By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026
The recent public speculation surrounding Jenna Ortega’s appearance has been difficult to watch—not because her physical form requires any explanation or defense, but because the response demonstrates just how acceptable society still finds it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property. Across social media platforms, entertainment news outlets, and everyday conversations, women’s physical presentations remain open to constant observation, aggressive 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 and discrimination experienced daily by people living in larger bodies. Still, this year served as a jarring reminder of how deeply we have 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 well-meaning compliments reflected a culture so profoundly committed to thinness that visible weight loss was automatically interpreted as good news, even when it was a physical manifestation of illness and a clear sign that I was not well. This cultural conditioning explains why so many women struggle intensely with body image and eating disorders. During 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 profound confusion she felt when people praised and complimented her after she lost weight as a direct result of her eating disorder. That praise inadvertently reinforced the toxic idea that she looked her best at her absolute thinnest, even when her body was suffering and she was profoundly unwell.
That is the relentless reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our physical selves ever seems to escape commentary or subjective grading. We are routinely told we are too thin, too fat, or not curvy enough. People always seem to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express concern over, and it is fundamentally exhausting to constantly be on the receiving end of that intrusive scrutiny.
For Latinas, that scrutiny frequently begins at a very tender age. Many of us grow up embedded in family dynamics and cultural environments where personal comments about women’s bodies are so heavily normalized that we do not always recognize them 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. Tías routinely comment on the size of your thighs or the width of your waist. Throughout my upbringing, 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 almost always intended as a term of endearment, losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform that affection into a source of acute public concern. Jokes about my thinness rarely bothered me on a personal level, and I understood entirely that they stemmed from a place of love and familial care. However, loving intentions do not erase the underlying, pervasive message being communicated: that my body—and by extension, the bodies of all women—is perpetually available for others to evaluate, measure, and critique.
What makes this kind of scrutiny particularly complex and frustrating for Latinas is the web of contradictory expectations that surrounds us from generation to generation. We are told to be thin—yet cautioned never to be too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but never labeled as “fat.” We are pressured to embody a feminine and voluptuous ideal, provided that our stomachs remain completely flat and our waists impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat and enjoy our food, only to be subsequently criticized if that food results in weight gain. We are praised for losing weight, yet immediately interrogated about whether we are eating enough—a persistent question I have personally heard echoed my entire life. No version of our physical selves is ever simply allowed to exist.
This deeply ingrained cultural phenomenon is precisely why the recent reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The young actress found herself subjected to a fresh wave of invasive internet commentary regarding her appearance, prompting her younger sister, Aliyah, to step in. Aliyah recently supported a viral fan message reminding the public that Jenna “doesn’t owe anyone an explanation” for her body—a statement that is as undeniable as it is necessary.
The underlying principle is remarkably simple: women should never have to explain why their bodies look the way they do, nor should they have to account for fluctuations in their weight, health, or appearance. And yet, here we are, still needing to voice these basic truths. A woman’s physical body is not a public question that she is ever required to answer.
