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.

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

Being vulnerable, being seen (even lumpy and naked), admitting weakness, asking for help — these acts inspire and edify.

I didn't get a lot of mothering as a child, but when I did, it was from her. She taught me how to sew, how to crochet. She taught me how to stand up for myself, to be tough. She taught me how to make fried chicken and fried okra, which I will never make, because it's fucking gross.

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.

Welcome to #RavsWriters, an opportunity for you to get to know some of the outstanding human beings who fervently type to make Ravishly the aw

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

Silly me, I thought the darn thing took care of itself. Little did I know I was sorely mistaken and had a vagina complex.

Misogyny is pervasive. And my three boys are living it all.

All boobs are good boobs. And all areola too!