Smashing the myth of the ‘fresh’ Filipina
“Maria,” not her real name, sat in front of the mirror, legs crossed, a towel still clinging to her damp skin. The scent of sampaguita incense mixed with the humid air, blending with the faint sizzle of garlic from a neighbor’s kitchen. She sighed, staring at her reflection.
“Huwag kang magbabad sa tubig! Masasamid ang kiki mo!” an elder had warned earlier, peeking into the bathroom.
She had heard it all before: wash too much, wash too little, don’t sit on a warm chair, drink pineapple juice, avoid bagoong — all whispered warnings about something rarely discussed outright: the elusive ‘freshness’ of a woman’s body.
Like many others, she had grown up absorbing these unspoken rules, passed down like family secrets. But this myth of the “fresh” Filipina wasn’t just about hygiene but also about control, desirability, and the invisible weight of expectation.
The Philippines is steeped in folklore, and even something as natural as a woman’s scent hasn’t escaped superstition. Generations before, young women in the barrio washed with bayabas leaves to “keep themselves clean,” while city girls were warned against riding bikes or horses, lest they “damage” something valuable.
But science tells a different story. The vagina is self-cleaning, and using too many products or extreme hygiene routines can actually cause infections rather than prevent them.
And yet, myths persist. Some still believe that a woman who doesn’t “properly” care for herself won’t find love. “Walang gugustuhin ang babaeng may amoy,” the whispers go, shaking heads in disapproval.
It’s not just well-meaning elders spreading these beliefs. The beauty and hygiene industry has long profited from making women feel like they’re not enough. From perfumed feminine washes to scented pantyliners, advertisements have sold the idea that a woman’s worth is tied to how she smells.
Many recall stashing feminine wipes in their school bags, terrified of being labeled “fishy.” “It felt like a survival kit,” one woman remembers. “I didn’t want to be the girl they whispered about.”
Ironically, the very products promising freshness often cause discomfort. Scented washes disrupt the vagina’s pH balance, leading to infections, and they make women feel less fresh, not more.
In Maria’s bedroom, scrolling through her phone, she stumbles on an article. “Your vagina is not supposed to smell like flowers,” it says. She exhales, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Education is slowly shifting the conversation. There are campaigns that aim to normalize menstruation and feminine health. Schools are beginning to teach young girls — and boys — that the female body isn’t dirty or shameful.
A teacher recalls how a student once asked, “Ano pong tamang amoy ng kiki?” The teacher smiled and answered, “Ang tamang amoy ay kung ano ang natural sa’yo.”
She remembers childhood mornings, watching an elder boil bayabas leaves in the kitchen. “Para sa ‘yo,” they’d say, handing her the cooled tea to use as a wash. She never questioned it.
Now, looking at herself in the mirror, she wonders how much time she’s spent worrying. How many women have stood where she stands, asking the same question: “Am I clean enough?”
But this struggle isn’t just about hygiene but also about the larger battles women continue to fight in society, in their communities, and within themselves. The policing of women’s bodies has always been about control. From being told how to smell, how to dress, how to behave, to fighting for reproductive rights, workplace equality, and freedom from harassment, it’s all connected.
The same system that tells women they must be “fresh” to be desirable is the same one that tells them to be submissive to be acceptable. It’s the same system that shames women for their choices whether in their careers, relationships, or their own bodies.
Maria stands up, lets the towel fall, and with it, the weight of years of unnecessary shame. Tomorrow, when another hygiene lecture inevitably arrives over breakfast, she’ll smile and say, “Okay lang ako. Malinis ako, at normal lang ako.”
But maybe the real question isn’t whether she’s fresh enough. Maybe the real question is: Who decided she had to be?
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Editor’s Note: This literary piece challenges societal norms and sparks discussion. Inspired by real stories, it is creative nonfiction, not medical or absolute truth. Seek professional advice for health matters.
