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.

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.

As a former Mormon, the Church's revelation that they're going to start “loving and accepting” the LGBT community makes me laugh. Hard.

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

You can work your butt off and still be left with a tummy. Bummer.

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

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

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.

No, Bill Cosby isn't my dad. But he was like one to me growing up.

Psychiatric illness is still stigmatized. And that’s hard when you have a psychiatric illness.