not just a gap. That is a drought.

Several mothers even shared that their daughters chose to get pregnant “para indi sila bayaan”—to keep their boyfriends from leaving them. In many of these cases, the boys were at least a decade older. Technically, that is statutory rape. But socially, it is often brushed off. “Basta magpakasal sila, okay na (As long as they get married, it’s okay.),” a kagawad said in passing. These quiet compromises—these lowered standards—are what keep the cycle going.

This is why localization matters. National frameworks can only go so far. They need to be interpreted, translated, and lived out in a way that makes sense to the local context. In a town in the third district of Iloilo, we learned of a midwife explaining menstruation and consent using drawings and Hiligaynon metaphors. No fanfare, just honest conversation in the language of trust. That kind of grounded, culturally attuned education does more than any printed module ever could.

But even good work collapses without strong systems. Some LGUs still lack accurate data on teenage pregnancies. One social worker confessed that their reports were mostly estimates.  A teacher shared that they find it difficult to discuss this in class as they are not trained enough to do so. This is not neglect—it is budget constraint. If national policies do not provide real funding and training for LGUs and teachers, we are basically asking them to solve a complex social crisis using guesswork and goodwill.

And let us be clear: prevention is not just about saying “no” or handing out condoms. It is about confronting the deeper issues—poverty, power imbalance, gender inequality, sexual abuse. A UNFPA study confirmed that girls who are poor, out of school, or from homes with limited education are most vulnerable. Sometimes, pregnancy is not an accident—it is a survival move. Some girls believe it is their only way to feel wanted, supported, or adult enough to matter.

So maybe the harder question is not just what teens are doing—but what options they believe they have. Are we giving them enough reason to dream bigger? Are we showing them that motherhood can wait—not because it is shameful, but because they are still allowed to be kids?

This is not just a call to government, teachers, or parents. It is an invitation to all of us to reflect. What do we model in our homes, our media, our schools, our churches, our Facebook threads? Are we teaching openness, respect, and self-worth—or judgment and silence? A girl’s early motherhood is not her failure alone. It is often the outcome of what society fails to say, support, or stand up for.

Next time we whisper “Bata pa siya,” let us not just mean it as pity. Let it be a prompt—a reason to ask harder questions about the roads we have built and the ones we have left broken. Because the real work begins not after the cradle, but before it ever comes into the picture.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.