For the past five years or so, I have been an interested observer of a vast unnamed secret club: a large number of women in their 30s who are pregnant, or trying to get pregnant, but don’t want anyone to know.

These women take a sudden interest in drinking “gin and tonics” at the bar, when everyone knows Manhattans are their drink. They have innovative new diets to announce in response to dinner party invitations (“I’m going vegan for January”). They refuse to go on ski trips or bike rides, claiming an undefined illness. The cleverest among them even hide pomegranate juice in the refrigerator — in the right glass, it’s a dead ringer for a cabernet — and sneak to the kitchen for “wine” refills.

A few days ago, I found out I am pregnant. The apps tell me I am six weeks along (from my last period, the date doctors use to calculate how far along a pregnancy is). Yet, despite all the uncertainty, fear, and perhaps even backlash that may come my way for announcing this not just so early but also so publicly, I’m declining membership in the hidden pregnancy club once and for all.

Most pregnancies today stay hidden at least through the first trimester, and sometimes beyond. The reasons vary widely. Some women keep their pregnancies a secret because they fear miscarriages or other complications, including nonviable pregnancies. These possibilities are real — roughly 10 percent to 20 percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage — and many women prefer to stay silent, rather than run the risk of sharing early, only to have to share painful news later.