Jacinda Ardern Opens Up About Her Pregnancy, Finding Love And Running A Country At 37

Upon announcing the news in January, the Prime Minister was hit with an avalanche of judgement. Some was positive: she was called a role model and held up as proof that women don’t need to choose between having a career and a family. Some was less so: with sniping digs about how the country was likely to fall to pieces under the stewardship of a new mother. “All I can do, really, is give people reassurance that it won’t [affect the job],” she tells me. “But I know I’m going to have to prove it.”

Her track record on juggling is already formidable. This is a woman who had 54 days to campaign, whose grandmother passed away five days before the election, whose much-loved Twitter-famous cat died on the first day of parliament and who managed all of it in the very early – and sensitive – stages of pregnancy. But in true Ardern fashion, she deflects any suggestion that she is some kind of superwoman, choosing instead to point out all the working mothers and women around the world who do it all, all the time. “The big difference is that I have a lot of help,” she says. “I think the true role models are the single parents who don’t have as much help as I’m going to have. I’m very mindful of that.”

As we order drinks – a green tea for Ardern – we chat about the last time we saw each other at Splore, a popular NZ music and arts festival. We camped next to each other in the blistering
summer heat. “It was brutal,” she says, laughing. Knowing her as a fellow festival goer, it’s hard to reconcile this is the same woman who recently went viral for her perfect retort to Trump after he needled her for her “upset” election win. “No-one marched when I was elected,” Ardern hit back.

The youngest of two daughters, Ardern was raised a Mormon in Murupara, a forestry town of 3000 people, many of whom were born into poverty. “I saw a lot of kids who didn’t have what I had,” she says. “That did have an effect on me, even though I was very small.” She campaigned in high school elections on the platform that girls should be able to wear trousers to school, and by 17 she had begun volunteering for the Labour Party, doorknocking and delivering flyers in between working at the local fish n chip shop. In her early 20s, as her liberal views crystallised, she abandoned her Mormon faith because of its opposition to same-sex marriage.

As a young person, she says she was always outraged when told she couldn’t do something simply because she was a girl. “It’s something I used to [get] quite feisty about,” she recalls.“I remember at primary school, there was a boy, Richard, who would always arm wrestle everyone and I insisted on a turn,” she told me. “Because why couldn’t I?” Eventually, he conceded. “And you lost?” I ask, assuming her small stature was overwhelmed. “No! I won,” she says, laughing. “I sneakily grabbed the table leg underneath me with my other arm, using it as leverage. Makes a real difference when you’re doing an arm wrestle, and I completely nailed him.” She looks triumphant for a moment. “I don’t know if that counts as my first feminist memory or my first memory of cheating,” she adds wryly.

It’s been reported that Ardern suffers from anxiety, and while it’s something she’s open about, she’s quick to assure me her levels are pretty normal for someone in her position. On coping mechanisms, she says, “There’s nothing wrong with protecting yourself and thinking, ‘Well, actually, I’m not going to go on social media today,’ or ‘I’m not going to read that’.”

The two first met when Gayford sent a letter to Ardern expressing his concerns over a security bill being debated in parliament. They met for coffee and were friends first. Those who don’t know them personally might think that it’s a case of opposites attract – we are talking about a politician and a fishing show presenter, after all. But in actual fact, they’re two peas in a pod: dynamic, smart and witty. For years, Ardern has DJed in her spare time (though she prefers the term “tune selector” over being called a “real DJ like he is”) and Gayford has always been political, so much so that Ardern often comes home ready to switch off, only for Gayford to want to talk shop. My job is to make sure she stays sane, well-rested and eats properly,” Gayford says. “She’s going over notes and briefings until midnight each night and every day she’s up at 5:30am – sometimes earlier.”

As we leave the café, a woman sitting nearby interrupts: “Could you please look into the early childhood sector?” she asks. “Teachers haven’t got a voice.” Ardern stops to listen in full before replying, “Of course, I will do that. Thank you.” And you get the sense this is anything but a political brush-off. In fact, Ardern, who also holds the role of Minister for Child Poverty Reduction, says children are a huge motivator for her work. “If you give kids a good start in life, everything changes. It means we have made a change for the whole country.” Later, after her pregnancy has been revealed, she tells me: “You’re always trying to leave something good behind. I feel like that’s a very literal thing now.” Once outside, crowds start forming queues for photos. I’m shoved aside by iPhones thrusted from all directions. Ever considerate, Ardern mouths “sorry” to me over and over before noticing a news crew nearby, cameras and microphones at the ready. Moments later she’s fielding questions, answering each directly, eloquently and concisely.

While it’s clear that plenty has changed, what hasn’t altered is Ardern. She is still the same genuine, kind and incredibly smart woman I’ve always known. Still a friend you can laugh with over a wine (albeit not for the next few months). Just one who now happens to run a country.