By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026
The recent wave of public speculation and concern regarding Jenna Ortega’s appearance has been difficult to watch. The discomfort stems not from the notion that her body requires any explanation or defense, but rather because the intense reaction highlights how acceptable people still find it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property—open to constant observation, unsolicited assessment, and harsh criticism.
I have spent most of my life relatively thin, and I am well aware that the comments I receive about my body do not equate to the systemic judgment and discrimination experienced by people in larger bodies. Still, this year has served as a persistent reminder of how deeply our society has normalized treating an individual’s weight as public information. After I unintentionally lost weight while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—at times finding myself unable to digest more than one meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began congratulating me. Their enthusiastic compliments reflected a culture so intensely committed to thinness that visible weight loss was automatically perceived as good news, even when it was a direct indicator that I was physically unwell and suffering.
It is hardly any wonder that so many women struggle intensely with body image and eating disorders under these conditions. During a July interview with Jay Shetty, actress Camila Mendes opened up about her own past struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on the television show Riverdale. Mendes described how receiving positive reinforcement and compliments when she lost weight because of her eating disorder left her deeply confused. That misplaced praise reinforced the dangerous idea that she looked her absolute best at her thinnest, even during periods when she was struggling mentally and physically and was far from well.
That is the inherent exhaustion of simply existing as a woman in the public eye: no version of our bodies ever seems to escape commentary. We are routinely told that we are either too thin, too fat, or not curvy enough. People always manage to find something about a woman’s physical form to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express worry over, and it is profoundly exhausting to continually be on the receiving end of that relentless scrutiny.
For Latinas, that unique brand of scrutiny often begins at a very young age. Many of us grow up within families and broader cultural environments where comments about women’s bodies are so thoroughly normalized that we do not always recognize them for what they truly are: boundary violations. One relative will tell you that you have gotten far too skinny, while another is quick to point out that you have gained weight—a tía commenting candidly on the size of your thighs or your waist. My own girl cousins frequently told me that I was far too skinny and needed to gain weight. In my family, one of my enduring nicknames has always been flaca. It was usually deployed as a term of endearment, yet losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform into a major source of visible concern and discussion.
Jokes about my thinness rarely bothered me on a personal level, and I always knew they frequently stemmed from a place of love and familial affection. But loving intentions do not erase the underlying, pervasive message being communicated: that my body is readily available for others to evaluate, monitor, and discuss openly.
What makes this kind of scrutiny particularly complicated for Latinas is the sheerly contradictory nature of the expectations placed upon us. We are explicitly told to be thin—but never too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but under no circumstances "fat." Society demands that we be feminine and voluptuous, provided our stomachs remain entirely flat and our waists stay impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat hearty meals during family gatherings, only to be covertly or overtly criticized for gaining weight afterward. We are praised for losing weight, immediately followed by anxious questions asking whether we are eating enough—a persistent line of questioning I have heard echoing around me my entire life. No version of our bodies is ever simply allowed to exist as it is.
That pervasive dynamic is precisely why the recent reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. Her younger sister, Aliyah, recently stepped forward to support a fan’s powerful message reminding the public that Jenna does not owe anyone an explanation for her body or her appearance, which is an absolute truth. The underlying concept is remarkably simple: women should never have to explain why their bodies look the way they do at any given moment.
And yet, here we are in 2026, finding ourselves in a position where we still need to state this basic premise out loud. A woman’s physical body is not a public question that she is required to answer, nor is it an open invitation for public debate.
