By Herman M. Lagon
At a Senate hearing meant to protect young Filipinos online, the conversation drifted in a strange direction. Instead of data or policy, Senator Robin Padilla opened with a blunt line: the youth today are “weak.” He said it almost apologetically, like an uncle at a reunion who knows his remark might sting. He compared them to his own generation, when the word “depression” was supposedly rare. Many have heard that line before: “Noong panahon namin, matitibay kami.” But when that sentiment comes from a senator, inside a committee hearing, it stops being harmless nostalgia. It becomes part of how the country talks about young people, mental health, and responsibility.
The issue is not only that the remark sounded harsh. It is that the logic behind it is shaky. Just because the word “depression” was not common before does not mean the condition did not exist. It only tells us that people did not yet have the words or the courage to speak up. History is full of these gaps. Trauma was once brushed off as cowardice, and serious illnesses were treated with superstition. But knowledge grows over time. We name conditions because we understand them, not because weakness becomes popular. The World Health Organization (2022) says one in seven adolescents worldwide lives with a mental health condition. That is not a passing trend. That is reality.
Teachers see this every day. In many public schools, one classroom holds 40 or more students, each carrying a different burden. One worries about the next electric bill. Another loses sleep because of online teasing. A third works after class just to help at home. When a student says, “Ma’am, I feel depressed,” it is rarely a performance. It is usually a clumsy attempt to name something heavy. Yet guidance counselors are stretched thin, sometimes serving thousands of learners. The Department of Education itself has admitted the shortage of mental health professionals in schools. In that setting, calling students “weak” feels less like tough love and more like a missed chance to listen.
There is also a quiet mistake in equating silence with strength. Older generations were taught to endure quietly. Many grew up hearing phrases like “tiisin mo na” or “magdasal ka na lang.” That endurance deserves respect. It built families and communities under hard conditions. Still, endurance does not always mean someone is well inside. Studies show unaddressed distress can lead to addiction, violence, or anxiety later on (Patel et al., 2018). Silence can seem like strength, but it is often just quiet pain. Many elders carry wounds without names. Young people who talk about depression may not be weaker. They may just be more honest.
The world has changed for today’s youth. Earlier generations did not have phones lighting up their pockets all day. Now a single mistake can go viral before dinner. Many teenagers check their value through reactions on a screen. Research shows that heavy screen use is tied to higher depressive symptoms (Twenge et al., 2019). It is not the same sea their parents crossed.
To be fair, the senator’s concern about social media is not entirely misplaced. Parents, teachers, and even tech companies worry about cyberbullying, misinformation, and digital addiction. During the same hearing, platform representatives spoke about balancing children’s right to digital access with safety. The issue is complex. This is about design, education, and support, not insults. Many nations are exploring age limits, digital literacy, and platform responsibility. Labeling the youth “mahina” turns a serious policy issue into a shallow judgment.
What makes the remark more troubling is the setting where it was said. It came at the opening of a hearing meant to protect young people. Leadership in such spaces calls for language that invites participation, not language that shuts it down. Imagine a principal opening an anti-bullying seminar by telling students, “You are all too soft.” The message might be meant as motivation, but it would likely close ears instead of opening minds. Good leadership starts with listening, gathering stories, and building solutions. It does not begin with sweeping judgments.
There is also a cultural layer to this. For years, strength was defined as emotional silence. Many boys grew up hearing, “Don’t cry,” while girls were told to be gentle and pleasing. Those lessons shaped how society judges emotions. Too much talk about toughness can make openness seem wrong. Gender advocates warn this dismisses empathy. Ironically, leadership research shows empathy is a core trait of effective leaders (Goleman, 1998).
Still, the concern itself is not entirely baseless. Many parents see children who struggle with criticism. Teachers notice panic over low grades. Employers observe stress among younger workers. Research shows that Generation Z may be more empathetic, but also more anxious (APA, 2022). Sensitivity, in the end, is both a gift and a burden. It nurtures compassion but also increases emotional load. Leadership’s job is to see both sides, not flatten them into a single insult.
In many faculty lounges, teachers talk about this balance with humor and affection. One math teacher once said, half-smiling, “Matitibay ang batang ito, pero kailangan din ng konting lambing.” He was not calling them weak. He was noticing that they live in a faster, harsher world. Tuition is higher. Jobs feel uncertain. Typhoons hit harder. Bad news travels faster than ever. Resilience today does not look exactly like it did before. It is less about silent endurance and more about finding healthy ways to cope and recover.
This is where the remark of the “Bad Boy” feels thin. This is not due to its harshness, but rather to its lack of depth. A statesman should widen the conversation, not reduce it. He should ask why the youth struggle and what can be done. Instead, the hearing began with a verdict. Calling them “weak” may please some ears, but it fixes nothing. It is slogan thinking. And that raises doubts about leadership itself.
So the question is not about weak or strong. The world today is more complex. The better question is what kind of society we build with the young. If mental health is dismissed, silence wins. If it is respected, better futures follow. Strength is found in response, not denial.