Joni Edelman

If you're brave enough to take the DIY Brazilian plunge, these tips are a must-read. As in, tip #6: It hurts, but not more than having a baby. Good to know.

As long as I can remember having paid attention to the media, I can remember a woman's weight—or body in general—being a news story.

When I had my first child, I couldn't have prepared for the way it would make me feel.

Suffering is America’s favorite thing to do. We starve ourselves to lose weight, and we’re a success story. We don’t sleep, and we’re just getting SO MUCH DONE. We do a thousand things a day and involve our kids in a thousand activities, because somehow, in some perverted way, that makes us successful.

And what’s better than eggs? Eggs direct from the cloaca of your own chicken.

It doesn’t get any more difficult to insult ourselves, regardless of how old we are. It would be ideal if it got easier to respect ourselves, but it generally doesn’t do that either. Every year you age, and every year the aging you looks at the you of the years before and thinks, I can’t believe I thought I was fat/ugly/etc.

How do I raise a boy to love and respect all women regardless of size in a world where he is bombarded with images of what is attractive?

When I was little, any time I got an insect bite or stubbed my toe, I had to ask my mom, “Am I going to die? If I was going to die from this, I’d already be dead — right?” I also had a 30-minute prayer that I needed to say at each meal or else everyone would be poisoned and die. And corners. I had to check all of them before I went to bed.

I am tired of taking medication. I am tired of relying on the manufactured versions of the chemicals and hormones my body could — should? — make for itself.

You do not have to hate your body — but you don’t have to love it either. While I'm happy with my fat body, I miss being thin.