New York Times Bestselling author of WOMEN IN WHITE COATS. Writer on women, science, history. Bylines The Atlantic, The Guardian, NY Mag, Smithsonian, HISTORY, Aeon, LitHub. email@example.com
As the drummer beats his rhythm—the heels of his palms resounding against stretched animal hide—I move. I am moved. Arms reach and retract, spine twists and tilts, legs stretch and sweep across the vast, golden wood floor.
Are these mothers going mad or are they actually experiencing something supernatural? Are the demons within or without? Either way, I recognized myself in them.
I am the same person I was before I gained weight. The only thing that’s changed is how society views me.
I was in an archive room at the London School of Economics, staring at 150-year-old documents complete with swirly handwriting and a red-wax seal, when I had a random yet horrifying thought: What if my nose starts bleeding on one of these irreplaceable pages? What would happen if I ruined them?
Salon republished my Undark essay!
“When we turned up at the clinic, pandemonium broke loose.”
When future authors mine our history looking for amazing women in science to profile, what will they find?
Sophia Jex-Blake’s sexuality was an asset in her role as a women’s rights trailblazer.
While most metal pilgrim badges depict religious motifs and scenes related to specific saints and shrines, a not-insignificant number are sexual in nature.
Hannah Woolley is often called the Martha Stewart of the 17th century, but a more apt comparison might be wellness guru Gwyneth Paltrow. That’s because Woolley, author of the first books on household management and cookery published in English, didn’t just provide recipes for eel pie and hot chocolate wine alongside tips on seasonally decorating your mantel with mosses and mushrooms. She also offered up recipes for medicines.
‘I Thought It Was Just a Bad Reaction to My Epidural’: A Mom’s Request for Her Medical Chart Years Later Led to Answers She Didn't Expect
“Relax,” Nurse Kelly says again. She places a pillow in my lap and tells me to flop forward onto it. I don’t have much of a lap left; I’m a week past my due date. My legs dangle over the side of the hospital bed as Kelly splays open the back of my gown. As the anesthesiologist’s needle pierces my back, my shoulders are tensed up to my ears.
It was the 1700s, and France was facing a public health crisis: too many babies were dying in childbirth, especially in the countryside. A particularly panicky priest reported that he believed nearly 200,000 babies were dying each year.