Joni Edelman

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

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.

I just listened to my four and six year-old children (one boy, one girl) have a lengthy bathtime conversation about babies, growing up, m

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.

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.

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

When it comes to your physique, your mind can actually work against you.

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

My mother didn't teach me how to be a mother. But my babies did.

Can we just take a pause to consider all of the total fucking bullshit to which we subject ourselves?