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 relentless public response highlights a deeply ingrained cultural problem. It serves as yet another uncomfortable reminder of how acceptable people still find it to discuss women’s bodies as though they are public property, entirely open to relentless observation, intrusive assessment, and unsolicited criticism.
Throughout most of my life, I have been relatively thin, and I am well aware that the comments I receive about my body do not equate to the systemic judgment, barriers, and discrimination experienced by people in larger bodies. Still, this past year served as a stark reminder of how deeply our society has normalized treating an individual’s weight as public information. After I unintentionally lost a noticeable amount of weight while struggling with Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO)—a debilitating health issue that at times left me unable to digest more than a single meal a day—neighbors and acquaintances began offering enthusiastic congratulations.
Their well-meaning compliments reflected a culture so profoundly committed to thinness that visible weight loss is automatically interpreted as good news, even when it is a clear outward symptom that someone is unwell and suffering.
It is hardly any wonder that so many women struggle intensely with body image issues and eating disorders in an environment like this. In a July interview with Jay Shetty, actress Camila Mendes opened up candidly about her own struggles with bulimia, body image, and perfectionism during her time on Riverdale. Mendes described the deep confusion she felt when people praised and complimented her after she lost weight as a direct result of her eating disorder. That praise effectively reinforced the toxic idea that she looked her best at her absolute thinnest, even during periods when she was deeply unwell and struggling to survive.
That is the exhausting reality of navigating the world as a woman: no version of our physical form ever seems to escape unsolicited commentary. We are constantly told we are too thin, too fat, or not curvy enough. People always seem to find something to observe, question, praise, criticize, or express worry about, and it is profoundly exhausting to continually be on the receiving end of that unrelenting scrutiny.
For Latinas, that scrutiny frequently begins at a very tender age. Many of us grow up within families and cultural environments where personal comments about women’s bodies are so heavily normalized that we do not always immediately recognize them as violations of personal boundaries. One relative tells you that you have gotten entirely too skinny, while another is quick to point out that you have gained weight. An tía feels entirely comfortable commenting directly on the size of your thighs or your waist.
Growing up, my girl cousins often told me that I was far too skinny and desperately needed to gain weight. Within my own 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 casual nickname into a source of genuine family concern. While the jokes and comments about my thinness rarely bothered me on a personal level, and I always knew they fundamentally stemmed from love, loving intentions do not erase the underlying, pervasive message: my body is public domain, available for others to evaluate and critique.
What makes this constant scrutiny particularly complicated and inescapable for Latinas is the sheerly contradictory nature of the expectations placed upon us. We are persistently told to be thin—but never too thin. We are expected to be curvy, but under no circumstances "fat." We are pressured to be feminine and voluptuous, provided our stomachs remain entirely flat and our waists impossibly tiny. We are encouraged to eat heartily at family gatherings, 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 questioning dynamic I have personally heard and navigated my entire life. No version of our bodies is ever simply allowed to exist as it is.
That foundational cultural reality 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 analysis regarding her frame, echoing the exact type of invasive surveillance women face daily. Her younger sister, Aliyah, recently stepped in to support a fan’s powerful message reminding the public that Jenna does not owe anyone an explanation for her body, a statement that is as undeniable as it is necessary.
The underlying principle is remarkably simple: women should never have to explain why their bodies look the way they do, whether that appearance is shaped by genetics, stress, lifestyle, or private health struggles. And yet, here we are in 2026, finding ourselves forced to repeat these same fundamental truths. A woman’s body is not a public question that she is required to answer, nor is it a canvas open for public debate.
