‘Now here I was, in the middle of trying to become prime minister, and I was pregnant’

Sunday, 1 June 2025

In a world-first exclusive extract from her memoir A Different Kind of Power, Jacinda Ardern relives the “whirlwind” days in 2017 that changed her life forever: a nail-biting election result, the inside story of horsetrading with Winston Peters before she was confirmed as prime minister, and the shock of – amidst all that politics – a positive pregnancy test.

A little more than twenty-four hours later, it was election night, and I was onstage in front of a crowd of hundreds of volunteers. The event was at the Aotea Centre in Auckland, a large performing arts centre in the heart of the city. Minutes earlier I had walked through a throng of people pressed so closely together that the protection staff with me couldn’t even create a path, so they’d led us through a row of abandoned chairs. Now, as I stood onstage, no one was seated.

The media were pressed together, hanging over the front of the stage, periodically covering the teleprompter I was squinting to read. No matter. The words were fresh. I had written them just tonight, unsure of whether I was conceding or whether we’d all have to wait to see with whom New Zealand First would form a coalition.

While the election results were still scrolling across a nearby screen, I began to speak.

Bill English and National have taken the largest number of votes. I have called Bill and acknowledged that. But the final outcome of tonight’s election won’t be decided by us. It will be decided by MMP. This was shorthand of course. A way of saying that neither National nor Labour had enough votes to form a government on their own. Both parties would need New Zealand First.

I did my best to sound optimistic, but here was the reality: we needed more than sixty seats to form a government. By the end of the night, Labour and the Greens combined had fifty-two. New Zealand First had another nine. If New Zealand First chose to work with us, we would have bang-on sixty-one seats. Sure, it was officially enough. But if a single MP misfired, or one jumped ship, the whole government would come crashing down. It would be crazy for New Zealand First to form a coalition government that had only a tiny one-seat majority. This was almost certainly the end of the road.

Still, I finished by talking about how we would approach negotiations, if it came to that, and then finally thanking everyone who volunteered or voted for us. I knew for some it sounded as if I were conceding. Perhaps a part of me was.

As I headed backstage to catch my breath, someone yelled, “We could do it on the specials!’

The specials. That was the last remaining hope, the final glimmer of possibility. The special votes were the sole reason I had not conceded completely. The “specials” were extra votes still to be counted – the ones cast by people overseas and people who had voted outside their home electorate. If enough of them went for Labour, it could nudge us towards an extra seat.

We still had a chance.

We waited two weeks. That’s how long it took until the special votes came in. There were hundreds of thousands of them. The wait was agonising. I did my best to rest, recover from the election and prepare for whatever lay ahead, but all the uncertainty just left my mind whirring. Clarke and I took a weekend off and headed to the beach, but instead of books I took two folders full of past coalition documents to study. Just in case.

I knew what time to expect the message from our party secretary with the final count, so I stared at my phone until the alert popped up. Specials result strictly confidential. Embargoed until 2 p.m. National -2, Labour +1, Greens +1.

“Two more seats!” I screamed, running down the hallway to Clarke. “Two more seats!”

That was enough to form a government. That is, if New Zealand First picked us.

New Zealand First wanted a few weeks to make its choice between us and National. I assembled a negotiating team: Grant, Michael Cullen, Annette King and Kelvin, the deputy leader of the Labour Party. All of them understood our position well, knew our platform, and also knew at least some of the personalities in New Zealand First.

We started meeting with the Greens, knowing that to form a government, we needed to settle an agreement with them too. I knew the Green Party leader James Shaw. He was a candidate for his party when we both lived in London. Our conversations were friendly and open. But because our parties went into the election with a memorandum of understanding already, these weren’t the talks the media were interested in. All eyes were on New Zealand First.

I still didn’t know Winston Peters. There was his public persona, the one that came with one-liners and fights with the media, and there was what I had heard of him privately: that he was an old- fashioned politician who expected a certain level of respect, and many of his colleagues called him Matua, a Māori word that means elder, or patriarch.

During the campaign Winston had likened me to a meatless hamburger. But I needed him to choose me, my party and our ideas. This translated into ridiculous debates in my head. Do I bring snacks? What about Julia’s famous ginger loaf? Would that be a nice gesture? What would a meat patty do?? Wait, am I meant to be a meat patty?

I had a set of bottom lines, ones I didn’t want to budge on. One of those non-negotiables was immigration policy. New Zealand First had a reputation for being harsh on migrant communities, and this was not a message I wanted to see reinforced through any kind of concession.

The talks were straightforward and respectful, even if I had no idea which way Winston was leaning. We did our best to look strong and confident – not just to Winston, but to the country. One afternoon, we emerged from the negotiating room with news cameras aimed at us through glass doors. Michael, Grant, Kelvin and I coordinated our exit, striding up the stairs, heads high, until we reached the glass automatic doors they were peering through. I slammed my fist over the green button to open the doors. It was all timed perfectly so we didn’t need to break our stride.

Except the doors didn’t open. I tried again. Nothing. By now, our stride was definitely broken. We stood together, cameras still rolling, while I pounded the button a few more times. Grant eventually had a go with the button, while I began muttering like a ventriloquist trying not to move her lips: “This is very, very awkward, Grant.” Finally, after the sixth time, Grant took matters into his own hands and pushed the doors open manually like a suit-clad superhero, and we charged forward again. Now, though, we were trying to hide our fits of laughter.

The truth was, I had absolutely no idea how our talks were going. Maybe we’d form a coalition. Maybe I’d be prime minister. Or maybe we’d have three more years in opposition. Either way, I was glad to have this team with me.

It was in the middle of this whirlwind that I ended up sitting alone in that bathroom, white stick in my hand, waiting the prescribed three minutes for a result. We were in the closing stages of negotiations. Clarke was filming up north, far away from Wellington. My friend Julia had offered a home-cooked meal, a bath and a bed. Then, when she heard me describe how off I’d been feeling, she offered something else: a pregnancy test.

I didn’t believe it was possible that I would be pregnant. But there was something in those 180 seconds that made the implausible come closer to reality. What if? I wondered, just as I had weeks before when Andrew said I should take over the leadership. What if?

I closed my eyes and lifted my head to the ceiling. Then I took a deep breath, opened my eyes and looked down.

The stick had double lines. Positive.

Positive? I looked again. I picked up the box, looking at the instructions. Then at the expiry date. Then at the stick. Still positive.

How is that possible?

I had gone through endless testing, multiple failed medical interventions. I’d been told that my constant work, my lifestyle, the stress of it all, would keep me from having a baby. Now here I was, in the middle of trying to become prime minister, and I was pregnant. My mind reeled. Now?! This was happening now?!

“Juliaaa!” I called out, and then slumped onto the bathroom floor.

“One foot in front of the other,” Julia said when she saw the positive result. She patted me on the shoulder. “One foot in front of the other.” Julia left me alone in the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I pulled myself up onto the toilet and dialled Clarke.

A few days later, Winston Peters announced that he would be giving a press conference during the 6 pm news. He’d share with the country which party New Zealand First would be forming a coalition with – and by extension who would be the next prime minister. I would find out the news in the same way the rest of the country did: by watching television.

We assembled in my office on the third floor of Parliament. Clarke stood nearby, dressed more formally than usual in a blazer. Annette, Kelvin and Grant were there, of course, as well as the protection officers assigned to me for the campaign and about a dozen other senior party leaders and staff.

In other offices up and down the hallway, MPs and staff were doing the same, waiting and watching. At one point a huge cheer came from an office nearby. It was loud enough to prompt speculation from media that we had received a phone call from New Zealand First. In fact, it was just a group of staff watching the game show The Chase.

There had been no phone call. I had absolutely no idea what would happen next.

As we waited in my office for the press conference to begin, the television was on but muted. Annette sat on the couch, her eyes darting between me and the screen in front of us. Behind her, Grant stood anxiously, palms together at his forehead as if in prayer, rocking back and forth. We were waiting. Waiting for cameras to flick from the studio, live to the Beehive. Waiting for Winston to emerge from his office.

There had been so much waiting. Waiting for this conference. Waiting through every day of the negotiation. Waiting for vote results, waiting for polls, waiting through years and years in opposition for the chance to do something. In a few minutes, the waiting could end, and either I would be back in opposition or I would be the prime minister of New Zealand.

And then a sudden flurry. “Turn it up!” Winston Peters was on the screen.

For the first few minutes, Winston spoke in general terms, no hint of what he’d chosen. His face was that of a man at a poker match: intense concentration, giving nothing away. My breath felt caught in my throat.Then he said this: “Can I just say that far too many New Zealanders have come to view today’s capitalism not as their friend but as their foe. And they are not all wrong. That is why we believe capitalism must regain its human face.”

Those were the words: “human face”. With those words I brought my hands together in front of my mouth. Because that’s when I knew. We were the human face he was talking about.

Winston had chosen Labour.

The room erupted in celebration. I could hear the cheers around me and echoing up and down the hallway. But for me, everything briefly went quiet. I stared at the screen, taking in what he’d said. We have chosen Labour. I was meant to save the furniture, to spare the party from a crushing defeat. I had felt so responsible – for my colleagues, our staff – but most of all for the people who needed us to win. It was a pressure that I had tried to suppress so that every day I could get up and keep going. But now it was as if a lid had been lifted. All the pressure, the worry, and fear were rushing out of my body. What was left felt like relief and pure joy.

We did it.

I did it.

I would be prime minister of New Zealand.

Grant threw his arms around me and began to shake with loud, happy sobs. Clarke, who had watched the announcement from the corner of the room, came and wrapped his arms around me. Then someone, I don’t know who, shoved a whisky into my hand. I looked down at the cut-glass tumbler and then set the glass down.

Yes, I was the prime minister.

And I was also pregnant.

A Different Kind of Power, by Jacinda Ardern, is published by Penguin and will be released on June 3. RRP, $59.99.