By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026
Recent public speculation surrounding Jenna Ortega’s physical appearance has been difficult to watch—not because her body requires any explanation or defense, but because the response highlights just how acceptable people still find it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property. In the eyes of the public and the media, a woman’s physical form remains perpetually open to observation, public assessment, unsolicited concern, and harsh criticism.
This toxic cycle of observation and judgment is something many women know intimately, regardless of their size. 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 by people in larger bodies. Still, recent personal experiences have served as a stark reminder of how deeply our society has normalized treating an individual’s weight and health as public information.
Earlier this year, after unintentionally losing weight while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a condition that at times left me unable to digest more than one 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 treated as good news, completely divorced from whether or not the person is actually healthy or well.
It is hardly any wonder that so many women struggle perennially with body image issues 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 past struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on Riverdale. Mendes described how receiving heavy praise and compliments when she lost weight—driven entirely by her eating disorder—created deep confusion. That praise heavily reinforced the damaging idea that she looked her absolute best at her thinnest, validating her illness even when she was deeply unwell.
This dynamic speaks to a broader truth about the exhausting reality of being a woman: no version of our bodies ever seems to escape commentary. We are routinely deemed too thin, too fat, or simply not curvy enough. People always manage to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express sudden worry over. Being on the receiving end of this constant, unsolicited scrutiny is profoundly exhausting.
For Latinas, that relentless scrutiny frequently begins at a very young age. Many of us grow up embedded in families and cultural environments where personal comments about women’s bodies are so deeply normalized that we do not always recognize them for what they truly are: blatant boundary violations. One relative will tell you that you have gotten far too skinny, while another is immediately quick to point out that you have gained weight. A tía will casually comment on the size of your thighs or the width of your waist.
Growing up, my own girl cousins frequently told me that I was too skinny and desperately needed to gain weight. Within my 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 affection into a source of intense family concern. While the jokes and comments about my thinness rarely bothered me on a personal level, and while I understood they usually came from a place of deep love, loving intentions do not erase the underlying message being communicated: my body is available for others to evaluate, monitor, and discuss.
What makes this cultural scrutiny particularly complicated for Latinas is the web of contradictory expectations that surround us. We are continuously told to be thin—but never too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but under no circumstances "fat." We are nudged to be feminine and voluptuous, provided our stomachs remain entirely flat and our waists impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to enjoy food, only to be criticized the moment weight is gained. We are praised for dropping pounds, only to be immediately cross-examined about whether we are eating enough—a persistent question I have personally heard echoed throughout my entire life. Across all these shifting metrics, no version of our bodies is simply allowed to exist.
This complex backdrop is precisely why the recent media and public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The young actress faced a wave of unwarranted speculation regarding her appearance, prompting her younger sister, Aliyah, to step forward and support a fan’s message reminding the public that Jenna “doesn’t owe anyone an explanation” for her body.
Aliyah’s statement struck a chord because the underlying principle is remarkably simple: women should never have to explain why their physical forms look the way they do. And yet, looking at the cultural landscape, we are still forced to state the obvious. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is required to answer, assess, or defend.
