The courage it took for Nicola Sturgeon to announce that she had suffered a miscarriage a few years ago is impressive. Brave enough, you’d think, to be at the helm of a country during one of the most politically charged periods of the past half century. Extraordinarily gutsy, too, to step with such assurance onto the world platform and represent this nation in a bear-baiting arena where no slip goes unpunished. Yet to have revealed something so personal and painful is a measure of the First Minister’s spirit. It also points to the awareness that, in an age where those of her status are under a merciless spotlight, everything she does, or appears not to do, matters.

Ms Sturgeon has indicated that she broke this news because she does not want young women to assume that, in order to scale the heights of a profession, they must sacrifice ordinary life and aspirations. “If the miscarriage hadn’t happened, would I be First Minister now?” she reflected. “I’d like to think yes.”

It is, of course, an unanswerable question. Giving birth for some is a temporary career blip and they are back at the desk within weeks or even days. For others, it is the emotional and physical equivalent of looping the loop in a Spitfire, turning everything on its head. After the new arrival, life as it was before can never be resumed, and nor would they want it to be.

Judging from what we can gauge of Ms Sturgeon’s personality, and her marriage, I suspect she might very well have juggled motherhood with the foremost position of state and still appeared on the steps of Bute House looking as if she keeps a team of stylists chained to the radiators. Judging, however, is a word we must learn to be wary of. If the First Minister’s openness is intended to achieve anything, it is that none of us should make assumptions about anybody, least of all women in the public eye.

Since Tory leadership candidate Andrea Leadsom earned the sobriquet Loathsome for suggesting that as a mum she had more of a stake in the country’s future than her rival Theresa May, much has been said about the age-old criticism that female politicians, and women in general, face when they do not have children. Those high fliers who consider themselves childless rather than child-free – who would have loved to start a family, but for whatever reason were unable to – are doubly condemned. To onlookers, the absence of a pram in the hall is read as cold calculation, implying their career comes first. Under this kangaroo court of ignorant assumption anyone who, like Ms Sturgeon, must hide profound regret and sorrow has thus to endure public prejudice as well as private hurt. The injustice is cruel.

Some time ago, when the number of childless women politicians was in the headlines, my editor suggested I write about it. As well as considering Angela Merkel, Theresa May and Ms Sturgeon, he said, could I discuss why I too had never had children. It is one of very few occasions when I was speechless. I sat at my desk, unable to write, thinking about a subject that many in a similar position could no more share with strangers than we would post naked images of ourselves on Snapchat. Yet when it comes to women on the world stage, or who are in prominent roles within their profession, it seems everybody thinks they have a right to inquire. I have lost count how often at parties I have been asked, not what job I do, or where I live, but do I have children? As ice-breakers go, it is like stepping into an igloo. When I reply, my expression is probably even frostier.

For a handful of women, the child-free home is a calculated choice. I have friends who were not against the idea of starting a family but who could never find a good time. That the years passed without them being able to set a suitable date allowed the decision to be taken out of their hands. For others, conception proves heartbreakingly impossible but, for yet others, it is a question not of fertility but of opportunity. They did not meet the right man at the right time. The misalignment of romance with maternal dreams can be as much a cause of distress as being unable to conceive. A miscarriage, however, is something else again. A source of anguish, it is a grief that often goes unseen and unacknowledged. Coping requires great fortitude and stoicism, especially in a culture where a woman’s worth is often measured by her ability to reproduce.

Obviously not everyone without a child has endured misfortune but the First Minister’s revelation is a reminder never to presume that what you see is the whole story. Her decision to speak out will make a difference not to her, for whom one suspects the attention will be unwanted, but to women in her footsteps, or those who have similarly suffered. It is appalling that the idea that powerful women are less natural than others needs to be rebutted but this, sadly, is the society we live in. Nobody doubts that the person in charge of Nato or the Large Hadron Collider is as masculine as the next man, with the same urges and desires and foibles. Women in posts of equal authority, however, are deemed less feminine or trustworthy, particularly if they are single or childless.

Thus, ancient preconceptions still cloud modern minds. Since the dawn of time, women’s raison d’etre was to bear children, and those who did not were viewed as odd. It’s safe to guess that a large number of victims who were persecuted as witches did not have children. Even now, it seems, we are not comfortable with the thought that one of us might not feel the urge to have a baby. She could be the finest gynaecologist or teacher in the country but many would still consider her less well-rounded or loving than a mum of three, who feeds her brood on junk food and lets them play, unsupervised, with a Rottweiler.

Nicola Sturgeon’s point, however, is not about the few who opt not to start a family. She hopes to influence those who, like the vast majority, aspire one day to be mothers. The only difference is that they also want to have challenging careers. As the First Minister’s CV shows, there is nothing strange about being ambitious or wanting to use one’s talents to the full. Ordinary, everyday women can become politicians, judges and surgeons. And while it might not be possible to have it all, one can come close. Usually something has to give, but that something is not necessarily family life. Motherhood need not be renounced in the name of an all-consuming job. Husbands and partners can take parental leave or go part-time, nannies can be hired or grandparents conscripted into childcare. The options for making it work are endless. But so too is suspicion of women who have never bounced their own infant on their lap. Don’t expect that to change any time soon.