A Different Kind of Power: A Memoir

by Jacinda Ardern

years

My whole short life I had grappled with the idea that I was never quite good enough. That at any moment I would be caught short, and that meant no matter what I was doing, I had no business doing it. That’s why I believed mine was a personality better suited to work behind the scenes. I was the worker who quietly and steadily got things done. I wasn’t tough enough to become an actual politician. My elbows weren’t sharp enough; my skin was too thin. I was idealistic and sensitive.

I was days away from learning if I would run a country, and now, as I sat in a bathroom in Tawa, New Zealand, I was seconds away from learning if I would do it while having a baby. I closed my eyes and lifted my head to the ceiling. Then I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and looked down.

“Jacinda,” he said. “My words will always be the greatest tool I have.”

She decided to spare Louise and me from the panic of a late-night wake-up, instead turning to the best protection she could imagine: She prayed.

Yes, everything could change in the blink of an eye, and that made everything feel more fragile.

The world is so big and life could be fragile, I understood. But not so big that one person can’t do something to change it.

Did my stomach hurt before every tournament, so much that I was often unable to eat that morning? Yes. But it was also the first time I’d found something that had turned what felt like debilitating weaknesses into a strength. And it wouldn’t be the last.

But somewhere along the way, my sense of purposelessness had vanished. Perhaps I finally had a reason to be there, beneath a blazing sun. Perhaps I was there to listen. To watch. Observe. I didn’t know why. I wouldn’t know for a long time. I just had a sense: The world had changed, and it was important to pay attention.

I knew and believed all the human rights arguments. But that wasn’t what he was asking. How could I be in favor. I could feel my face flushing hot, and to Harry, I probably seemed angry. “I just am,” I said, my voice tight. Looking back, I think I was embarrassed. I had kept the dilemma between my faith and my personal values pressed down so tightly that I had no idea how to talk about it—to myself, let alone to my boss. Keeping everything boxed away hadn’t been that hard. My church was in so many ways loving and kind, focused on service and charity, and filled with some of the most compassionate, altruistic people I’d ever met. I’d never once heard anyone preach from the pulpit that anyone was evil, let alone for their sexuality. And yet what Harry was saying was right. My church’s theology said that homosexuality was wrong—a challenge to be overcome—and yet by campaigning for civil unions, I was finally saying clearly and decisively that I disagreed.

“When that’s done, you can get them out to the opposition too.” I studiously worked through the afternoon,

It wasn’t just that I was new. Being in politics for any amount of time, at any level, required being made of stern stuff.

I was sure a person needed a spine of steel to survive in these halls, and so long as I was crying in a bathroom, I was sure I didn’t have that.

He turned around, looked at me wearily, and rubbed his forehead. “Jacinda,” he said, “if they ever ask you to run, don’t do it.” “Ha,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about that, Phil.”

I told him the truth. I was looking for a different job. Harry was a good man, but I found myself pushing back against him a bit too much and a bit too often.

Back at the Beehive, Steve took me aside. “You can’t let them get to you.” I knew he was right. If I was going to stay in politics, even just in an advisory job, I had to learn to keep my cool.

I had done my best, worked until my body had broken, and all I’d been able to do was to hang on to the idea of being a good enough adviser. And while Helen Clark had shown me that it was possible to be a woman in politics, no one had shown me that you could be sensitive and survive.