By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026
The recent wave of public speculation and commentary regarding actress Jenna Ortega’s appearance has been difficult to watch. It is distressing not merely because a young woman’s physical form is suddenly open to global debate, but because the ongoing discourse highlights a much larger, systemic issue. Namely, it demonstrates how socially acceptable people still find it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property, entirely open to observation, public assessment, and relentless criticism.
This invasive culture of surveillance affects women across all walks of life, turning private health realities and natural variations in weight into fodder for public consumption. 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 in larger bodies. Still, this year served as a stark 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)—a painful condition that at times left me unable to digest more than a single meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began congratulating me. Their enthusiastic compliments reflected a culture so intensely committed to thinness that visible weight loss is reflexively interpreted as good news, even when it is a direct indicator of declining health and physical distress.
It is hardly any wonder that so many women struggle intensely with body image and eating disorders in an environment with such distorted values. In a July interview with Jay Shetty, actress Camila Mendes opened up about her ongoing struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on the television show Riverdale. Mendes described the immense confusion she felt upon receiving compliments when she lost weight due to her eating disorder. That misplaced praise reinforced the deeply damaging idea that she looked her best at her absolute thinnest, even during periods when she was deeply unwell and suffering physically and mentally.
That is the exhausting reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our physical form seems to escape commentary, projection, or unsolicited opinion. We are constantly told that we are either too thin, too fat, or not curvy enough. Society always manages to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or worry about. Being on the receiving end of that constant, inescapable scrutiny is profoundly draining.
For Latinas, that cultural scrutiny often begins at a remarkably young age. Many of us grow up within families and communities where commentary on women’s bodies is so deeply normalized that we do not always immediately recognize these remarks as fundamental boundary violations. One relative pulls you aside to tell you that you have gotten too skinny, while another is quick to point out that you have gained weight. A tía casually comments on the size of your thighs or the width of your waist.
Growing up, my girl cousins frequently told me I was too skinny and needed to gain weight. In my own family, one of my enduring nicknames has always been flaca. While it was usually deployed as a term of endearment, the reality remains that losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform a term of affection into a source of visible concern and anxiety. While jokes and comments 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. That persistent messaging establishes a clear premise: my body is available for others to evaluate, measure, and discuss.
What makes this particular brand of scrutiny especially complicated for Latinas is the web of contradictory expectations that surround us. We are explicitly told to be thin, but warned not to be too thin. We are encouraged to be curvy, but never to be "fat." Society demands that we remain feminine and voluptuous, provided that our stomachs are completely flat and our waists are impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat hearty meals during family gatherings, only to be subtly or overtly criticized for gaining any weight as a result. We are praised for losing weight, and then immediately interrogated about whether we are eating enough—a cycle of questioning I have personally heard my entire life. No version of our bodies is simply allowed to exist in peace.
This toxic dichotomy is precisely why the recent public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The scrutiny surrounding the young actress prompted her younger sister, Aliyah, to recently step in and support a fan’s powerful message online. That message served as a vital reminder to the public that Jenna "doesn’t owe anyone an explanation" for her body, a sentiment that is both entirely accurate and desperately needed.
The core idea is beautifully simple: women should never have to explain why their physical forms look the way they do, nor should they have to justify fluctuations in their weight, health status, or appearance to strangers on the internet. And yet, here we are in 2026, finding ourselves forced to repeat these fundamental truths. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is ever required to answer.
