Joni Edelman

The Interent is ugly sometimes. And raising kids using it doesn't always make it easier.

As the mother of three teens, I'm here to tell you: You have nothing to freak out about.

My cocktail is wrong. It’s a gin and tonic with only gin. It’s a martini with 10 olives. And I can’t stand the sun. Not today. Not this month.

So you fed your baby some formula instead of breast milk. His future is not shot. Really. It's not—and The Guilt serves no one.

I don’t think of myself as fat. Not inside, anyway.

As a celebration of the Ravishly community, we welcome you to #RavsReaders, a weekly feature where we'll spotlight one of our beloved readers.

Compassion for myself is not a thing I do. It is not a thing I have ever done. It is not a thing I feel comfortable doing. It's time I stop for compassion.

“I don’t even know what to say, Joni. Your baby isn’t alive.”

When I heard about accusations that Lena sexually abused her sister, I was astonished. And my visceral emotional reaction prompted powerful questions.

It's #STDAwareness week here at Ravishly. We're kicking it off with this handy chart!