I was always warned not to stay under the sun for too long during my childhood days. Ask any morena Filipina you know—they’ve likely heard the same “Don’t stay in the sun for too long!” warning, too. Many times, in different variations, and from different people: titas, titos, moms, lolas, sisters, and neighbors. 

It would’ve been wise advice. Sure, staying in the sun for too long isn’t good for the skin (hello, skin cancer and sun damage!). But as a Filipina with brown skin, I always knew what they meant when they said those words. No, it wasn’t about skin cancer. It was because sun exposure would make my brown skin…well, even more brown. And brown skin was almost synonymous with being dugyot—unattractive, dirty, or unkempt. 

I carried shame like second skin.

In the Philippines, brown skin is often seen as a flaw. It means you’re not “maaliwalas.” It means you’re not beautiful. Or at least that was what I understood from all the painful words they associated with my skin and all the unsolicited suggestions I got to make my skin white. “Gamitin mo ‘tong sabon na ‘to para pumuti ka,” (“Use this soap to make your skin whiter.”) “Huwag kang tatabi kay Marie, nangingitim ka lalo,” (“Don’t stay beside Marie, you just end up looking darker.”) “Kinukuha ka na ng dilim,” or “Malibag!”

Back in high school, I used to joke that I was born mestiza, but my skin got darker because I was a swimmer. Being born mestiza was a lie I told my friends. The swimmer part was true, though. My childhood was spent in Pangasinan, where I’d sneak out to swim with my brothers in the river near our home. Born with natural brown skin, my tone became even more pronounced from swimming under the scorching sun. After moving to the city, I began competing in swimming, reaching the Palarong Pambansa. But all my training, which maintained my rich morena tone, clashed with my desire to be fairer—a desire fueled by the societal pressures around me.

My desire to be fair intensified when I moved to Manila for senior high school. Every day, I was reminded that my skin tone was a flaw that needed fixing. That it wasn’t a mark of strength or dedication. Instead, it was something to be ashamed of. I often felt like an intruder in groups filled with fair-skinned chinitas and mestizas.

Then I heard the word: “dugyot.” 

It wasn’t a word I’d ever associated with myself. But there it was—whispered behind my back, said with a smirk, thrown around like a casual remark. It was the reason why one of my first circle of “friends” in senior high excluded me. 

I was just 16. My already-fragile confidence shattered. 

Dugyot. Hearing that stung, and it made me question myself—was it my skin tone or my looks? It was a moment that highlighted how beauty standards in the Philippines can make you feel excluded just for being different. After this, I became more conscious of my skin. Who wouldn’t? Despite having an extensive body care routine (from antibacterial soap and shower gel to lotion and perfume), I was still told I looked dirty. 

I started overcompensating. I scrubbed my skin raw with whitening soaps, and religiously drank glutathione-infused drinks, even when they were beyond my budget. I caked on makeup to appear more presentable, though finding a shade that actually matched my morena skin was a struggle. It was (and still is, sometimes)  hard to find the perfect match. I often had to mix shades to get something that works.

And when that didn’t feel enough, I turned to filters, blurring and brightening my photos until I saw a version of myself that seemed more…acceptable.

I cannot recall a single moment of clarity when I realized I loved my brown skin. 

It certainly did not happen overnight. There wasn’t a morning I woke up and declared I’d stop wishing I looked different. Instead, it was a process that stretched over years—and one that I admit may still be ongoing. 

As much as I wanted to stop relying on others for validation, it was the people around me—those who saw me for who I really was and supported me—that helped me accept my natural complexion. Unsurprisingly, these people were morenas like me. During the pandemic, I became close with my boyfriend’s sisters. Both of them were morenas, and I admired how they owned it. They wore bikinis, and posted unfiltered photos on Instagram. This made her rethink the way I saw myself. 

Social media also became a powerful tool of representation for me. It was where I started noticing more morenas confidently showing up. I saw myself and my skin color in the models and influencers I followed. One of them was Alexandra Saint Mleux, a woman I admired not just for being the then-rumored (and now confirmed) girlfriend of my F1 idol Charles Leclerc, but for her unapologetic confidence and fantastic fashion sense.

She has the same brown skin as me, and she wore bold, vibrant colors like orange, yellow, green, and fuchsia pink as if they were made for her. These were colors I once avoided because I’d been told, “hindi bagay sa kulay mo.” (“They don’t suit your skin tone.”)

It took years to realize my skin tone was never the problem.

Little by little, I began unlearning the harmful standards I had internalized for years. I stopped bleaching my skin. I stopped using filters to whitewash me. I stopped chasing a version of myself that didn’t align with who I truly am. And in doing so, I started seeing my natural morena skin for what it truly is—not dugyot, not ugly, but beautiful and enough.

The irony isn’t lost on me. In a  tropical country like the Philippines, where brown skin is so common, colorism still runs deep. For many morenas, the path to self-acceptance is paved with years of self-doubt and a constant battle against narrow beauty ideals. It has not been an easy journey, but I am proud of how far I’ve come. Beauty, I realized, is not about fitting into some narrow standard; it’s about feeling confident in your own skin.