A QUESTION I always overthink is, “May boyfriend ka na ba?” At almost twenty-two years of age, I know that ‘boyfriend’ no longer refers to simple crushes in the classroom but to potential long-term partners. Every year that I avoid the question is an added knot in the forehead for my relatives who are already imagining a future wedding invitation with his name on it.
I cannot decide which is more difficult: the pressure of answering this question or of agreeing that marriage is the inevitable end of romance. Today, discussions of practicality, autonomy, self-love, and same-sex inclusivity have destabilized the once unquestionable institution that is marriage between man and woman. Yet, this hesitation runs deeper than personal reflection.
The sobering possibilities of economic strain, unequal emotional labor, and fractured families loom over me. Among my fellow Gen Zs, these sentiments have translated into live-in arrangements as a test of compatibility without legal entanglement. Similarly, delaying marriage has become an act of self-preservation for some, while rejecting it entirely has become a statement of ‘radical’ self-love for others.
These reactions reveal that Gen Zs are choosing not to simply inherit the institution of marriage. In this shift, choice is central to understanding why some delay or reject marriage altogether. Even then, the practice of choice carries an irony.
While many young people are expected to marry, same-sex couples confront the reality that they legally cannot. Paradoxically, same-sex couples have historically fought hardest for the right to marry in the Philippines, yet are often met with indifference or even disbelief.
Despite the visibility of queer communities in the country, true acceptance remains contested. Yet, an inseparable part of queer identity is the freedom to love and to seek union with one’s partner of choice.
In practice, tolerance of queer identities—far from true acceptance—does not extend to the romantic fantasy that heterosexual couples are promised through marriage. Basic civil protections are also overshadowed by religious reasoning, further weakening same-sex couples’ legal recognition and reinforcing social stigma.
The irony is difficult to ignore: those who feel burdened by the mere discussion of marriage are expected to want it, while others who express that they want it are legally barred because of who they love.
To say the least, balancing these opposing realities is not simple. Marriage can neither be romanticized as the end-all, be-all of romance nor dismissed as irrelevant. Yet, I find its exclusionary nature as unsettling as its pressures.
Perhaps that is why the ‘boyfriend’ question continues to provoke me—it represents a reckoning with what love is allowed to become. It asks me not simply when I might marry, but whether marriage is something I am free to choose and with whom I choose to do it.
Still, I look forward to a choice freely made, not imposed or withheld by expectations, and equally accessible to all: a union with someone I love.
Sohaila is a senior taking up AB Diplomacy and International Relations with Specialization in East and Southeast Asian at the Ateneo de Manila University. Her personal and academic interests intersect in the exploration of power, identity, and how they shape the lives of women and queer people.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.
