Afriend of mine, who is an infectious disease specialist, once observed that many Filipinos tend to delay going to the doctor unless something hurts. He shared the case of a man who consulted him for a mild stomachache, even though the patient had a visibly bulging goiter. The stomachache was painful and, therefore, was considered urgent, while the goiter was merely seen as an inconvenience.
He noted that part of this pattern may be linguistic. The Filipino word for illness is the same word we use for pain: sakit. When illness is tied to pain in language, painless symptoms, even if they are potentially life-threatening, are easily minimized and tolerated, leading to delayed diagnosis and intervention. It is only when something hurts that we treat it as a serious concern. This is the quiet power of language. It shapes not just how we perceive and describe our experiences, but also the kind of action and attention they require.
Words matter even more when they come from those in positions of authority. What leaders say carries a disproportionate ripple effect, shaping culture, morale, and collective behavior within their sphere of influence. Language, in their hands, can actively construct norms. This is why the remarks made by Sen. Robinhood Padilla during a recent Senate hearing drew such widespread criticism. Padilla suggested that children today are “weak” compared to previous generations, citing their vulnerability to mental health challenges.
Experts and citizens alike were quick to respond. The Psychological Association of the Philippines emphasized that resilience cannot be meaningfully compared across generations, because the challenges young people face today are both “quantitatively and qualitatively more intense.” They also stressed that what appears to be an “increase” in mental health conditions is, in part, the result of greater awareness and significant advances in identification and diagnosis.
Rather than acknowledge how his previous statement could compromise the mental health discourse, Padilla doubled down by claiming that his notions about today’s youth are not simply an opinion, but are based on worldwide data surrounding the rise of suicide rates. He argued that if the public were truly concerned, then the focus should be on responding with solutions to the problem rather than correcting what he said.
What Padilla fails to grasp is that how he talks about mental health is itself a large part of the problem that needs to be addressed. For instance, one of the longest-standing challenges that mental health practitioners have faced is the common word choices in media and public discourse (e.g., “psycho” and “crazy”) along with portrayals that equate mental illnesses with criminality. These have reinforced myths that people who have diagnoses are dangerous and socially undesirable. While greater awareness in recent years has helped dismantle some of these misconceptions, fears of being boxed into stigmatizing terms have led people to delay help‑seeking or avoid mental health care altogether.
When Padilla labeled children as “weak” for having suicidal ideation, he inadvertently framed mental health issues as a personal failure rather than a public health concern. This could feed into one’s self-stigma, where individuals internalize negative labels around their condition, leading to lower self‑esteem, social withdrawal, and reduced hope for recovery.
As proof of his generation’s resilience, Padilla claimed that young people during his time weren’t “crybabies” and did not even know what depression meant. Yet, suicide deaths are also alarmingly high among males in middle and later adulthood, globally, and in the Philippines. This potentially points to long-standing patterns of silence from men who were socialized to suppress rather than articulate suffering, and to cope through socially acceptable but harmful substitutes like substance use. Older generations may not have known the word for depression and other mental health challenges during their time, but they almost certainly felt its weight.
It’s true that mental health language these days can sometimes be used loosely, especially among younger people, which strips these terms of their clinical meaning. But rather than dismiss the experiences behind them, the appropriate response is guidance and education. These are opportunities to build deeper understanding and stronger mental health literacy.
Padilla was correct in pointing out that the problem must be addressed. But how we frame the mental health discourse dictates the kind of action and policies that follow. By recognizing depression as a clinical condition rather than a character weakness, we open the door to policies and evidence-based interventions grounded in compassion, empathy, and care. Our leaders’ choice of words matters because it can determine whether people seek and receive help or continue to suffer in silence.
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eleanor@shetalksasia.com
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