Strangely, I spent twenty minutes recently reading graffiti in a ladies’ toilet. Rest assured, there was no fibre-deficient reason for me hanging around a much-disinfected university cubicle on a Wednesday afternoon and, while I’m an avid reader, I’m not normally so captivate by the eyeliner-scrawled Joanie loves Chachis that I’ll brave the ecosystem of a public lavvy for longer than necessary.

But there’s the thing – and this is where it comes back around to sport, in a meandering sort of way – the writing on these particular walls didn’t profess the love of an ebullient teenager for her ebony-haired beau. Instead, the shoogly partitions hosted equally insecure confessions of the loneliness of adulthood, the fear of failure and the stresses of relationships from fit-to-burst visitors. Writers anonymously shared their secrets and woes, covering the bland surfaces with tales of social anxiety and friendlessness, guilt and betrayal.

As a sensitive soul who dressed in black for a full week of childhood after the accidental death of a fly in a horrific wardrobe-door accident, stories such as these would ordinarily induce in me tears that would dehydrate a dromedary. Wonderfully though, these wounded women had something from which my poor bedroom bluebottle did not benefit: a guiding hand. For beneath many of the confessions were responses, gentle and genuine, from those who had experienced the problem, survived the stress or who just wanted to give a little encouragement. And that was enough – for me, anyway. I only hope it was enough for the original scribblers too.

Soon after, when I travelled to Kilmarnock for my final weightlifting lesson, it struck me that the women there – Sophie and Georgi – were my toilet-wall therapists. I was completely lost in that gym with no experience to draw on, no confidence in my paltry abilities and no hope of success, but with their support, instruction and friendly comments, I managed to keep going back every Saturday for my four week programme, even though I felt completely out of my depth from the start.

For my final session, Charlie, the national coach, put me through my paces by finally attaching weights to the ends of the bar. It was more of a kindness than a challenge though, since I’m sure he only trusted me with the lightest weights manufactured in order to make me feel like I’d given the sport a proper go. I tried hard to remember all of the great advice that the girls had given me, and to listen to their words of wisdom as I stood over that bar. My technique was terrible, and I’m sure a toddler somewhere on the premises was lifting more with less effort, but I’ll admit that it felt good when I managed my first Personal Best by clean and jerking 20kg.

So, like those individuals who scrawled their hearts out on the walls of that strange toilet cubicle, I benefited greatly from the freely-given support of strong, successful women who took the time to impart advice to a clueless – and terrified – beginner. Unlike them, however, I won’t be struggling on with my studies in this particular field. But I hope that my short stint in the weightlifting world has demonstrated that with the right backing even the weakest of souls can achieve more than they ever expected, and maybe I can help lighten the load of that next wall-scrawler just as the folk of Kilmarnock Amateur Weightlifting Club did for me.

Paula.