With no money and rent overdue, I found myself staring at a garden that lacked even a basic fence to divide my landlord’s property from the one next door.
That was the first time I negotiated my way out of a problem I couldn’t afford—and it wouldn’t be the last.
Looking back, that moment taught me something I still rely on as a founder: when my back’s against the wall, I come out swinging. I don’t freeze. I don’t fold. I figure it out. And if you’re going to build something from the ground up—a business, a team, a new way of doing things—that mindset matters more than anything.
But my story doesn’t start in that garden. It starts years earlier, in a small town in the southwest of England, with a swimming pool and a 15-year-old kid who just wanted to play water polo.
The First Startup: Poolside, Pitch-Ready, and 15
I was obsessed with swimming. I swam for my town, then my county, and I played water polo for the adult men’s team—even as a teenager. It wasn’t just a sport to me. It was identity. It was purpose. It was energy. But there was a problem: my school didn’t have a water polo team. So I decided to fix that.
At 15, I approached the headmistress. She was intimidating—sharp-tempered and respected—and I was terrified. It felt like Dragons’ Den. I didn’t just want to start a club—I wanted proper pool time, a travel budget, and support with gear. I was asking for real backing. And I was seriously nervous.
Nerves had always been part of my story. Between the ages of five and ten, I dealt with alopecia and incontinence—physical symptoms of deep anxiety that I now believe stemmed from my biological father leaving when I was two. He disappeared from my life without a trace, only to reappear when I was sixteen.
So there I was, sitting outside her office, palms sweating, cheeks burning, trying not to lose it. All I could think was: don’t wet your pants. But in that fear, another voice surfaced—one I’d heard since I was small. My grandad used to say, “Ben, you can do anything you put your mind to.” Those words stayed with me, but in that moment, they roared. I didn’t want to be the scared kid anymore. I wanted the team. And I wasn’t letting fear get in the way.
So I stood up, walked in, and gave my pitch. To my surprise, she said yes.
That was it. I became the coach, the recruiter, the organiser. We held mixed training sessions, scraped together what kit we could, entered a tournament—and came dead last. But that didn’t matter. We existed. I’d made something that hadn’t existed before. I saw a gap, believed it mattered, and stepped in.
Looking back, that was my first proper entrepreneurial moment. I didn’t know the word for it, but the instinct was already there: see the opportunity, rally the people, build the thing. And to this day, whenever I hit a wall or need to dig deeper, I hear my grandad’s voice again: “You can do anything you put your mind to.” He was right. That belief has carried me further than he probably ever knew.
What the Classroom Missed—and Business Brought to Life
When I moved into sixth form (college for UK students aged 16–18), I wasn’t academic gold. I wasn’t failing outright, but I wasn’t shining either. My grades hovered around Cs, with the odd B or D. I failed English but somehow passed French—still a mystery to me. It wasn’t until adulthood that I learned I was dyslexic, which suddenly made sense of a lot.
It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I liked learning. But I needed something that felt alive—something that connected. That spark hit when I was thirteen. We started business studies—and I was hooked.
Business just made sense to me. I understood the dynamics. I could see myself in that world. It was my best subject all the way through to completing my advanced GNVQ in business. From that first lesson, I had a vision in my head: a suit, a leather briefcase, big meetings, and a £30,000 salary by the time I hit 30. That was the number I chose. It felt both ambitious and doable. It gave me something real to chase.
I remember telling my parents. My stepdad was supportive—encouraging and proud. My mum gave me a look that suggested she wasn’t convinced. At the time, I thought she didn’t believe in me. But the older I get, the more I realise how clever she is. She knew exactly how to push my buttons. The moment she cast doubt, I became obsessed with proving her wrong.
And that’s what I did.
We’ll come back to that dynamic—it comes up again and again in different forms. But what matters here is that vision: the suit, the meetings, the money. It became my north star. I held onto it even when things weren’t going to plan.
Of course, having a vision and making it real are two different things. And I was about to learn that the hard way.
My Mum’s Wake-Up Call: Bricks or Business
As I neared final exams at 17, things weren’t looking good. I still loved business, but I lacked discipline. I had the dream, but not the focus. Then one day, my mum came home holding a bricklaying course application. She handed it to me and said, “If you don’t pass your exams, you’ll stay here and train on the tools.”
It wasn’t a bad option. I liked manual work. I’d grown up doing it—tarmacking, bricklaying, landscaping. There’s real satisfaction in building something physical. Even now, I like being on-site when I can. But I knew that life wasn’t mine. I wanted the suit. The briefcase. The vision I’d held since I was thirteen. No way was I letting that go.
She knew it too. That application form wasn’t a suggestion—it was a challenge. She lit the fire, and I responded. I focused, worked hard, passed my GNVQ, and got into university.
Fixing Sheds, Building Grit
University was incredible. I made lifelong friends, studied what I loved, played rugby, and embraced independence. But money was tight. I took labouring jobs, bartended, did whatever I could to get by. It wasn’t glamorous, but I liked the hustle. My first rental was directly opposite a prison. At night, I could hear the inmates shouting. It was wild—but it toughened me up. You learned quickly that comfort wasn’t a given.
Then, at the end of my first year, I ran out of money. Rent was due, and I had nothing. No savings. No buffer. I knew I wouldn’t get a shift in time. So I knocked on my landlord’s door and pitched an idea: “There’s no fence in the back garden. If you provide the tools and materials, I’ll build one. We square the rent that way.”
He said yes.
I brought in a mate, and we put it up in a weekend. It was simple but solid. He got his fence. I kept my home.
Two years later, same problem, different house. This time, it was a shed—weather-worn and neglected. I offered to refurbish it and tidy the garden in exchange for rent. Another yes.
Could I have called home and asked for help? Sure. But I knew what that would lead to: another bricklaying form. I wasn’t going down that road. This was on me. I had to sort it.
And in that process—scraping paint, fixing wood, digging in—I discovered something vital: when the pressure’s on, I don’t fold. I move. I get creative. I solve the problem with what I’ve got. That’s founder energy.
Why This Matters
Those fence-and-shed deals weren’t just about making ends meet. They were training. They were about spotting needs, building trust, proposing deals, and delivering value.
That’s startup life.
As founders, pressure hits hard. A deal falls through. A client ghosts. Policy shifts. Funding dries up. You think you’re nearly there—and everything changes.
What separates those who survive isn’t their pitch or idea. It’s their grit. Their ability to act when there’s no obvious path.
Those university deals taught me that. It’s a lesson I return to often.
Looking Back to Look Forward
Now, at 43, running a fintech AI company working with some of the world’s biggest banks—and coaching founders through their own journeys—I don’t see those early moments as just stories. They’re the foundation.
They taught me you can build what doesn’t exist. That grades aren’t destiny. That pressure reveals your true engine.
None of that came from textbooks. It came from doing. From struggling. From solving.
And that’s what I help founders do today: navigate the messy middle with clarity, guts, and drive.
Coming in Part 2: My first real business—and the hard lessons it brought with it. Stay tuned.
If you’re a founder—or thinking of becoming one—and want someone in your corner who’s lived it, book a discovery call. I’d love to help you build your version of the water polo team.