By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026
The recent public speculation surrounding Jenna Ortega’s appearance has been difficult to watch—not because her body requires an explanation, but because the response shows how acceptable people still find it to discuss women’s bodies as though they’re public property, open to observation, assessment, and criticism.
This relentless wave of commentary often hits public figures the hardest, but it is part of a broader cultural obsession that affects women everywhere. I have spent most of my life relatively thin, and I know that the comments I receive about my body aren’t equivalent to the systemic judgment and discrimination experienced by people in larger bodies. Still, recent experiences have reminded me how deeply we’ve normalized treating weight as public information.
After I unintentionally lost weight while struggling with SIBO—sometimes unable to digest more than one meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began congratulating me. Their compliments reflected a culture so committed to thinness that visible weight loss was seen as good news, even when it showed I wasn’t well. This paradoxical praise highlights a dangerous societal blind spot where health is completely secondary to the aesthetic ideal of being small.
It is no wonder that so many women struggle with body image and eating disorders in this climate. In a July interview with Jay Shetty, actress Camila Mendes described how receiving compliments when she lost weight because of her eating disorder confused her. The praise reinforced the idea that she looked best at her thinnest, even when she was deeply unwell and suffering physically and mentally.
That is the persistent burden of being a woman in the public eye and in everyday life: No version of our bodies seems to escape commentary. We are constantly told we are too thin, too fat, or not curvy enough. People always find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or worry about, and it is entirely exhausting to be on the receiving end of that unrelenting scrutiny.
For Latinas, that scrutiny often begins when we are young, woven into the very fabric of family and social dynamics. Many of us grow up in environments where comments about women’s bodies are so deeply normalized that we do not always recognize them as violations of personal boundaries. One relative tells you that you’ve gotten too skinny, while another is quick to point out that you’ve gained weight. A tía might casually comment on your thighs or your waistline during a family gathering.
Growing up, my girl cousins often told me I was too skinny and needed to gain weight. In my family, one of my nicknames has always been flaca. It was usually deployed as a term of endearment, yet losing even a few pounds could suddenly become a source of intense concern and alarm. Jokes about my thinness rarely bothered me on the surface, and I knew they often came from a place of love and familial care. But loving intentions do not erase the underlying message embedded in those words: My body is available for others to evaluate, measure, and discuss.
What makes this scrutiny particularly complicated for Latinas is how contradictory the expectations can be. We are told to be thin—but never too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but never considered "fat." We are encouraged to be feminine and voluptuous, provided our stomachs are completely flat and our waists remain tiny. We are encouraged to eat heartily, and then criticized for gaining any weight. We are praised for losing weight, only to be immediately asked whether we are eating enough—a confusing double standard I have heard echoed my entire life. No version of our bodies is simply allowed to exist in peace.
That is precisely why the recent reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The young actress found herself at the center of unsolicited internet commentary regarding her weight and physical appearance, prompting a necessary defense from her family. Her younger sister, Aliyah, recently supported a fan’s message reminding people online that Jenna "doesn’t owe anyone an explanation" for her body, a statement that rings entirely true.
The underlying principle is simple and long overdue: Women shouldn’t have to explain why their bodies look the way they do, whether that appearance is shaped by genetics, stress, medical conditions, or personal choice. And yet, in 2026, we still find ourselves needing to state the obvious. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is required to answer.
