Joni Edelman

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.

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.

Help. Me. Please. And by help me, I mean, bring me my jumbo size jar of

Our relationship has been a little complicated. I've loved you a lot, and I've loathed you at least that much, but mostly you've just gone unnoticed. Except for those 5 to 7 days every four weeks when you made your presence quite evident, what with the river of life blood and the random excruciating, and from what I can tell, unnecessary, contractions.

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

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

More and more programs are offering services to help companies support and retain women during their maternity transition.

With the help of the midwife—and immense effort on my part—Ella finally slid out into the water. But she was limp, pale. It was scary.

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

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.