I’m a Scottish mongrel. I grew up in a village in Fife, but was born in the Scottish Borders to working-class parents. My dad worked in textile mills and mum had various secretarial posts. They grew up on Glasgow council estates and had left school by 16. I was run over by a truck when I was five. I broke my leg, fractured my pelvis, crushed my femoral artery and severed a nerve. I was pavement jam. When the paramedics arrived at the scene and asked how I felt, I said, “Fine, thank you”: that’s what I’d been brought up to say. Looking back, now with my own child, it amazes me my parents didn’t wrap me up in cotton wool afterwards. Twenty years later, I was lying in another hospital bed after breaking my back in three places, jumping headfirst through a window frame, on command, when I was away with the Territorial Army. I did slightly think to myself: “What an idiot. This is the second time.” I had to wear a back brace for three months. Knowledge is not the same as intelligence – and confidence is not ability. It took me ages to work out that other people weren’t any better than me; that the loudest person in the room is not necessarily the smartest. Journalism felt frustrating. It was a privilege asking the questions people want answers to, but I got to the point where it was no longer enough to just see what was going on. I wanted to change things. When I quit the BBC, my mum was appalled I’d left a good job with a pension to try to get elected as a Tory. I have managed clinical depression all my adult life. When I was leading the Scottish Conservatives, I made a conscious decision to talk about it. Part of my depression was survivor guilt, due to the suicide of a friend. It would have really helped me, when I was first diagnosed, to see people in the public eye prepared to be open about such experiences. I thought my condition was going to be very limiting, that I would never get a good job and people would think I was mad. I came out really late, in my mid- to late-20s. I didn’t like myself for a long time and struggled to reconcile my faith with my sexuality. It was only in my mid-30s that I got to a calmer, less restless place. I want to pass on what I’ve learned in life to my five-year-old son and help build his resilience. I want him to feel secure in himself, to know that you can find something hard but do it anyway. And I want him to always know he is loved. An ex described me as a Labrador that needs letting off the lead every day. And it’s true. I absolutely do. Going to bed physically tired – rather than office-tired or mentally tired – makes me happy. The opinion of people outside my immediate family matters less to me now. Having been in the public eye for 15 years, you pay less attention to people calling you names on the internet. I think part of it is ageing: learning to trust yourself more. I am scared of heights. I get a lurch, a wobble in my stomach. It’s gotten worse as I’ve gotten older. But I’ll still go up a ladder. I think it’s good – important, even – to force yourself to do things you are scared of.