Joni Edelman

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.”

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.

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

By baby three, well let’s just say things are a little anticlimactic, at least where furnishings are concerned. Hand me down crib. Check.

[CN: suicide, overdose] Gratitude stops me from ending my life, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to end my life. Even the fierce love I have for my family doesn’t mean I don’t feel utterly hopeless sometimes.

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.

My husband and I recently traveled together without our kids for the first time . . . in a while. And it was a brand-new ball game.

Body politics activist. Photographer. Chronic quoter of Monty Python. Unapologetic fat chick.

Are the advances worth the trade-offs? You be the judge.