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 explanation or defense, but because the intense response demonstrates just how acceptable society still finds it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property. Day after day, public figures and everyday women alike find themselves subjected to an uninvited level of observation, assessment, and sharp criticism regarding their weight, shape, and overall appearance.

Having spent most of my life relatively thin, I am acutely 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, this past year served as a stark reminder of how deeply ingrained our culture is in treating weight as public information open to general commentary. After experiencing unintentional weight loss while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a condition that at times left me unable to properly digest more than a single meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began offering enthusiastic congratulations.

Their well-meaning compliments laid bare 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 poor health and underlying illness.

This cultural dynamic helps explain why so many women struggle intensely with body image issues and eating disorders. During a candid interview in July with Jay Shetty, actress Camila Mendes opened up about her own historical struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on Riverdale. Mendes described the immense confusion she felt upon receiving praise and compliments when she lost weight due to her eating disorder. That external validation reinforced the toxic idea that she looked her best when she was at her thinnest, even during periods when her physical and mental health were severely compromised.

That is the persistent reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our physical form seems to escape commentary. We are constantly told we are either too thin, too fat, or 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 on women’s bodies is so deeply normalized that we do not always recognize these remarks as boundary violations. One relative pulls you aside to tell you that you have become entirely too skinny, while another is quick to point out that you have gained weight, with a tía offering unsolicited critiques on the size of your thighs or waist.

Growing up, my girl cousins often told me that I was too skinny and urgently 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 into a major source of family concern. Although jokes and remarks about my thinness rarely bothered me personally—and I knew they typically stemmed from a place of genuine love—those loving intentions do not erase the underlying message being communicated: that my body remains available for others to evaluate, measure, and judge.

What makes this constant scrutiny particularly complicated for Latinas is the web of contradictory expectations placed upon us. We are instructed to be thin, but never too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but never labeled as "fat." Society demands that we remain feminine and voluptuous, provided our stomachs are completely flat and our waists remain tiny. We are encouraged to eat and enjoy our food, only to be criticized the moment we gain weight. 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. Across the board, no version of our bodies is simply allowed to exist.

This complex cultural backdrop is precisely why the recent reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The young actress found herself at the center of intense public commentary regarding her appearance, prompting her younger sister, Aliyah, to step forward and voice support for a fan’s message. Aliyah reminded the public that Jenna does not owe anyone an explanation for her body, a sentiment that is both undeniably true and desperately needed.

The core idea is remarkably simple: women should never have to explain why their physical bodies look the way they do. And yet, looking across the cultural landscape, we are still forced to repeat these foundational truths. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is required to answer.