By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026

The recent public speculation surrounding Jenna Ortega’s physical appearance has been difficult to watch—not because her body requires any public explanation or defense, but because the intense media and online response demonstrates just how acceptable society still finds it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property. Across the internet and in daily conversation, women’s physical forms continue to be treated as open territory 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 in larger bodies. Still, this year has served as a stark reminder of how deeply ingrained our culture’s obsession with weight truly is, and how readily we have normalized treating an individual’s weight as public information.

Earlier this year, I unintentionally lost a noticeable amount of weight while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a painful health condition that at times left me unable to digest more than a single meal a day. Rather than expressing concern or simply keeping their observations to themselves, neighbors and acquaintances began congratulating me on the weight loss. Their seemingly positive compliments reflected a culture so aggressively committed to thinness that visible weight loss is reflexively treated as good news, even when it is a direct indicator of declining health and physical suffering.

This cultural dynamic helps explain 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 candidly about her past struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on the television show Riverdale. Mendes described the deep confusion she felt when people praised her and offered compliments during periods when she was rapidly losing weight because of her eating disorder. That praise reinforced the dangerous and distorted idea that she looked her best at her absolute thinnest, even when she was deeply unwell and suffering behind the scenes.

That, ultimately, is the inescapable reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our bodies ever seems to truly escape commentary or critique. We are constantly told that 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 living on the receiving end of that relentless scrutiny is profoundly exhausting.

For Latinas, that scrutiny frequently begins at a very young age, woven deeply into the fabric of family and social dynamics. Many of us grow up in households and cultural environments where comments about women’s bodies are so thoroughly normalized that we do not always immediately recognize them as boundary violations. One relative tells you that you have gotten too skinny, while another is quick to point out that you have gained weight. An aunt feels entitled to comment on the size of your thighs or your waist. Growing up, my girl cousins frequently told me I was far too skinny and needed to gain weight. In my own family, one of my enduring nicknames has always been flaca. While it was almost always used as a term of endearment, losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform that affectionate moniker into a source of acute family concern.

Jokes about my thinness rarely bothered me on a personal level, and I always knew they came from a place of love and care from the people who raised me. But loving intentions do not magically erase the underlying, pervasive message being transmitted: that my body is fundamentally available for others to evaluate, monitor, and discuss.

What makes this constant scrutiny particularly complicated and exhausting for Latinas is the sheer volume of contradictory expectations placed upon us. Society and culture demand that we be thin—yet warn us never to be too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but under no circumstances should we be considered "fat." We are told to be feminine and voluptuous, provided that our stomachs remain completely flat and our waists remain impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat and enjoy our food, only to be covertly 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 double-edged question I have personally heard echoed my entire life. Across every metric, no version of our bodies is ever simply allowed to exist in peace.

This deeply ingrained cultural phenomenon is precisely why the recent reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar to so many observers. The scrutiny reached a point where her younger sister, Aliyah, recently felt compelled to step in and publicly support a fan’s message reminding the public that Jenna does not owe anyone an explanation for her body or her appearance.

Aliyah’s defense of her sister highlights a boundary that should be obvious, yet still needs repeating: women should never have to explain to the public why their bodies look the way they do, whether that appearance is shaped by genetics, stress, lifestyle, or underlying health conditions. And yet, here we are, still needing to articulate this fundamental truth. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is required to answer.