I started my first business before I had any right to. No playbook, no safety net. Just the stubborn belief that I could figure it out as I went. That pattern repeated for three decades. Some ventures reached seven figures. Others taught me what failure actually costs when you have people depending on you. Both kinds made me who I am.
Somewhere along the way I fell in love with understanding why people do what they do. I studied behavioural psychology, then taught marketing at university. Not the spreadsheet kind, but the kind rooted in how humans make decisions, resist change, and eventually choose to trust. I co-founded a school that became one of the highest-performing in the UK, because I believed education could be built differently if you actually respected the people inside it.
Then I spent a decade in the room with entrepreneurs and leaders. Hundreds of them, one conversation at a time. I watched brilliant people build remarkable things, and I watched them hit the same walls over and over. Not because they lacked talent, but because the gap between what they knew and what they could execute kept widening as they grew.
When generative AI broke through, I didn’t see a productivity tool. I saw a mirror. Every leader I’d ever coached was about to face the same question at the same time: do you let this thing think for you, or do you learn to think alongside it? Most of the answers being offered were dangerous: either blind adoption or fearful avoidance. Neither honours the person at the centre.
That’s why I built what I built. Not because the world needed another AI company, but because the people I care about: coaches, founders, educators, leaders. They deserved a path through this shift that didn’t require them to abandon what makes them extraordinary.
