By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026 – 09:29
The recent wave of public speculation regarding Jenna Ortega’s physical appearance has been difficult to watch—not because her body requires any explanation or defense, but because the response demonstrates just how acceptable society still finds it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property. Across social media, entertainment forums, and everyday conversations, women’s physical forms continue to be treated as open invitations for observation, public assessment, and unsolicited criticism.
Having spent most of my life relatively thin, I am well aware that the comments I receive about my body do not equate to the systemic judgment, barriers, and discrimination experienced by people navigating the world in larger bodies. Still, this past year served as a stark reminder of how deeply ingrained our cultural habit is of treating weight as public information. After I unintentionally lost weight while battling Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a painful health condition that at times left me unable to digest more than a single meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began congratulating me.
Their well-meaning compliments reflected a culture so profoundly committed to thinness that visible weight loss is automatically interpreted as good news, even when it is an outward sign of illness and physical distress. It is hardly a wonder that so many women struggle with body image issues and eating disorders in an environment where sickness is frequently mistaken for wellness simply because it fits a preferred aesthetic.
This toxic dynamic was highlighted earlier this year during a July interview with Jay Shetty, in which actress Camila Mendes opened up about her ongoing struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on the television series Riverdale. Mendes described the immense confusion she felt when people praised and complimented her for losing weight during periods when her body was suffering from an eating disorder. That praise served to reinforce the dangerous and deeply flawed idea that she looked her best at her thinnest, even when she was deeply unwell.
That is the persistent reality of existing in the world as a woman: no version of our physical form ever truly seems to escape commentary. We are routinely told we are either too thin, too fat, or not curvy enough. People always seem to find something 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 scrutiny often begins at a very young age. Many of us grow up within families and cultural environments where commenting on women’s bodies is so heavily normalized that we do not always immediately recognize these remarks as boundary violations. One relative will pull you aside to tell you that you have gotten too skinny, while another is quick to point out that you have gained weight, with a tía readily offering a critique of your thighs, hips, or waistline.
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 reality remained: losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform into a major source of family concern. Jokes and remarks about my thinness rarely bothered me personally, and I always knew they stemmed from a place of love and familial care. However, loving intentions do not magically erase the underlying message being communicated, which is that my body remains available for others to evaluate, measure, and discuss.
What makes this constant scrutiny particularly complex for Latinas is the dizzying array of contradictory expectations placed upon us. We are told by society and culture that we must be thin—yet cautioned never to be too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but never labeled as "fat." We are encouraged to present as feminine and voluptuous, provided that our stomachs remain entirely flat and our waists impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat and enjoy our food, only to be immediately criticized if that food results in weight gain. We are praised when the scale drops, and then immediately interrogated about whether we are eating enough—a persistent question I have personally heard echoed throughout my entire life. No version of our physical selves is ever simply allowed to exist as it is.
This background helps explain why the recent public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The discourse surrounding the young actress crossed boundaries into territory that should be entirely off-limits. Fortunately, her family has pushed back against the intrusion. Ortega’s younger sister, Aliyah, recently stepped up to support a fan’s powerful social media message reminding the public that Jenna does not owe anyone an explanation for her body, a sentiment that is undeniably true.
The underlying principle is simple and long overdue: women should never have to explain why their bodies look the way they do, whether that appearance is the result of genetics, a demanding work schedule, a private medical condition, or personal choice. And yet, looking at the cultural landscape, it is disheartening that we still need to reiterate these basic truths. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is required to answer, and it is well past time for the relentless public commentary surrounding women’s weight to come to an end.
