You would need a heart of Scottish granite not to be moved by Nicola Sturgeon’s autobiography, Frankly.
Frankly, I found parts of it hard to read. Such as her account of being brutally beaten up twice by fellow female pupils at school, and endless smears against her as a politician.
Or being subjected to a secret reign of terror by a disgusting – and sadly, unnamed – Scots politician who nicknamed her “The Gnasher” over a vile and baseless sexual taunt.
Or her fears for her safety after a firestorm was whipped up when her nemesis, author JK Rowling, printed T-shirts denouncing her over trans rights. Or her appalling treatment by her disgraced former mentor Alex Salmond. Or her struggle over her own identity.
There is no smoothing over the inconvenient truth that Sturgeon’s career as SNP leader and Scotland’s first minister – in her terms at least – both ended in failure. She failed to achieve what it says on the SNP tin: win home rule for Scotland.
And she resigned as Scotland’s first minister in humiliation on the eve of a police raid on her house for alleged corruption by her and husband, SNP chief executive Peter Murrell.
To cap it all, her marriage to Murrell collapsed at the same time.
In office, Sturgeon appeared dour and buttoned up. But she has lived up to the title of the book by writing a compelling and candid account of her political and personal struggles.
Most politicians’ memoirs consist of reliving their career highs and lows, claiming credit for all highs and blaming everyone but themselves for all the lows.
Sentiments such as “I was out of touch” or “I should have done it differently” rarely appear in them. Both appear in Sturgeon’s book.
The most striking example is in her description of one of the issues that triggered her downfall: her stand on trans rights.
While defending her overall position, she concedes she misjudged public opinion badly, failing to appreciate the genuine fears of some that it would “erase womanhood”.
With hindsight, she should have called a temporary halt to it straight away, instead of ploughing on in her trademark determined and dogged manner, she says.
The other aspect of the book that stands out is Sturgeon’s account of her inner life.
“I have always struggled to deal with uncertainty in my personal life,” she writes.
Alongside the distress caused by a number of bogus gay smears, from the obscene to the absurd, and vicious fictitious sexual innuendo, she describes several generally happy relationships with men before her marriage.
But she goes on to reveal her guilt at having a miscarriage during her marriage to Murrell when she had private doubts about getting pregnant in the first place.
And she states that she has “never considered sexuality, including my own, to be binary”. Unsurprisingly, this has attracted many headlines.
While I am not suggesting a direct link between the personal and political tensions in her life, it is hard to view them in complete isolation.
For all the conflict Sturgeon has faced, in politics and outside it, the book conveys a clear sense of someone who has found an inner peace.
While two political matters close to her heart – Scottish independence and trans rights – have been set back for now, they will be achieved in time, she says.
And it is apparent that her own heart has found a new contentment. “I have learned to dance in the rain,” she writes.
