I lived in the Philippines for 3 months—here’s what no one warns you about being a woman there (2025)

When you imagine the Philippines, you think of postcard beaches, jeepneys splashed in color, and the kind of hospitality that feels almost suspicious until you realize—no, they really are that warm. I’d seen all the TikToks and dreamy Instagram reels. I knew it was going to be beautiful. What I didn’t expect was that it would also be one of the most confronting places I’ve ever lived.

Right before writing this, I watched this documentary by Al Jazeera. If you haven’t seen it, here it is:

It broke me open. And then it made something click. Because while I had seen the surface beauty of the Philippines during my three-month stay, I had also started to notice something else—something no guidebook or travel influencer ever warns you about.

There’s an unspoken heaviness among women there. Not always visible. But it’s there in the offhand jokes about marriage. In the careful way some women talk about their husbands, or more tellingly, their ex-husbands—who, legally, are still very much their husbands. It’s in the silences. The casual remarks. The resigned shrugs. At first, I didn’t understand what I was picking up on. Now I do.

Divorce is illegal in the Philippines. Yes—illegal.

Unless you’re Muslim or can afford the long, expensive, and often emotionally brutal annulment process, you’re stuck. Forever. It is the only country in the world outside the Vatican where divorce is completely banned. And that reality is something most foreigners living there—myself included—don’t grasp until it slaps you in the face.

I first learned about it over grilled tilapia at a backyard dinner in Quezon City. A woman made a joke about how she “escaped” her husband but is still “technically married to the devil.” I laughed, thinking she was exaggerating. She wasn’t. Her husband had beaten her repeatedly. She left with her kids a decade ago. But because the law doesn’t allow her to legally dissolve her marriage, she can’t remarry. Can’t own property without his approval. Can’t even access certain documents without his signature. She’s free—but only in theory.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I started asking questions. At first, I did it gently, not wanting to offend anyone. But the more I asked, the more I heard the same story. Women who left toxic or violent marriages but were still legally tied to their abusers. Women who had given up trying because they couldn’t afford the legal battle. Women who stayed—not out of love, or faith, or tradition—but because there was no way out.

One woman I met, AJ, told me she’s been separated for over a decade. She rebuilt her life, bought a house—but couldn’t put it under her name because it would require her estranged husband’s signature. Another woman, Stella, survived fifteen years of abuse, including an attempt on her life while her children slept nearby. She’s attempted suicide more than once. Her freedom came not from the legal system, but from the raw will to protect her children. And even now, she’s still technically married to the man who nearly killed her.

They call it “living while dead.” I’ve never forgotten that phrase. It sounds poetic until you realize it’s not. It’s just honest.

The resistance to divorce isn’t just legal—it’s deeply tied to religion. Roughly 80% of the country is Catholic, and the church’s influence on lawmaking runs deep. Politicians openly admit they won’t back divorce reform because of the church’s power. Priests preach that divorced people won’t enter heaven. Women who move on and find new partners are told they’re sinners. The guilt is weaponized. And for many, the church is one of the only places offering emotional refuge—so to be spiritually exiled is almost worse than the marriage itself.

Watching that Al Jazeera documentary hit harder because I’d already felt some of it during my time there. The dissonance. The silence. The fear. The performance of contentment. It’s one thing to talk about laws. It’s another to see how they play out in real human lives—women whose children beg them to leave, who choose survival over safety, who endure stigma just to breathe again.

And it made me reflect on something else: how easy it is, as a Western woman, to take certain freedoms for granted. I’ve left relationships that didn’t serve me. I’ve reinvented myself more than once. I live in a culture that sees personal evolution—even after failure or heartbreak—as a form of strength. In the Philippines, that kind of autonomy is a dream many women still can’t afford to have.

I want to be clear: I’m not writing this to criticize the Philippines. It’s one of the most soulful, generous countries I’ve ever known. The people, the food, the language, the spirit—it’s impossible not to fall in love with it. But that’s why this matters. Because this issue exists not in some far-off, oppressive regime. It exists in a country filled with joy, song, beauty, and warmth. It hides in plain sight. And it’s devastating.

Near the end of the documentary, one of the women says, “Divorce is not a sin. It’s a second chance.” I can’t stop thinking about that. How many people never get that chance? How many women are raising children in fear, sleeping next to danger, or quietly wasting away in marriages that have long since turned into cages?

If you’re planning to visit the Philippines—and you should—come for the beauty, the people, the vibrancy. But don’t leave without learning about this. Ask. Listen. Share. Because sometimes the most important stories are the ones no one wants to tell. And being a woman in this world—anywhere—should not require permission to be free.