In her memoir, Ardern shows a ‘different kind of power’ is possible but also has its limits

Grant Duncan

Imagine getting a positive pregnancy test and then – just a few days later – learning you’ll be prime minister.

In hindsight, being willing and able to deal with the unexpected would become the hallmark of former prime minister Jacinda Ardern’s political career. She had always stood out as a leader, but her tumultuous political journey followed none of the predictable pathways. Readers of her memoir will relive what this was like, from her feelings about motherhood through to meeting world leaders.

The title of her book promises more than just that, however. Many people hope for a different kind of leader, but what personal qualities or strengths do such leaders need? More generally, can the personal qualities that contribute to great leadership be learned and applied by others?

The answer seems to be a qualified yes. Since leaving office, Ardern has become something of a global influencer. But as her career pivots towards celebrity appearances and international agencies, her memoir also serves as a leadership manifesto – especially for women, or aspirants of any gender, who suffer self-doubt.

The limits of empathy

A Different Kind of Power by Jacinda Ardern, published by Penguin Random House

In her formative years, working as an assistant to Labour leader Helen Clark, Ardern relates how she let political opponents get under her skin. Was she “too thin-skinned” for politics? She soon learned “you could be sensitive and survive”. Better still, she could use her sensitivity as a strength.

But “it is different for women in the public eye”, she writes. Derogatory terms were used against her, such as the “show pony” epithet coined by a senior woman journalist. There were questions about whether she had “substance”. These things could undermine people’s belief in her competence – perhaps even her own self-belief.

What she did about this is instructive. Lashing out at jibes and cartoon images would make her look “humourless and too sensitive”. The “trick” was to respond in a way that would “take the story nowhere”. She became adept at that, deflecting comments aimed at putting her down.

This also meant being a feminist but not using feminism as her ideological platform. Other than admonishing a TV presenter that it was “unacceptable” for him to ask whether a sitting prime minister could take maternity leave, she generally let others do the outrage and avoided becoming an even bigger target for culture warriors.

But A Different Kind of Power asks the question: different from what?

Ardern’s political career has been a challenge, if not a rebuke, to leaders who indulge in egotistical, competitive, always-be-winning behaviour. Need one even mention Donald Trump?

Instead, Ardern offers kindness and empathy. The approach showed its true strength in the days following the terrorist atrocity in Christchurch in 2019. At a time when anti-immigrant and Islamophobic sentiments were growing, Ardern embraced the victims. “They are us”, she declared. Emotions that could have generated a cycle of blame were guided by her towards sharing of grief and aroha.

Like any political virtue, though, empathy has limitations: it touches those whose suffering commands our attention, but it is partial. Effective social policy also requires an impartial administration and redistribution of resources. Leaders must ensure public goods are delivered equitably to those in need, which calls for rational planning.

And sometimes a national emergency may call for actions that feel unfair or insensitive to some.

Pandemic politics

Covid-19 was that emergency. It created deep uncertainty for governments and there was no “kind” pathway forward. The Ardern government did an exemplary job, saving many lives, and the Labour Party was rewarded at the 2020 election with an unprecedented 50% of the party vote. But Ardern’s retelling of that time is surprisingly brief, especially given her pivotal role.

She put herself daily at the centre of it all, patiently explaining the public health responses. During this battle with a virus, however, she couldn’t inoculate against the political consequences and shifts in public opinion.

As the pandemic wore on, many New Zealanders whose businesses had been shut down, who had been isolated in their homes, who had difficulty returning home from abroad or who’d been ostracised for not getting vaccinated, weren’t feeling much empathy or kindness from their government. And they felt they were being silenced. This sentiment grew far beyond the activists who had made themselves heard on Parliament grounds in early 2022.

Ardern refused to meet with those protestors. “How could I send a message that if you disagree with something, you can illegally occupy the grounds of Parliament and then have your demands met?”

But she (or a senior minister) could have heard their demands and explained why they couldn’t be met. Her refusal to listen left the field open to veteran populist Winston Peters, who exploited the opportunity, launching his campaign to return to Parliament – in which he now sits and Ardern doesn’t.

While vaccine mandates were a key concern for protestors, it’s disappointing that, to this day, Ardern blames the dissenters, as if they were “not us” – kicked out of the “team of five million”.

She attributes the dissent solely to their “mistrust”. Refusing to listen – not just to protestors, but to deeper shifts in public opinion – would cost Labour dearly.

Induced by the pandemic fiscal stimulus, inflation peaked at 7.3% in June 2022. By that time, two switches had occurred: the National Party was ahead in polls and a majority were saying the country was heading in the wrong direction.

In January 2023, Ardern resigned as prime minister. She believed, probably correctly, that it would be “good for my party and perhaps it would be good for the election”.

The toll of leadership

But she also reveals in her memoir that a cancer scare influenced the decision – a false alarm, but a sign perhaps that the job was taking its toll. Her leaving could “take the heat out of the politics”, she reasoned. And anyway, she was tired, stressed and losing her patience.

The leadership change to Chris Hipkins – and a devastating cyclone – boosted Labour’s polling for a while. But their 1,443,545 party votes in 2020 fell to 767,540 in the October 2023 election.

Hundreds of thousands of voters had turned their backs on the Labour Party, and the covid response wasn’t solely to blame. There were also controversial or failed policies – such as restructuring water services, a proposed unemployment insurance scheme and Māori co-governance initiatives – that were ruthlessly exploited by the political opposition. These were all initiated under Ardern, although unmentioned in her memoir.

Her book is more about subjective self-doubt and empathy. She doesn’t critically examine her own policies. Nor does she express empathy for those who felt disadvantaged or excluded by them – granting as always that emergency measures had been necessary. And, as she heads further into an international career, there’s no expression of empathy for those who now need it most, be they children in Gaza or refugees in South Sudan.

It’s disappointing Ardern doesn’t define key words: empathy, leadership or power, for example. There are different ways to understand them, and definitions carry assumptions. But she’s not addressing academics or political analysts. Her audience is primarily American – a much larger and more lucrative market than her home country. With the Democrats struggling to find direction and leadership after last year’s losses, Ardern – who poses no threat to anyone’s political ambitions there – offers some inspiration.

Some may fault it for avoiding those harder questions about her time at the top, but Ardern’s memoir interweaves an authentically retold personal story with high political drama. It tells of one woman’s struggle with morning sickness, childbirth, breastfeeding and motherhood, even while taking on extraordinary public responsibilities and media exposure. It’s still amazing how she managed to do all that.

Grant Duncan is a teaching fellow in Politics and International Relations at the University of Auckland

The above first appeared in The Conversation and is republished with permission