September 24, 2026 – 09:29
The recent wave of intense public speculation surrounding Jenna Ortega’s physical appearance has been difficult to watch—not because her body requires any public explanation, but because the reaction once again highlights a deeply ingrained societal comfort with treating women’s bodies as public property. Across media platforms and everyday conversations, women’s physical forms continue to be treated as open to observation, public assessment, and relentless criticism, as though individuals owe the world a justification for how they look.
I have spent the vast majority of my life relatively thin, and I am fully aware that the casual 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 has served as a stark reminder of how deeply our culture has normalized treating a person’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 on the change.
Their well-meaning compliments reflected a culture so profoundly committed to thinness that visible weight loss is reflexively interpreted as good news, even when it is actually an outward sign of physical illness and suffering. When sickness is applauded simply because it results in a smaller frame, it becomes glaringly obvious why so many women struggle with lifelong body image issues and eating disorders.
This toxic dynamic was recently highlighted by actress Camila Mendes. During a July interview with Jay Shetty, Mendes spoke candidly about her past struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on the television series Riverdale. She described the deep confusion she felt when people showered her with praise and compliments after she lost weight due to an active eating disorder. That praise served to reinforce the damaging idea that she looked her absolute best at her thinnest, validating her illness even when she was deeply unwell and suffering behind the scenes.
This dynamic speaks to a broader, exhausting reality for women: no version of our bodies ever seems to truly escape commentary. Society constantly moves the goalposts. We are deemed either too thin, too fat, or not curvy enough to meet arbitrary standards. People always seem to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express artificial worry about, and it is profoundly exhausting to continually be on the receiving end of that intrusive scrutiny.
For Latinas, that scrutiny frequently begins at a very young age. Many of us grow up embedded in families and cultural environments where comments about women’s bodies are so normalized, casual, and constant that we do not always recognize them as direct violations of personal boundaries. One relative will pull you aside to tell you that you have gotten far too skinny, while another is equally quick to point out that you have visibly gained weight. A tía will casually comment on the size of your thighs or the shape of your waist during a family gathering.
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. It was almost always delivered as a term of endearment, yet losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform that affection into a source of palpable concern and anxiety. Jokes and remarks about my thinness rarely bothered me personally, and I always knew they came from a place of love and familial care. But loving intentions do not erase the underlying, pervasive message being communicated: that my body is fundamentally available for others to evaluate, monitor, and critique.
What makes this constant scrutiny particularly complex and frustrating for Latinas is how contradictory the cultural expectations surrounding our bodies truly are. We are constantly told to be thin—yet cautioned never to be too thin. We are encouraged to be curvy, but never labeled as “fat.” We are expected to look feminine and voluptuous, provided that our stomachs remain completely flat and our waists impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to enjoy food and eat heartily during family celebrations, only to be subtly or overtly criticized if that food results in weight gain. We are praised when we lose weight, and immediately cross-examined with anxious questions about whether we are eating enough—a cycle of questioning I have heard echoing around me my entire life. No version of a Latina’s body is ever simply allowed to just exist.
This cultural backdrop is precisely why the recent media and public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The scrutiny she faced prompted her younger sister, Aliyah, to step forward and publicly support a fan’s message reminding the public that Jenna “doesn’t owe anyone an explanation” for her physical appearance or her weight—a statement that is undeniably true.
The core idea is fundamentally simple: women should never have to explain why their bodies look the way they do, whether that appearance is the result of genetics, stress, illness, or personal choice. And yet, here we are in 2026, finding ourselves still needing to state this basic truth out loud. A woman’s body is not a public question, and it is certainly not a riddle she is required to answer for the comfort of others.
