By Johanna Ferreira
September 24, 2026
The recent wave of public speculation regarding 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. Across social media, entertainment outlets, and everyday conversations, women’s bodies continue to be treated as open forums, available for observation, assessment, and unsolicited criticism.
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, marginalization, and discrimination experienced by people living in larger bodies. Still, this past year served as a stark reminder of how deeply our society has normalized treating weight as public information. After I unintentionally lost a noticeable amount of weight while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a painful health condition that at times left me unable to digest more than a single meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began congratulating me.
Their well-intentioned compliments reflected a culture so intensely committed to thinness that visible weight loss is automatically categorized as good news, even when it is an outward sign of physical illness and suffering. It underscores a pervasive cultural blind spot: we are so conditioned to praise thinness that we rarely pause to consider whether the person in question is actually healthy or struggling behind closed doors.
It comes as little surprise that so many women grapple with lifelong body image distress and eating disorders in an environment governed by such warped metrics. During a candid July interview with Jay Shetty, actress Camila Mendes opened up about her own historical struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on the hit television series Riverdale. Mendes described how profoundly confusing it was to receive praise and compliments from people when she lost weight as a direct result of her eating disorder. That reinforcement sent a damaging psychological message, validating the false idea that she looked her absolute best at her thinnest, even during periods when she was deeply unwell and physically depleted.
That is the exhausting reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our physical form ever seems to escape commentary. We are perpetually deemed either too thin, too fat, or not curvy enough. Society always manages to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or worry about, and being on the receiving end of that unrelenting scrutiny takes a heavy psychological toll.
For Latinas, that scrutiny frequently begins at a very young age, woven deeply into the fabric of family dynamics and cultural upbringing. Many of us grow up in households where comments about women’s bodies are so normalized that we do not always recognize them for what they truly are: boundary violations disguised as familial familiarity. One relative tells you that you have grown too skinny; another is quick to point out that you have gained weight, with an tía readily offering a critique of your thighs or your waist.
Growing up, my girl cousins frequently told me that I was too skinny and urgently needed to gain weight. Within my own family, one of my enduring nicknames has always been flaca. It was almost always delivered as a term of endearment, yet losing even a few pounds could suddenly transform that affectionate label into a source of palpable worry and anxiety. Jokes and remarks about my thinness rarely bothered me personally, and I always understood that they typically stemmed from a place of love and familial care. But loving intentions do not erase the underlying, pervasive message being communicated: my body is public domain, available for others to evaluate, measure, and monitor.
What makes this particular brand of scrutiny especially complicated and insidious for Latinas is the web of contradictory expectations that surround us. We are constantly instructed to be thin—but never too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but under no circumstances "fat." We are pressured to embody a feminine and voluptuous ideal, provided our stomachs remain entirely flat and our waists impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat hearty meals during family gatherings, only to be subtly or overtly criticized if that food results in visible weight gain. Conversely, we are praised for losing weight, only to be immediately interrogated about whether we are eating enough—a persistent question I have personally heard echoed throughout my entire life. No version of our bodies is ever simply allowed to just exist.
This complex cultural backdrop is precisely why the recent public reaction to Jenna Ortega’s body felt so painfully familiar. The young actress found herself subjected to intense digital gossip and unsolicited health diagnoses based entirely on her physical appearance. Fortunately, her family has stepped in to push back against the noise. Ortega’s younger sister, Aliyah, recently voiced support for a fan’s 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 core principle at stake is simple and absolute: women should never have to explain why their bodies look the way they do, whether that appearance is the result of genetics, lifestyle, stress, or private health struggles. And yet, the fact that we still need to reiterate this basic truth serves as a sobering reminder of how far we still have to go. A woman’s body is not a public question she is ever required to answer.
