• Everything Is Sales

    One of my first jobs was door-to-door double glazing sales. It was, hands down, the most brutal and formative experience I could’ve had at sixteen. Knock after knock, rejection after rejection—it was a baptism by fire. At the time, it scared me off the idea of “sales” altogether. I didn’t get that it was a numbers game, or that I could refine my pitch. I took every “no” personally, thought it meant I wasn’t good enough. But I was just too young to understand the psychology of it.

    Fast forward to now, and I actually like sales. I’ve become comfortable with it, even good at it. And what’s changed isn’t my script or my pitch—it’s my perspective. I’ve realised that everything in life is sales. If you’re not selling a product, you’re selling an idea, a decision, a feeling, a story.

    Think about it:

    • Negotiating with a grumpy toddler to put socks on? Sales.
    • Convincing your partner that it’s definitely their turn to cook? Sales.
    • Chatting to your boss about why a new idea is worth the risk? Sales.

    The trick is learning that sales isn’t about pushing something on someone. It’s about understanding what people actually want—sometimes better than they do—and helping them feel confident in the decision to go for it.

    We should be teaching the art of negotiation and basic sales psychology to 12- and 13-year-olds. Imagine a generation growing up not scared of rejection, not crumbling when someone says “no thanks,” but instead knowing how to read a room, how to listen, how to adjust, how to back themselves.

    It’s not just about creating better business leaders—it’s about creating more independent, emotionally intelligent people who can express what they want and find ways to make it work for others too.

    Because once you realise everything is sales, you stop fearing it—and start using it.

  • Original thought is so overrated

    Somewhere along the line — probably in school — we were taught that the most valuable thing we could offer the world is something original. A fresh idea. A new angle no one’s thought of before.

    And that belief has stuck. We glorify originality in business, writing, tech, even intelligence. We think if it’s not completely new, it’s not worth doing.

    I think that’s nonsense.

    Not because new ideas don’t matter — they do — but because chasing originality stops most people from ever starting. We overthink. “Hasn’t this already been done?” “Someone’s said this better.” So we stall.

    But the truth is, most of what actually works isn’t original. It’s better. It’s clearer, more useful, more accessible. It builds on what’s already there.

    Steve Jobs didn’t invent the graphical interface — he refined what Xerox built.
    Google wasn’t the first search engine — it was just the fastest, cleanest, and most accurate. Facebook wasn’t the first social network — it just nailed exclusivity, identity, and virality. iPod wasn’t the first MP3 player — it was just the one that actually made sense to use. Atomic Habits didn’t invent habit psychology — it just made it stick.

    This is the stuff that lands. Not originality — execution.

    So here’s the better approach:

    Don’t try to be the first. Be the one who makes it clearer, simpler, faster, smarter. Be the one who actually gets it done.

    We don’t need more geniuses.
    We need more people doing work that they love — even if it’s been done before.

  • New Beginnings and Familiar Returns

    It’s been over a decade since I last wrote something that wasn’t tied to work. Not a proposal, not a self-promotional post, not a carefully worded strategic email. Just putting thoughts into words—for no reason other than to figure out what I think. The kind of words that don’t need to justify themselves. That don’t have an end goal. That just feel worth getting out of your head.

    Back in the earlier days of my career, I found blogging to be a kind of outlet. I had several websites, wrote the odd guest article, and used the space to stretch beyond 180 characters and try out new ideas—some half-formed, some attention seeking, some that still make sense now.

    Over time, like a lot of things, that habit faded. Life and work moved forward. Writing became more instrumental. Everything became more “on-message.” And that’s fine—it’s part of the territory. But something gets lost when every sentence has to be justifiable and re-enforce your persona. The joy of simply reflecting—without needing to prove anything—quietly disappears.

    And so here I am, starting again. Not for clicks. Not to build a “personal brand.” Just to reconnect with that slightly freer part of myself that used to enjoy writing for its own sake.

    This time around, though, the context is different. I’m writing (or more accurately, dictating) this while doing laps slowly around our dining table. It’s late at night. My wife is in our bedroom, trying to bank a few hours of sleep. And I’m holding our newborn son in one arm while The Simpsons plays softly in the background—more for me than for him.

    I am shattered. I am frayed. I am more present than ever. And yet I have the desire to express and store my ideas in the beautiful time capsule that is the internet. Perhaps eradicating hours a day of scrolling Twitter/X has freed up some mental capacity in me to create, alongside my newfound responsibilities.

    Becoming a dad is a strange and enormous shift. My experience is obviously not unique—it’s happened billions of times throughout history. But it’s entirely personal to me. I wasn’t sure if we’d have children. I had, at one point, reached a kind of peace with the idea that maybe we wouldn’t. And now here he is. A whole new human being, half-asleep in my arms, changing everything.

    I’m only just beginning to understand the outer edges of what that means. The shock of frustration I didn’t know I could feel. The deep infatuation that shows up in strange moments. The surreal exhaustion and beauty of it all. It’s early days, and I know I’ll look back at this from some future vantage point and see just how little I knew—but I want to capture this moment while I’m in it. Because it already feels fleeting—something that will be hard to hold onto and truly relive later.

    And maybe that’s what this blog is for. Not to write about parenthood necessarily, or about work, or about anything in particular. But just to record the thoughts that pass through in this season of life. To make sense of the changes. The evolution. To leave some kind of breadcrumb trail I can return to later.

    Some posts might be short. Some might go nowhere. Some might contradict others. But that’s part of it. I want this to be a space where I don’t have to think about what others think.

    I still look back at old blog posts and cringe a little, but also smile. There’s something oddly satisfying about recognising the younger version of yourself and how you used to think. Maybe I’ll do the same with this one day—look back from my 50s and marvel at how raw and weird and lovely this season was.

    For now, though, I’m just here. Writing again. Starting over. Holding a small boy who’s barely a month old, and re-learning how to put my thoughts into words—not for anyone else, but for me.

    Let’s see where it goes.