EDINBURGH — Nicola Sturgeon’s long-anticipated memoir Frankly landed on bookshelves earlier than planned this week, offering a frank self-assessment from Scotland’s longest-serving first minister.
The former SNP leader, who guided the country through the pandemic and eight election victories, uses the book to reflect on political triumphs and bruising defeats — including the divisive debate over gender recognition reform that overshadowed her final months in office.
Rancour, Regret and Legislative Lessons
Sturgeon writes that the gender recognition bill — aimed at making it easier to change legal gender — became “a time of rancour and division,” exacerbated by the Isla Bryson prison controversy. Bryson, born Adam Graham, was convicted of rape and initially placed in a women’s prison after self-identifying as female.
“That gave a human face to fears that until then had been abstract for most people,” she admits. In the memoir, Sturgeon concedes she struggled to articulate her position in the aftermath, likening herself to “a rabbit caught in the headlights” when asked if Bryson was a woman.
She now says that “with hindsight” she should have paused the legislation to build greater consensus, and believes a rapist “probably forfeits the right” to self-identify as a woman.
Political Highs and Personal Costs
The book also reveals the toll political life took on her mental health. While not detailing every episode, Sturgeon notes that periods of intense political and media scrutiny left her “drained and diminished,” forcing her to rethink her own resilience and leadership style.
Sturgeon recounts the highs of steering Scotland through Covid-19 and championing independence, but Frankly is notable for its willingness to dwell on misjudgments and lost political capital. “In football parlance,” she writes, “I lost the dressing room.”
A Legacy Reconsidered
The memoir’s release — brought forward after press excerpts circulated — is likely to fuel debate about Sturgeon’s record as first minister and the SNP’s current struggles. While she defends gender self-identification in principle, her admission of tactical missteps could embolden both allies seeking reform and critics who saw the bill as politically tone-deaf.
For Scotland’s political class, Frankly is both a personal confession and a study in how one of the country’s most disciplined operators misread the mood in her final act.
