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I still remember the voice of a nurse I once interviewed in Manila. She was in her late 30s, already worn out by years of night shifts, understaffing, and the pressure to migrate. With a tired smile, she said: “Kung hindi ka matibay, madudurog ka.”
If you are not strong, you will break. Her words have stayed with me because they capture the hidden crisis among Filipino nurses: the quiet but heavy burden of depression.
Why does this matter to me? I am the executive director of the Filipino Nursing Diaspora Network, and I write this commentary not just from a professional standpoint, but also from a personal one. Many of my closest friends and colleagues are Filipino nurses. Some are thriving, others are struggling, and many carry their pain in silence.
When I read the findings of this article on depression among Filipino nurses, I felt both affirmed and alarmed. Affirmed, because the numbers reflect what many of us have long suspected. Alarmed, because those numbers are higher than I ever imagined.
Statistics that cannot be ignored
The article revealed that 19.5% to 45% of Filipino nurses reported depressive symptoms. That’s nearly one in every two nurses. Among them, about 11–20% experience mild symptoms, 6–18% moderate symptoms, and 2.5–7% severe to extremely severe symptoms.
Let me pause here. These aren’t just percentages. They are people — our mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, classmates, churchmates. If you walk into a hospital ward in the Philippines, chances are several of the nurses attending to patients are quietly battling depression while caring for others.
And the numbers are even more striking when you look at migration intent. Nurses intending to migrate reported 31% depression, compared to 23% for those who were not planning to leave. Migration, often framed as opportunity, carries with it deep emotional tolls: uncertainty, family separation, and the burden of leaving behind a healthcare system already stretched thin.
Statistics tell us “what,” but the lived experiences explain “why.” Depression among Filipino nurses is closely tied to burnout, disengagement, and exhaustion. Imagine working 12-hour shifts, often with inadequate pay, in overcrowded wards, and sometimes without even basic supplies. Add to that the weight of family expectations — “Anak, ikaw na ang pag-asa namin” (Child, you are our hope) — and the relentless comparisons with peers who have already made it abroad.
Faith, however, stood out as a protective factor. Nurses who described themselves as spiritually content, or who actively practiced their religion, reported lower rates of depression. This is not surprising. Faith has long been a source of strength for Filipinos. Many of us whisper prayers before a shift, or quietly utter “Kaya ko ‘to, Lord” (I can do this, Lord) when things get overwhelming.
The double burden of care
One of the paradoxes I see is that Filipino nurses are global carers. We are the ones tending to the elderly in Sydney, the chronically ill in London, the critically ill in Riyadh. Yet, in our own country, there is a shortage of 127,000 nurses. Those who stay face overwhelming workloads; those who leave often grapple with guilt and pressure. In both settings, the risk of depression looms large.
I have listened to overseas colleagues confess they felt like strangers in their own skin after migrating. Depression doesn’t always look like tears — it can look like silence, irritability, or simply the absence of joy.
Mental health, though slowly gaining acceptance, still carries stigma in the Philippines. To admit you are depressed is often seen as weakness or, worse, as ingratitude. A nurse once told me: “Hindi ako p’wedeng magreklamo. Ang dami ngang gustong maging nurse.” (I can’t complain. So many people want to be nurses.) This silence becomes its own kind of prison, locking away pain until it turns unbearable.
What needs to change
The findings of the article point us toward clear interventions. Community-based and hospital-based mental wellness programs must be strengthened. These should not just be token workshops, but sustained programs that address motivation, engagement, and self-efficacy. Nurses need safe spaces where they can talk about their struggles without fear of judgment or professional consequences.
Spirituality, too, should not be dismissed. For many Filipino nurses, faith is intertwined with identity. Integrating spiritual practices into wellness initiatives — whether through chaplaincy, meditation, or prayer groups — can help nurses draw strength from their own cultural roots.
But beyond individual coping, systemic reforms are urgent. Depression is not only about personal resilience; it is also about structural injustice. Fair wages, safe staffing ratios, opportunities for career progression, and supportive management all matter. A nurse who feels valued and respected is far less likely to burn out or disengage.
The role of research and policy
The same article reminds us of the gaps in research. Only three studies out of 56 screened met the criteria. That is shockingly little evidence for a workforce of hundreds of thousands. We need longitudinal studies, larger samples, and more diverse methodologies. We also need intervention-focused research — studies that do not just describe the problem, but test solutions.
Policy, too, has to catch up. Depression among nurses is not just a private issue, it is a workforce issue, a patient safety issue, a national health issue. Nurses who are depressed are more likely to disengage, to make errors, and to leave the profession. Addressing depression is not charity, it is strategic investment in the health of the nation.
A personal reflection
As I write this, I think of my friend, a nurse in Quezon City. She once called me after a particularly hard shift and said, half-joking, “Parang gusto ko na lang matulog nang matagal.” (Sometimes I just want to sleep for a very long time.) We both knew she wasn’t really talking about sleep. That conversation shook me. It reminded me that behind the resilience we so proudly claim — matibay tayo (we are strong) — there are cracks forming.
Yet, I also think of the countless stories of courage. Nurses who, despite their exhaustion, still bring laughter to their wards. Nurses who hold the hands of dying patients when families cannot be there. Nurses who continue to dream, not just for themselves, but for their families and their country.
So, where does this leave us? The article gives us numbers, but our lived experiences give those numbers flesh and bone. Depression among Filipino nurses is real, widespread, and deeply consequential. It is shaped by burnout, migration, faith, and systemic conditions. It is hidden by stigma, but it can be addressed by community, spirituality, and policy reform.
My appeal is simple: let us not wait until more nurses break under the weight of silence. Let us create systems — both in hospitals and in communities — that listen, support, and heal. Let us tell each other that it is okay to say, “Pagod na ako” (I am tired), and to believe that rest, renewal, and recovery are possible.
Because if we can care for the world, surely, we can learn to care for ourselves. – Rappler.com
Jerome Babate is the executive director of the Filipino Nursing Diaspora Network and is based in Australia.
