When we first signed the lease for our new office, home of The Wisdom Vault and our Don’t Let The Old Man In podcast studio, there was one internal wall we knew we had to do something special with. It was tall, bare, and a little imposing, the kind of wall that seemed to ask, “Well then, what are you going to make of this?”

Once we got past painting our respective idols, Bono and Bob Dylan having a meal together, the answer arrived faster than we expected.

“We should paint our fathers,” one of us said.
“Both of them,” the other replied.
And that was that.

As the two of us stepped into this new venture, a business for men navigate midlife with strength, humour, and integrity, we found ourselves thinking about the men who had quietly taught us how to do exactly that long before we ever had language for it.

Our business is about midlifers. About the lives they build, the storms they weather, the choices they face, the reinventions they undergo, and the wisdom that accumulates in the corners of their lived experience. It felt not just appropriate but foundational to honour the two men who guided us into adulthood, shaped our character, and still, in many ways, whisper in our ears today.

Two Men Who Never Met

Our fathers never knew each other. They came from different towns, different backgrounds, different eras of working, surviving, and providing. And yet, we’ve often said that if they ever found themselves sitting at the same bar, some quiet afternoon, they’d have nodded in mutual respect before ordering a pint. Not loud, not performative. Just two men who recognise the weight the other has carried.

Mick (Pod’s Dad) is no longer with us (my Dad still is, and I count my blessings).  They are both descibed as stoic, in that older-generation way. Not closed off, but grounded. Not unemotional, but sparing with words, intentional with actions. Leading more by example than proclamation. Advice usually given in the form of a raised eyebrow, a well-timed silence, or a story told only once because that was enough.

There is a particular brand of masculine wisdom, unhurried, unpretentious, and anchored in lived experience rather than theory. And while Mick has passed on, their combined influence hasn’t. It echoes in how we speak, how we work, how we deal with hardship, how we show up for the people we love, and how we continue to try, daily, not to let the metaphorical old man in.

When we talk about “legacy” in The Wisdom Vault, we don’t mean the grand, shiny version stamped on monuments or corporate reports. We mean the quieter kind: the values left behind in the people who keep going. In that sense, our fathers are present in every conversation we have about what this business should stand for. The mural is where that presence becomes visible.

A Reminder of Where We Come From

Every morning, as we walk into the studio ready to record, plan, write, coach, or build something new, we pass by their faces. They seem to watch over us, not in a sentimental, framed-photo-on-the-mantel way, but with a kind of grounded expectation: Do the work. Be good men. Don’t waste the time you’ve been given.

The mural isn’t there to make the room look good. It’s there to hold us accountable to our aspiration.

It reminds us to step up when we’d rather step back. To find humour in the absurdity of life, a skill both our fathers had in spades. To stay humble. To stay courageous. To stay honest. To stay in motion. To stay young enough, in spirit, to keep learning and trying, even as our bodies and birthdays suggest otherwise.

If The Wisdom Vault is a space where men come to recalibrate and reconnect with themselves, then this mural is our compass. It points us back to our roots every time we find ourselves caught in the noise of modern life, wondering what the hell comes next.

Our Fathers and the Birth of The Wisdom Vault

You don’t start a business for midlifers unless you’ve lived enough to know how complicated this chapter can be. The transitions are heavier. The questions are louder. The stakes feel sharper. And the guidance available is often inadequate or oversimplified.

We created The Wisdom Vault to offer something real. Something grounded in humour, candour, emotional maturity, and the kind of masculine wisdom that doesn’t preach, posture, or pander. And so much of that philosophy comes directly from our fathers.

From one father, we inherited a sense of steadfastness. The idea that no matter how chaotic life becomes, you stay rooted in what matters. From the other, we inherited the ability to adapt, the belief that reinvention is not just possible but necessary, and often the making of a man.

Both men taught us resilience not as a performance, but as a practice. They taught us to listen more than we speak. To work with our hands as well as our heads. To confront our weaknesses with honesty rather than shame. To make room for humour even when life is complicated, especially when life is complicated.

These lessons form the backbone of The Wisdom Vault:

• Work on yourself, not in isolation but in community.
• Take responsibility for your story.
• Grow without losing your grounding.
• Age with intention, not avoidance.
• Find meaning through action.
• Don’t confuse stoicism with silence or emotional suppression.
• And whatever you do — don’t let the old man in.

Honouring the Men Who Made Us the Men We Are

Viewing the mural is an emotional experience for me. Memories resurface. Some vivid, some foggy, all significant. I find myself recalling stories from years past. Laughing at habits I now carry, often unknowingly, gifts from my father. Reflecting on how his strengths and flaws shaped the man I have become.

And I always say goodbye to them both when I leave the office.

Today, though, the mural has stopped being about our fathers alone. It has become a tribute to the fathers, grandfathers, mentors, uncles, brothers, and quiet guiding figures in every man’s life. The ones who did their best, imperfectly, but earnestly. The ones whose lives carry forward through the people they loved.

When visitors come into our space, whether for podcast interviews, coaching sessions, workshops, events, or just a conversation, they often ask about the mural. And we tell them the truth: that it’s a reminder that we didn’t arrive in midlife by accident. We were raised into it. And we carry our fathers’ voices with us, even now, in the decisions we make, the mistakes we learn from, and the wisdom we pass on.

A Conversation They Never Had, But We Continue Every Day

Our fathers never met. We like to imagine them sitting together somewhere in spirit. Two old souls, content, amused, and pleasantly surprised that their sons decided to create something dedicated to helping other men find clarity and courage in a world that often demands both and supplies little.

If they had shared that pint, we suspect they wouldn’t have said much. But what they did say would have mattered.

In a way, that’s what The Wisdom Vault aims to do.

Not overwhelm men with noise, but offer thoughtful, grounded, occasionally humorous guidance that cuts through the chaos. The kind of guidance our fathers gave us: not flashy, not self-help-trendy, not ego-driven. Just honest, lived wisdom.

And that’s why their faces are now on our wall.
Because everything we are building –  every podcast, every program, every article, every conversation – has its roots in the quiet lessons they left us.

The mural is there to remind us:
We come from good men.
We aim to honour them.
We aim to help others honour themselves too.

And as long as we do that, we know we’re on the right path.