By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026

The recent public speculation surrounding Jenna Ortega’s physical appearance has been profoundly difficult to watch—not because her body requires any public explanation or defense, but because the relentless media and internet response serves as a glaring reminder of how acceptable people still find it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property. In contemporary society, women’s physical forms remain wide open to constant observation, unsolicited assessment, and harsh criticism, stripping them of basic autonomy and privacy.

Having spent the majority of my life relatively thin, I am well aware that the passing comments and remarks I receive about my own body are not equivalent to the systemic judgment, weight stigma, and discrimination experienced daily by people in larger bodies. Still, this past year served as a stark personal reminder of how deeply our culture has normalized treating personal weight and health as public information available for broad commentary.

After I unintentionally experienced significant weight loss while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a painful condition that at times left me entirely unable to digest more than a single meal a day—neighbors, acquaintances, and even casual observers began offering enthusiastic congratulations. Their well-meaning compliments reflected a culture so deeply and toxically committed to thinness that visible weight loss was automatically interpreted as good news, even when it was a physical manifestation of sickness and a clear sign that I was fundamentally unwell.

It is hardly any wonder that so many women struggle intensely with body image issues, self-esteem, and severe eating disorders in an environment with such distorted values. In a candid interview with Jay Shetty, actress Camila Mendes opened up about her own historical struggles with bulimia, body image distortion, and perfectionism during her time on the hit television series Riverdale. Mendes described the deep confusion she felt when receiving praise and compliments from people after losing weight due to her eating disorder. That misguided validation heavily reinforced the dangerous internal idea that she looked her absolute best at her thinnest, even when she was suffering internally and was deeply unwell.

That, ultimately, is the exhausting reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our physical selves ever seems to escape unsolicited commentary. Women are perpetually categorized as being too thin, too fat, or conversely, not curvy enough. Society always manages to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express unwarranted worry about. Living on the receiving end of that unrelenting scrutiny is emotionally and mentally exhausting.

For Latinas, that intense cultural scrutiny often begins at a very young age. Many of us grow up embedded within family structures and cultural environments where personal comments about women’s bodies are so thoroughly normalized that we do not always immediately recognize them as violations of personal boundaries. One relative will casually tell you that you have gotten far too skinny, while another is equally quick to point out that you have visibly gained weight—a tía feels completely free to critique the size of your thighs or the shape of your waist.

Growing up, my own girl cousins frequently told me that I was far 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 intended and delivered as a term of endearment, losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform that affectionate moniker into a source of genuine family concern and anxiety. While lighthearted jokes or comments about my thinness rarely bothered me on a personal level, and I understood they almost always stemmed from a place of deep familial love, loving intentions do not ultimately erase the underlying message being communicated: that my body remains perpetually available for others to evaluate, measure, and judge.

What makes this kind of ongoing scrutiny particularly complex and frustrating for Latinas is the web of completely contradictory expectations that surround us. We are constantly told to be thin—yet cautioned never to be too thin. We are encouraged to be curvy, but never labeled as "fat." We are expected to look feminine and voluptuous, provided that our stomachs remain completely flat and our waists impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to enjoy food and participate fully in cultural gatherings, only to be covertly criticized if we gain weight as a result. We are praised for losing weight, immediately followed by anxious inquiries about whether we are eating enough—a persistent question that I, like countless other women, have heard echoed throughout my entire life. No version of our physical selves is ever simply allowed to exist in peace.

This toxic dynamic is precisely why the recent public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The young actress faced a wave of unwarranted online speculation regarding her frame, sparking widespread debates across social media platforms. In response to the noise, her younger sister, Aliyah, recently stepped up to support a fan’s message on social media, reminding the public that Jenna “doesn’t owe anyone an explanation” for her body, her health, or her appearance.

Aliyah’s statement is entirely correct, pointing to a fundamental truth that should require no defense: women simply should not have to explain to strangers why their bodies look the way they do. And yet, here we are in 2026, finding ourselves forced to reiterate this basic premise. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is required to answer, nor is it a canvas open to public debate.