By Alexia Hernandez
Every month, I find myself standing under the harsh fluorescent lights of a pharmacy aisle, facing a choice that never feels like a real one. On one side, the affordable sanitary pads are packed in plastic—thin, synthetic, and known to cause irritation. On the other, the organic, eco-friendly brands promising “chemical-free protection,” but priced like luxury goods.
In those monthly dilemmas, I hesitate, knowing full well that neither decision is truly mine.
I’d glare at each side, should I choose the cheap ones and risk infections, rashes, discomfort? or choose the expensive ones, and sacrifice a significant part of my weekly budget?
Why does bleeding feel like a luxury? It’s undeniably difficult to carry the guilt of knowing that every pad, every tampon, will live in a landfill long after I’m gone. In the end, I pay—I pay with my body, my wallet, and my conscience for a biological reality the system refuses to honor with dignity.
This impossible choice does not start at adulthood. It begins early, within our classrooms. In school, period pain is often brushed off as “arte lang” (just drama), an excuse to miss classes.
Even with a medical certificate, menstruating students are expected to perform at full capacity, silencing their pain for the sake of discipline. Yet severe dysmenorrhea affects one in every two adolescent girls in the Philippines where many experience migraines, nausea, and even fainting, all symptoms dismissed as “normal” because our institutions refuse to accommodate menstrual realities.
The Department of Education has only recently begun integrating menstrual hygiene in its curriculum through Comprehensive Sexuality Education modules, but coverage remains patchy and stigma still thrives inside classrooms.
Beyond basic education, there is a glaring gap in knowledge about how menstruation affects the broader aspects of women’s health. Research on women’s health issues remains chronically underfunded in the Philippines.
A 2021 UNFPA Philippines report highlights how many young Filipinas lack even the most basic understanding of their reproductive health, let alone the deeper impacts of hormonal cycles on mental, emotional, and physical wellbeing.
The scarcity of research translates to a scarcity of empathy where these workplaces, academic institutions, and public policies continue to treat menstruation as invisible—a private issue to be solved silently.
Even in the adult world, little changes. Most Filipino workplaces do not provide menstrual leaves.
Republic Act No. 11313 or the “Safe Spaces Act” mandates respect for women’s dignity, but it says nothing about practical support for menstruators. Offices rarely have free period products available. Public bathrooms outside major malls often lack proper waste bins for used sanitary products.
The simple act of managing a period in public is an exhausting ordeal, layered with shame, cost, and inconvenience.
The financial burden is another cruelty.
Menstrual products are “pink-taxed” like any other consumer goods labeled for women, where pads are priced with no recognition that they are essential. A pack of sanitary pads can cost anywhere between ₱50 to ₱200, a significant expense for minimum wage earners who already struggle with the rising cost of living.
For the millions of Filipinas living below the poverty line, period poverty is a monthly battle.
Studies by the Department of Health (2020) reveal that some women resort to using cloth, tissue paper, or even newspapers when they cannot afford menstrual products which risks infections, embarrassment, and absenteeism from work or school.
And even when you can afford “better” products, the burden does not end.
Eco-friendly options such as menstrual cups or reusable pads, often heralded as sustainable solutions, remain priced out of reach for the ordinary Filipino consumer. Worse, the environmental cost of disposable products is almost entirely blamed on individuals, instead of being treated as a systemic failure of affordable, sustainable manufacturing.
Menstruation is not a choice, it’s a biological part of us we can’t escape—not until menopause hits. But managing it expensively, uncomfortably, and invisibly has been turned into an individual responsibility in a system designed to look away.
