Joni Edelman

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

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

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.

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.

91% of women report dissatisfaction with their body. Ninety-one. I know you know math—that’s 9/10 of women.

I was told that feminism is man hate. That abortion is murder. And then I thought, "What am I doing here?"

My decision to bed-share with my children despite potential SIDS risks has less to do with studies, and more to do with instinct.

Now that I've embarked upon the decade I once considered "old," there are a few things I'd like my 20 (and 30) year-old self to know.

When you push a small human out of your body, things tend to get a little weird.

Don’t most kids feel afraid to come home?