‘Akala Ko Broken Ako’: A Filipina’s Discovery of Her Asexual Identity

Mara first encountered the term “asexual” when she was 26, casually browsing through Twitter one sweltering afternoon in Manila. Amid the chatter of her friends discussing their latest relationship woes in a group chat, her attention was caught by a thread on sexual orientation. The definition she stumbled upon, someone who experiences little to no sexual attraction, made her pause. “Wait,” she murmured to herself. “That’s possible?”

Raised in a conservative Filipino Catholic household, Mara had always been taught that sex was both sacred and taboo. Relatives would tease her about finding a boyfriend, while classmates shared stories of their first times behind the school building. Though she laughed along, a quiet panic gnawed at her inside. She dated, tried to reciprocate kisses more passionately, and agreed to things she was indifferent about at best. Yet each experience left her feeling out of place. “Akala ko broken ako,” she confided in me later. “Like something was wrong with me that I couldn’t understand.”

This feeling was exacerbated by the media and education around her, where sex was depicted as a fundamental aspect of adulthood and romance. During college, when friends boasted about their sexual experiences, she invented stories to fit in. “If I’m not interested in sex,” she thought, “maybe I’m not a real woman. Maybe I’m just paranoid, traumatized, or a late bloomer.” It was only when she came across stories and essays about asexual relationships that she began to see a different narrative. One such piece was this essay on navigating love with an asexual partner.

Discovering the Term, Discovering Herself

The pandemic marked a turning point for Mara. Confined at home, she explored queer communities online and discovered a Filipino scientist explaining asexuality in simple terms: those who feel little to no sexual attraction. The message that it’s “never too late to learn more about yourself” resonated deeply with her, especially when she found groups like Asexual Support Philippines. For the first time, she saw someone who shared her background and identity, not as a subject of ridicule or pity, but as a valid person living their truth. More on this can be read here.

Curious, Mara joined local asexual group chats and forums. She learned that asexuality exists on a spectrum: some are sex-repulsed, others are neutral, and some engage in sex for various reasons. However, they all share the experience of minimal sexual attraction. She encountered new terms such as “romantic orientation,” “allosexual,” and “acephobia,” which helped her past experiences fall into place like a puzzle finally completed.

“I thought I was just bad at being a girlfriend,” she reflected. “Then I realized maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe I was just… asexual.”

Embracing Her Identity, Sharing It with Others

Acknowledging her identity to herself was the first, most challenging step. “Parang biglang gumaan ‘yung dibdib ko,” she described. “For once, I wasn’t a project to be fixed.” She began to test the word “asexual” in private moments, jotting it in her journal or whispering it during quiet showers. Although there was grief for the years spent forcing herself into roles that didn’t fit, there was also a profound sense of relief. “It’s like unlocking a new level,” she joked. “New character: Me.”

Sharing her truth with others proved more complex. Her first friend’s reaction was a nervous laugh, followed by, “So… you don’t want a partner anymore? Virgin for life?” Another friend asked about potential hormone issues. A third offered the well-worn reassurance many asexuals encounter: “Maybe you just haven’t met the right one.” Each response was a reminder of a world that struggles to envision intimacy without sex.

Still, there were encouraging moments. A college friend, now openly queer herself, simply thanked Mara for her honesty and asked, “What do you need from me as a friend?” Another cousin confided late one night: “Ate, I think I might be ace, too.” Gradually, Mara’s circle grew to include people who understood her asexuality didn’t diminish her capacity for love or her identity as a Filipino.

Redefining Love, Joy, and What’s “Normal”

As Mara settled into her identity, she began to envision a life that aligned with her truth rather than society’s default script. Perhaps this meant a queerplatonic partnership where emotional closeness and common life goals were prioritized over sex. Or maybe it meant a fulfilling solo life enriched by friendships, community work, and occasional trips to the beach with her chosen family. “Ang saya palang isipin na pwede akong gumawa ng sariling version ng ‘happy ending,’” she mused. “Not just the ones shown in movies.”

Mara also became more deliberate in discussing consent and desire. Her dating approach now begins with open dialogue: “What are you looking for? What can and can’t I offer?” These conversations aren’t always easy. Some potential partners ghost her, some fetishize her asexuality, and others genuinely try but ultimately find their needs incompatible. Yet with each conversation, she feels more empowered, less apologetic, and more in control of her journey.

While Mara’s story is not the definitive narrative for Filipino asexual individuals, it resonates with many who have quietly shared similar experiences, in late-night messages, anonymous forum posts, and whispered confessions after Pride events. To anyone questioning their feelings against societal norms, Mara offers a gentle reminder:

“Baka wala namang sira sa’yo. Baka ang kulang lang, salita.”