By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026
The recent wave of public speculation and commentary regarding Jenna Ortega’s physical appearance has been difficult to watch—not because her body requires any explanation or defense, but because the response highlights a persistent, uncomfortable truth about our society. It demonstrates just how acceptable people still find it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property, entirely open to relentless observation, intrusive assessment, and unfiltered criticism.
Throughout my life, I have been relatively thin, and I am acutely aware that the comments I receive about my body do not equate to the systemic judgment, marginalization, and discrimination experienced by individuals in larger bodies. Still, this past year served as a jarring reminder of how deeply ingrained our cultural habit is of treating an individual’s weight as public information. After I unintentionally lost a noticeable amount of weight while battling Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a painful condition that at times left me unable to properly digest more than a single meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began to congratulate me.
Their well-meaning compliments reflected a culture so profoundly committed to thinness that visible, sudden weight loss was automatically interpreted as good news. They offered praise even when my physical state was an outward sign that I was deeply unwell, struggling to maintain my health behind closed doors.
It comes as little surprise that so many women struggle intensely with body image issues and eating disorders in an environment with such distorted values. During a candid interview with Jay Shetty, actress Camila Mendes opened up about her own historical struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on the television series Riverdale. Mendes described the deep confusion she felt when people showered her with praise and compliments upon losing weight, even though that weight loss was driven by an active eating disorder. That kind of misplaced validation only reinforces the damaging cultural idea that a woman looks her absolute best when she is at her thinnest, completely divorced from whether she is actually healthy or thriving.
That, ultimately, is the exhausting reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our bodies ever seems to escape unsolicited commentary. We are constantly measured against an impossible, shifting standard. We are told we are too thin, too fat, or not curvy enough. People always seem to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express manufactured worry over. Living on the receiving end of that constant, low-hum scrutiny is profoundly exhausting.
For Latinas, that scrutiny frequently begins at a very young age. Many of us grow up within families, households, and broader cultural environments where comments about women’s bodies are so deeply normalized that we do not always immediately recognize them for what they truly are: boundary violations. One relative will pull you aside to tell you that you have gotten far too skinny, while another is quick to point out that you have gained weight. An aunt feels entitled to comment on the size of your thighs or the width of your waist.
Growing up, my girl cousins frequently told me that I was far too skinny and desperately needed to gain weight. Within my own family, one of my enduring nicknames has always been flaca. While it was almost always used as a term of endearment, the underlying dynamic remained complicated. Losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform a term of affection into a source of genuine concern and interrogation. While jokes and remarks about my thinness rarely bothered me personally, and I always understood that they frequently came from a place of love and familial care, loving intentions do not erase the underlying message being communicated: my body, and my physical presentation, is always available for others to evaluate and critique.
What makes this kind of scrutiny particularly tangled and complicated for Latinas is the sheer contradictory nature of the expectations placed upon us. We are explicitly told to be thin—yet cautioned never to be too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but under no circumstances should we ever be labeled as "fat." We are encouraged to embody a feminine and voluptuous ideal, provided that our stomachs remain entirely flat and our waists impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat and enjoy our food, only to be subtly or overtly criticized if that results in gaining weight. Conversely, we are praised for losing weight, only to be immediately interrogated about whether we are eating enough—a persistent question I have personally heard echoed throughout my entire life. No iteration or version of our bodies is ever simply allowed to just exist as it is.
This cultural backdrop is precisely why the recent public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully and exhaustingly familiar. The scrutiny surrounding the young actress prompted her younger sister, Aliyah, to step forward and publicly support a fan’s message reminding the public that Jenna does not owe anyone an explanation for her body, her weight, or her appearance.
The core idea is simple, foundational, and long overdue: women should never have to explain why their physical forms look the way they do, nor do they need to account for shifts in their health, lifestyle, or aging process. And yet, here we are, still needing to state these basic boundaries aloud. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is ever required to answer.
