There are a few vape shops squeezed into one short stretch of road. No need to exaggerate it. Just spend a quiet afternoon in Barotac Nuevo—you will see tricycles waiting, students passing by, and those glass shelves glowing with bright cartridges that look more like candy than anything else. It does not look alarming at first. It looks ordinary. But it is that very ordinariness that makes the shift harder to ignore. You only need to walk outside.
I wrote about this months ago, when it still felt like a trend gathering pace. Now it feels closer—less like a wave coming in, more like water already at our feet. What changed is not just visibility, but comfort. Vape is no longer hidden. It is carried openly, like milk tea or a phone, something casual, almost harmless in appearance. And that, perhaps, is where the real risk begins—when something serious starts to look ordinary.
The reasons are not difficult to trace. The industry leans on the idea that vaping is a “safer” alternative. The flavors feel familiar, almost playful, and the devices blend easily into everyday life. But behind that ease is a different story. The aerosol contains substances known to affect the lungs and strain the body. Health workers are beginning to notice—not through headlines, but through patterns. In one rural clinic, my daughter shared how more young patients are coming in with breathing concerns, some quietly linked to vaping. No alarm bells, just steady observation. The kind that usually comes before the numbers do.
What is more concerning is how quickly vaping has moved from habit to identity. For some students, it is no longer just about nicotine. It signals belonging. A small, unspoken way of saying, “I am part of this.” The gesture, the cloud, the timing—it becomes performance. And like anything tied to acceptance, it becomes harder to question, even when doubts are there.
Peer influence deepens this. The Department of Health reports that about one in seven Filipino adolescents is already using vape products, many believing these are less harmful than cigarettes. That belief did not grow on its own. It was shaped—by marketing, by visibility, and by the gaps in how risks are explained. When regulation lowered access age and shifted oversight toward trade interests, it raised a quiet but important question: have we made something risky too easy to reach?
You see the answer in everyday spaces. Convenience stores with “power walls” of brightly packaged devices at eye level. Social media feeds filled with sleek promotions and delivery options that remove friction from access. Influencers turning inhalation into spectacle. According to the Global Youth Tobacco Survey, more than a third of Filipino youth were not prevented from purchasing these products (Sese & Guillermo, 2023). Accessibility here is not incidental. It is designed.
The claim that vaping helps smokers quit still circulates, often with good intention. But in practice, many do not replace cigarettes—they add vaping to their routine. What researchers call “dual use” is simply the habit expanding its reach. Even medical literature, including findings cited by the Journal of the American Heart Association, suggests that vaping does not consistently support cessation and may introduce new health risks. In simple terms, it solves less than it promises.
And the effects do not stay with the user. Vapor lingers in shared spaces—classrooms, jeepneys, waiting areas—where others end up inhaling what they did not choose. One person exhales, another breathes it in. Quietly, without permission, the issue moves from personal choice to public consequence.
To be fair, not everyone who vapes does so carelessly. Some adults genuinely see it as a step away from smoking. Some small businesses depend on it for income. Policymakers, too, are navigating competing pressures. These realities matter. But they do not change the direction we are seeing: younger users entering earlier, with less clarity about what they are taking in.
Around the world, people are starting to take this more seriously. The World Health Organization has been clear—e-cigarettes are not harmless, especially in how they are marketed to the young. Here at home, the DOH says the same: vaping is not less harmful than cigarettes. These are not abstract warnings. They are grounded in emerging patterns that countries are beginning to take seriously.
For schools and communities, this is no longer theoretical. It is showing up in subtle ways—in shorter attention spans, in more frequent exits, in shifts that are easy to overlook until they accumulate. Education, at its core, is about helping young people see clearly. That becomes harder when the environment around them sends mixed signals.
So what now? The response needs to move beyond general concern. Local governments can begin by enforcing buffer zones—no vape shops within a clear radius of schools. Age verification cannot stay as a routine step—it has to be enforced. The ads also need limits, especially those that make vaping look appealing. Schools can help by keeping the discussion real and informed. And raising the age and revisiting the rules should be taken seriously now. They are necessary corrections.
The image that stays with me is still that stretch of road in Barotac Nuevo—vape shops lined up, two just steps from a high school, students walking past as if it were nothing unusual. It looks ordinary. That is precisely the problem. When something risky begins to feel routine, it has already moved too far into our everyday lives.|
