If you are reading this, it means that I have just become a mother. For reasons of practicality, and superstition, I am writing this column in advance. I am currently 29 weeks pregnant, just into my third trimester, but this will not run until, all being well, my baby is born. Born, too – hopefully less painfully – is this series, The Republic of Parenthood, which will hopefully speak to other parents, and examine some of the philosophical, political and cultural issues around modern parenthood. I chose the name to honour The Republic of Motherhood, a beautiful poem by Liz Berry that evokes the feeling of which many new mothers speak; of joining a new society, almost, which feels like a closed-off state separate from the rest of the world, one that necessitates the learning of new rules and customs: “I stood with my sisters in the queues of Motherhood – the weighing clinic, the supermarket – waiting for Motherhood’s bureaucracies to open their doors. As required, I stood beneath the flag of Motherhood and opened my mouth although I did not know the anthem.” For Berry, the Republic of Motherhood is “a wild queendom”, and, though I feel her words deeply, I wanted this series to include fathers, and families of all shapes and sizes. Hence: parenthood. I also chose the name semi-ironically, for though parenthood may feel like a separate state to some, we are all, ultimately, part of a collective, a community. It seems to be that problems arise when we fail to acknowledge the role parents play in that and – vice versa – the part played by those who are childless and child-free (two slightly different things, as I will come to explore). So I hope this series speaks, too, to non-parents, and helps to foster solidarity between us all, whatever our choices. It is easy to say that everything about pregnancy and motherhood has been written already, and certainly I am joining a crowded field. Accordingly, I promise not to write as though I am the first woman to ever have given birth to a child, nor can I really profess to know anything. I can be honest, but I cannot be didactic, because I am a complete novice. This is all also sounding rather earnest, so I also promise not to take myself too seriously. So much writing about parenthood feels to me to be po-faced, moralistic in tone, painfully middle-class and passé. Very little of it seems to speak to parents of my generation and younger, who face unique struggles in addition to all the usual challenges, during an unprecedented societal moment and with a moral panic about the birthrate humming in the background. For example, last night I read a couple of newspaper articles that talked about home decoration for parents. Both assumed that everyone lives in a giant Victorian terrace, recommending lethally expensive furniture and accessories – cot canopies costing more than £100, a smart cot that “sleep-trains” your baby, retailing at more than a grand – and featuring quotes from influencers and mummy bloggers. As someone who lives in a rented flat and, with the best will in the world, has zero interest in following these women, I thought there might be some writing out there that spoke to me during my pregnancy. But there was very little. And there must be others like me, who are spending their days in a state of near constant bemusement and frustration. Instead, I have turned to older female writers, to Rachel Cusk, Anne Enright, Maggie O’Farrell, Rebecca Walker, Adrienne Rich, Elena Ferrante and Audre Lorde, for inspiration. It’s been a strange time to be pregnant: in the middle of a pandemic, though at a stage, thankfully, when vaccines have been available. It has meant that, while others have returned to an approximation of normal life, those who are pregnant and their partners are still living in varying degrees of lockdown. Even when we’ve had the jab, the advice is to be extra careful, and no one wants to risk their baby’s health or, should their partner catch Covid, being unable to be present at the birth. I have been lucky to have a pregnancy that has mostly been happy and healthy, but at times it has also felt curiously lonely. Reading and writing about it has helped, and I hope will continue to do so. When I showed my mother the poem The Republic of Motherhood, she praised it, but she also said: “It isn’t like this, you know, for everyone.” It was my first glimpse of a gulf between those who have struggled in parenthood, and those who have thrived. I have friends in both camps, and at this stage have no idea where I will fall: perhaps, like many people, somewhere in between. This is why it is important to stress that I do not believe my experience to be that of anyone else, and the purpose of this column is not to alienate, but to include. Our experiences may all be different, but we have much in common, whether we are parents or are contemplating parenthood, or have decided against it, or crave it desperately only to be thwarted. Wherever you fall, I hope this column speaks to you. And I hereby promise that I will never subject you to a single anecdote about changing my baby’s nappy. Well, not unless it’s really, really funny. What’s working: As I write this, I have not slept through the night for seven weeks (so much for “sleep while you can”), mostly because I simply cannot get comfortable. I have tried shoring myself up with piles and piles of feather pillows, but the only thing that seems to truly give my aching hips and back some relief is a pregnancy pillow (mine is from BellaMoon, and is like a giant, squishy croissant that you straddle, supporting you to sleep on your side). It isn’t cheap and takes up roughly the same space in the bed as a person, but, if it saves my aching back, I’m a convert. What isn’t: My friend recommended I tried hypnobirthing, but many of the “positive birth stories” are along the following lines: “During my home birth, I was bleeding out all over the living room floor. The midwife recommended that I go to hospital, but, using what I learned in hypnobirthing, I resisted all attempts at medical intervention.” Some may find these stories comforting: I really, really don’t. Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a Guardian columnist and author