September 24, 2026 – 09:29
The recent public speculation surrounding Jenna Ortega’s appearance has been difficult to watch—not because her physical form requires any sort of explanation, but because the collective response once again highlights how acceptable society still finds it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property, completely open to observation, assessment, and unsolicited criticism.
I have spent most of my life relatively thin, and I am well aware that the comments I receive about my body do not equate to the systemic judgment and discrimination experienced daily by people in larger bodies. Still, this year served as a stark reminder of how deeply we have normalized treating an individual’s weight as public information. After I unintentionally lost a noticeable amount of weight while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—at times finding myself entirely unable to digest more than a single meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began eagerly congratulating me.
Their well-intentioned compliments reflected a culture so deeply committed to thinness that visible, rapid weight loss was automatically perceived as good news, even when it was a physical manifestation of the fact that I was genuinely unwell. 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 candidly about her own struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on Riverdale. Mendes described how receiving praise and compliments when she lost weight—specifically because of her eating disorder—left her profoundly confused. The validation reinforced the toxic idea that she looked her absolute best at her thinnest, even when her physical and mental health were severely compromised.
That remains the fundamental burden of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our bodies ever seems to escape public commentary. We are constantly told we are either too thin, too fat, or simply not curvy enough. People always manage to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express worry over, and living on the receiving end of that relentless scrutiny is profoundly exhausting.
For Latinas, that scrutiny frequently begins at a very tender age. Many of us grow up within families and cultural environments where running commentary about women’s bodies is so thoroughly normalized that we do not always recognize these remarks for what they truly are: blatant boundary violations. One relative will pull you aside to tell you that you have gotten far too skinny, while another is just as quick to point out that you have gained weight, with a tía offering a pointed observation on the size of your thighs or 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. It was almost always delivered as a term of endearment, yet losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform that affectionate moniker into a source of genuine concern and worry. While the casual jokes about my thinness rarely bothered me on a personal level—and I knew completely that they stemmed from a place of love—those loving intentions do not erase the underlying message being communicated: my body is public domain, available for others to evaluate at will.
What makes this constant scrutiny particularly complicated for Latinas is the sheer weight of the contradictory expectations placed upon us. We are instructed by cultural and societal pressures to be thin—but never too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but under no circumstances "fat." We are told to be feminine and voluptuous, provided our stomachs remain entirely flat and our waists stay impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat heartily during family gatherings, only to be covertly criticized if we gain any weight as a result. We are praised for losing weight, immediately followed by anxious inquiries about whether we are eating enough—a persistent question I have personally heard echoed throughout my entire life. No version of our bodies is ever simply allowed to just exist as it is.
That precise dynamic is why the recent public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. Her younger sister, Aliyah, recently stepped forward to support a fan’s message on social media, reminding the public that Jenna simply does not owe anyone an explanation for her body or her weight—a statement that is as undeniably true as it is necessary. The underlying premise is simple: women should never have to justify why their physical forms look the way they do. And yet, here we are in 2026, and we are still forced to state the obvious. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is required to answer.
