The baby is still asleep when Marian Duhapa leans over and kisses her daughter’s forehead for the last time before another long journey. There is no dramatic send-off in their small barangay in Irosin, Sorsogon—just the soft hum of a dawn that arrives too soon, and a mother forcing herself to walk away before her courage collapses.
Outside, a van waits to take her on the 16-hour trip to Manila. Beyond that: a flight to Taiwan, a country she knows well, and a life she must return to—not because she wants to, but because she has run out of options. Her daughter, Quinn Dahlia, is only seven months old. Marian knows the child will not remember this moment. She prays that one day, her daughter will understand it.
“I pray I can find a job so I can help my daughter and my family,” Marian says.
“This is my only choice now.”
A Choice No Mother Wants to Make
For millions of Filipinos, migration is not ambition—it is survival. In Marian’s hometown, life moves slowly but poverty moves fast. Their concrete house stands among rice fields and weather-beaten homes, in a province where storms are a regular visitor and stable income is not. Marian provides for an extended family of 11. Her parents are subsistence farmers. Local work exists, but wages vanish the moment they arrive.
Formula. Rice. Medicine. Electricity. Transport. Emergencies.
Every month becomes a puzzle with missing pieces.
In that unforgiving math, overseas work becomes the only solution. Taiwan, just two hours from Manila, offers better income—often triple what a worker can earn in the Philippines. But the cost, Marian has learned, is measured in distance and years lost with the people who matter most.
A New Life Abroad, and a System That Tested Her
In Taiwan, Marian entered a world that was orderly, modern, and tightly regulated. She worked, saved, sent money home, and tried to build a future from afar like so many OFWs before her.
But when she became pregnant, everything unraveled.
She lost her job. With no income and no home, she was sent to a migrant shelter in New Taipei City. There, surrounded by other women with stories painfully similar to hers, she gave birth to Quinn. She learned to bathe her child in a shared bathroom and soothe her in a room with strangers nearby. The shelter was a refuge—but also a reminder that she was alone.
In Taiwan, migrant workers are essential yet restricted. Many care for elderly citizens or children—jobs locals increasingly do not take—yet they are not allowed to bring their own families. Advocates argue that the system, however structured, reduces migrants to labor first and human beings second.
The government claims reforms are underway, but progress remains slow. Meanwhile, women like Marian must navigate their pregnancies, their rights, and their futures without stability.
Life Split in Two
Eventually, Marian had to make a decision: stay in Taiwan with no job and no prospects, or go home and leave her daughter to try again. Neither choice was merciful.
She chose the path that hurt more in the moment—but promised a better tomorrow.
Back in Taiwan, distance is now her daily reality. She wakes up in dorm rooms and rented spaces, not knowing which employer will take her next. She works, waits, and prays that each contract will last long enough for her daughter’s next milestone.
She video-calls home when she can. Sometimes her daughter stares blankly at the screen. Sometimes she fusses. Sometimes she smiles. But the ache is constant: motherhood through a phone can never be enough.
OFWs call this the “double life.”
Two worlds, both real, neither whole.
A Wider Story Than Marian’s Alone
Marian’s story is deeply personal, but not unique.
Her older sister, Loriza, worked seven years in Dubai as a domestic helper. She, too, sent money home. She, too, broke in silence.
“It was so hard,” Loriza said. “Every day, I worked with no break. I missed my family more than anything.”
Different country. Same sacrifice. Same loneliness.
The Philippines has over two million OFWs, more than half of them women. Taiwan alone hosts over 150,000 Filipino workers, most of whom take jobs that build stability for other families while separating them from their own.
BY THE NUMBERS: Filipinos in Taiwan
| Data Point | Detail |
| Filipino workers in Taiwan | 150,000+ |
| Typical earnings | 3x PH wage |
| Sectors | Factory, caregiving, domestic work |
| OFWs worldwide | 2 million+ |
| Majority profile | Women, aged 25–40 |
| Average family separation | 3–7 years |
The Two Worlds She Lives In
World 1: Taiwan
- Work, structure, money, opportunity
- Independence, but isolation
- A future she must build from scratch
World 2: The Philippines
- Family, identity, motherhood
- Warmth, belonging, and memory
- A future she cannot afford to stay in yet
For Marian and many like her, neither world is complete without the other.
What Keeps Her Going
Hope is sometimes a small thing: a steady paycheck, a completed house renovation, a message from home, a baby learning to stand.
But hope is also a plan.
Marian dreams of the day she no longer has to choose between survival and presence. The day she can return home for good, not as a visitor but as a mother reclaiming an ordinary life—one where she can wake up and see her daughter without counting contract years or airplane costs.
She knows it will take time. She knows it will hurt. But she also knows why she continues.
“This is for my baby. This is for my family,” she says.
“I want them to live a smoother life.”
Not a perfect life. Just a life where love does not have to travel through screens.
This feature is informed by and draws reference from a Reuters story by Ann Wang, published on October 22, 2025, on Marian Duhapa’s journey as a Filipina migrant worker in Taiwan.