From Amy Schumer's growth back to Beyoncé's country, we finally talk about the unhealthy reality of motherhood

WWhen my daughter was born a few years ago, reading helped me understand how to become a mother. The baby books were holding my head – I could not find mine in any of them, and they all seemed to contradict each other with regard to sleep patterns and diet. I needed stories telling the strangeness of pregnancy and childbirth, the violence of sleep deprivation, the confusion of a ripped identity. I wanted to hear other people describe what it was. So instead, I looked at the stories of Adrienne Rich (1976), Rachel Cusk (2001) and Anne Enright (2004).

They made me feel normal. They made me feel less alone. Then, I saw more women writing about the emotional impact of the new maternity ward, from Liz Berry to Rivka Galchen – too numerous to list. An author described this as a bomb in his life and I breathed. Another spoke of the terror of bringing death to the world and a life with open shoulders.

Now that my arrival date is approaching for my second child, I am struck by the rise of complex and taboo stories of motherhood. In recent years, the cannon has grown considerably, in various cultural circles. Just this week, I gave Amy Schumer the opportunity to stand up about her pregnancy (Growth, meh) and watched the Canadian sitcom Working moms (I have preferred The letdown and Tully). In the documentary Back homeBeyoncé revealed that she struggled to find a balance between Coachella and 10-month-old twins, how her mind "wanted to be with my kids" and "there were days when I thought, you know, I would never be the same again. I immersed myself in the podcasts of actress Josie Long and reproductive psychiatrist Alexandra Sacks. I have read moving and bright stories about the maternity of Sinéad Gleeson (constellations) and Francesca Segal (Mother ship).

Segal's memoirs discuss her experience of prematurely giving birth to twin girls and early life in an intensive care unit. It is not a "normal motherhood" because she is separated from her daughters every night, but it remains relatable. "When I'm separated from my daughters, my physical pain becomes almost disabling," she says. She tells him what it is: "the floor was covered with blood" and there is "a trail of vivid footprints as I return to the sink." His descriptions are intimate and beautiful: "There is a burning frog on my chest, a handful of humans". It's the simplest description there is, which seems so radical, as if a shroud had been removed from this human experience.

Why this sudden rush of "mumoirs" now? What need do they fulfill in our society in the late 2010s? One of the goals may be an antidote to pastel fantasies of motherhood on Instagram, the impossible pressure to "have everything" and present a picture of unadorned perfection. Maybe we are tired of the strange silence of pregnancy and childbirth horrified by the body, trauma, emotional eroticism and social pressure to keep the details without more . As maternal mental health problems increase, it is even more necessary to talk about birth trauma, miscarriage, postpartum depression, or psychosis.

Perhaps it is a reaction against the unique misogyny reserved for mothers. Big media coverage at the moment makes Meghan Markle ashamed of her decision to break the royal tradition, give up the postpartum photocall and choose where she wants to give birth (how dare she ?!). Elsewhere, newspapers and magazines salivate those who have lost their baby weight quickly. Women are so often reprimanded in the sphere of parenthood, is not it surprising that it took a while for their voices to be heard?

So this increase in complex narratives is a reason for celebration. It is often said that a village is needed to raise a child and, as Segal writes, "we, as a culture, have lost this village". Instead of looking at generations of families raising their children, new mothers often spend a lot of their time alone and are among the most lonely groups in our society. We are not prepared for the psychological and emotional turbulence, or the mumscence, as Sacks calls it. Baby books and birth clbades seldom mention them. We need stories to free us.

Early motherhood was neither sweet, nor beatific, nor pink tinged for me. It was wild and disorienting and scary, with moments of raw joy. But frankly, I collapsed for a moment. Books, shows and films that told what was happening, who were honest about ambivalence, fear and confusion, were a tonic. Reading a poem by Sharon Olds, just minutes after the long days spent caring for the baby, would put me to the ground.

I am grateful for this new canon of motherhood, but now we must tell other stories. As the New York TimesBook reviewer Parul Seghal writes: "Many of these books (almost all written by white middle-clbad women) seem to be wary of, if not downright disinterested, more deeply involved in how race and clbad influence the world. experience of motherhood. . "Now is the time for a greater diversity of published and broadcast voices. In this way, all mothers can end up in words and stories just like me.