Joni Edelman

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.

If you decide pit or leg hair isn't a big deal, then bam! It's not a big deal.

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.

Is that incense I smell? A drum circle in the distance perhaps? Chanting? Herbal potions? Perhaps a cauldron? Could it be homebirth?

Actually, no, I'm not a gluttonous moron.

I want my kids to have an understanding of the truth of sex, the ins, the outs, the details no one wants to ask anyone—least of all their mom.

I'll let you in on a little secret - being thin didn't make me happy, but being "Fat" does! Be fat and happy. Be unapologetically fat.

I'll never forget the day I discovered the name for my mental illness.

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.

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.