TV & Film
DREAM BIG. That’s what we often tell young girls. But when those dreams are interrupted, where do they turn?
At first glance, Antoinette Jadaone’s Sunshine (2024) seems like a typical coming-of-age film, following the high school rhythmic gymnast Sunshine (Maris Racal), who is admired for her poise and discipline. The story, however, takes a sobering turn as an unexpected pregnancy disrupts her path, shedding light on the complex and often overlooked realities of teenage pregnancy in the Philippines.
After earning praise at international film festivals in 2024 to early 2025, Sunshine finally returns home—back to the country where its story was born. More than just a setting, the Philippines is an inextricable force in the film, with its deeply rooted issues regarding reproductive health, which shaped both the characters’ struggles and the film’s visual composition.
Alone in the spotlight
Sunshine is first framed as a role model—talented, disciplined, and on the brink of becoming an Olympian. Her coaches, teammates, and family see her as someone who always pulls through. But when she learns she’s pregnant, the world she’s worked so hard to balance begins to fall apart. Despite being someone who naturally cares for others, Sunshine is at a loss when it comes to confronting her own pregnancy.
This inner confusion takes shape in one of the film’s most effective characters—a young girl simply referred to as “bata” (Annika Co). The girl comes and goes unannounced, vanishing whenever Sunshine feels certain about her pregnancy and returning when she is most conflicted or overwhelmed again. As Sunshine’s crisis deepens, the girl’s demeanor shifts—sometimes gentle, sometimes accusatory.
Throughout the film, the girl acts as a stand-in for the guilt and fear Sunshine cannot verbalize. In scenes where Sunshine contemplates unsafe abortion methods, the young girl is there—pleading, mocking, and haunting. Through her, the emotional burden of pregnancy becomes all the more visible.
Amidst the weight Sunshine carries, gymnastics becomes the stage for her mounting anxiety. She’s told to “lose weight” and “focus on the goal,” even as she carries crippling burdens. Jadaone’s direction captures this emotional unrest not just in the training centers, but also in the world around Sunshine. Her panic and confusion are mirrored in the noise of Manila streets, the crowds of Quiapo Church, and the unending demands at her home.
Sunshine is constantly surrounded by voices telling her what to do, but rarely is she asked what she feels. The pressure builds up from family, coaches, and peers until she finally asserts herself in a quiet moment of truth: “Ayoko maging nanay” (I don’t want to be a mother). In a society that rarely gives girls a say, these three words feel radical. This moment marks a shift, as Sunshine, for the first time, chooses herself.
No mat to catch her
Taking that stand is a rare victory, but it doesn’t spare her from the realities she must face. The film widens its lens by not only highlighting the personal struggles of teenage mothers, but also a healthcare system that offers judgment more than care. Because of this reality, Sunshine is pushed to seek unsafe alternatives from social media threads, Quiapo vendors, and online contacts that offer illegal medication. While some may judge her as reckless or naive, the film shows that these are often the only options left for young girls when formal support is nearly impossible to access.
Throughout her pregnancy and the pressures surrounding it, there’s no adult Sunshine can confide in—no parent, no doctor, and no friend she can safely approach without fear of judgment or consequence. This suffocating isolation reaches its quiet climax inside a cramped, dimly lit motel room, where Sunshine sits in uncertainty, with only the back-alley pills as her company.
Outside the motel, the distant rumble of a train grows louder, intruding on the stillness. No words are spoken, but the camera lingers. Her breath quivers, and the silence hangs heavy. Through simple but deliberate artistic choices—harsh lighting that casts her adrift, ambient sounds that amplify the tension, and framing that traps her in the moment—Sunshine quietly paints what it means when a system leaves young girls to fend for themselves.
This critique of systemic neglect is expanded through scenes in overcrowded maternity wards, highlighting the poor state of the country’s healthcare system. Sunshine ends up sharing a bed with another pregnant woman in one of these wards—meant to be a place for recovery, but instead filled her with fear at the lack of privacy, safety, and proper care.
Beyond the physical and emotional toll, Sunshine also faces moral scrutiny from institutions like schools and churches. These places are portrayed not as spaces of safety, but of shame. Instead of compassion, she is met with moral judgment, with little support in the form of sex education, counseling, or open dialogue.
In both the unforgiving spaces of schools and churches, the film makes plain a cruel truth: pregnant teenagers are often reduced to girls who have messed up—condemned to carry not just a child, but the shame that comes with it. Jadaone challenges this narrative head-on by introducing Mary Grace or Menggay (Rhed Bustamante), a victim of incestuous abuse, who shows that not all teen pregnancies are the result of recklessness. This portrayal underscores how young girls are often robbed of context and compassion. No matter the cause, the mental and social repercussions of pregnancy fall entirely on the girls. Hence, the film aims to push for understanding, reform, and most of all, for girls to be heard before it’s too late.
Beyond the routine
Through creative choices like the imaginary girl, the depiction of Menggay’s abuse, and the blunt portrayal of unsafe alternatives, the film may at times feel too direct. Its messaging is clear, even pointed to an extent that some may view as spoonfeeding. However, this clarity isn’t a flaw, but a reflection of how taboo abortion and reproductive autonomy still are in the Philippines—issues so silenced and stigmatized that they demand unflinching storytelling.
Sunshine understands its audience, and instead of risking misinterpretation or rejection, it eases into the conversation with utmost care. In the film’s penultimate scene, Sunshine returns to the mat—this time with quiet resolve. The routine she once struggled to complete becomes an expression of clarity, as if her body finally moves in sync with her mind. When Sunshine finally asks the girl, “Gets mo na ba?” (Do you get it now?)—it’s no longer just a question for the character; it’s a challenge to the audience as well.
This cautious storytelling allows the film to both educate and sympathize with the struggles of women facing unplanned pregnancies. In a society where shame drowns out discourse, Sunshine becomes a rare space for girls to be seen and heard—no matter how “messy” their stories may be. Sunshine’s choice may have been painful, but it was hers to make.
