By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026
The recent wave of public speculation concerning Jenna Ortega’s appearance has been deeply difficult to watch—not because her physical form requires any explanation or justification, but because the reaction underscores a grim societal reality. It demonstrates just how acceptable people still find it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property, entirely open to observation, public assessment, and unsolicited criticism.
For most of my life, I have been relatively thin. I am acutely aware that the comments I receive about my body do not equate to the systemic judgment, marginalization, and discrimination experienced by people inhabiting larger bodies. Still, recent months have served as a persistent reminder of how deeply ingrained our cultural habit is of treating weight as public information. After I unintentionally lost a noticeable amount of weight while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a debilitating condition that at times left me unable to digest more than a single meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began to congratulate me.
Their well-meaning compliments reflected a culture so intensely committed to thinness that visible weight loss is reflexively treated as inherently good news, even when it is an outward symptom of a person not being well. This paradox lies at the heart of why so many women struggle intensely with body image and eating disorders throughout their lives. In 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 Riverdale. Mendes described the immense confusion she felt when people praised and complimented her during periods when she had lost weight due to her eating disorder. That praise served to reinforce the dangerous idea that she looked her absolute best at her thinnest, even when her body was failing and she was deeply unwell.
That is the relentless reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our physical selves ever seems to escape commentary, projection, or critique. We are perpetually told we are either too thin, too fat, or simply not curvy enough. People always seem to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express worry over, and living on the receiving end of that unrelenting scrutiny is profoundly exhausting.
For Latinas, that scrutiny often begins at a very young age. Many of us grow up embedded in families and broader cultural environments where comments about women’s bodies are so thoroughly normalized that we do not always immediately recognize them as violations of personal boundaries. One relative pulls you aside to tell you that you have gotten too skinny, while another is just as quick to point out that you have gained weight. A tía will unhesitatingly comment on the shape of your thighs or the width of your waist during a family gathering.
Growing up, my girl cousins frequently told me that I was too skinny and urgently 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 message was inescapable: losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform a casual moniker into a focal point of family anxiety and concern. Jokes about my thinness rarely bothered me on the surface, and I always understood they typically stemmed from a place of love and care. But loving intentions do not magically erase the underlying message being communicated, which is that my body is fundamentally available for others to evaluate, monitor, and discuss.
What makes this kind of scrutiny particularly complex and frustrating for Latinas is the sheerly contradictory nature of the cultural expectations placed upon us. We are continuously instructed to be thin—yet admonished never to be too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but under no circumstances should we be considered "fat." We are told to embody a feminine and voluptuous ideal, provided our stomachs remain entirely flat and our waists impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat heartily during family meals, only to be subtly criticized later for any resulting weight gain. We are praised when we lose weight, immediately followed by anxious inquiries about whether we are eating enough—a cycle of questioning I have witnessed and experienced my entire life. No version of our physical existence is ever simply allowed to just be.
This systemic dynamic is precisely why the recent public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The scrutiny surrounding the young actress escalated to a point where her younger sister, Aliyah, recently felt compelled to publicly support a fan’s message on social media. That message served as a vital reminder to the public that Jenna “doesn’t owe anyone an explanation” for her appearance or weight fluctuations—a statement that is as undeniable as it is necessary.
The core premise remains wonderfully simple: women should never have to explain why their bodies look the way they do, whether those changes are due to genetics, stress, illness, or personal choice. And yet, here we are, still needing to state this fundamental truth out loud. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is ever required to answer.
