Luke Anear began his working life as a private investigator, sitting in cars and filming people who had been injured at work. He'll tell you it was the coolest job he ever had. It was also where the problem found him. He was watching people whose lives had been altered by something preventable, paid by the system that let it happen. Once he understood he was part of the problem, he had to become part of the solution.

That was 2004, in a garage on the northern outskirts of Townsville. No software industry, no co-founder, about 30 computer science graduates a year coming out of James Cook University. Twenty-one years later, Mitti has passed a billion dollars in revenue since it began.

It took a long time to get here. Luke is unusually honest about the things they tried that didn't work: the training platform he built in 2007 that he describes as a bad version of PowerPoint, the document management system in 2010, the telemarketers ringing businesses to ask if they wanted safety paperwork. The checklist app that made the company's name didn't arrive until 2012, eight years in. "Rarely is your first idea your best idea." The simplicity everyone recognises now came out of years of unpicking every jurisdiction and every industry until there was something small enough to be useful.

In this episode, Kate Glazebrook talks with Luke about the store manager who replaced a 700 question checklist with one question asked three times a day, why an industry that hasn't changed since 1666 is the biggest thing Mitti is building, what it means to rebuild a company in six months when AI writes 90% of your code, why that led them to hire more human experts rather than fewer, and the two years since he stepped down as CEO because, in his words, he was cooked.

When Rae Wang started at Microsoft in the early 2000s, the company culture valued aggression and intensity. Someone punched a hole in a wall. Someone kicked a door until it came off its hinges. People threw chairs out of conference rooms. The people responsible for these outbursts were celebrated as legends. Rae did more than just survive the tumult, she thrived, and stayed long enough to see the culture become less destructive and more collaborative.

A decade later, Rae joined Google as a Product Manager for Google Cloud, and today Rae is Head of Product, Enterprise at Atlassian. Her time leading teams in some of the world’s largest tech companies has given her a remarkable vantage point on how the tech industry has evolved over the last 20+ years.

In particular, Rae excels at the “boring” and often unglamorous things tech platforms need to survive at scale: security, reliability, compliance, and all kinds of key infrastructure that no one notices until it stops working.

In this episode, Kate Glazebrook talks with Rae about how she’s seen tech culture evolve over the years, why AI can build you an app but can’t handle security compliance, what improv comedy has taught her about conflict resolution, and plenty more.

🎧 [Apple Podcasts] | [Spotify] 📸 [@wildheartspod]

Few companies show up on "best place to work" lists as consistently as Canva despite running at a level of ambition that would flatten most teams. Jennie Rogerson is the person responsible for holding that combination together.

She's Canva's Chief People Officer but she didn't come up through HR. She started as an EA to founders Mel and Cliff, became their chief of staff, then was handed the job of making Canva the best place to work.

She's openly sceptical of the high-performance-culture language most of Canva's peers reach for. She's made caring an explicit, unembarrassed part of how the company operates. And despite around 300,000 job applications a year, Canva still won't anchor its hiring to credentials.

Kate sits down with Jennie to talk about the interview challenge that got her the job (it involved the founders' anxious dog), why she thinks culture is never a system, "cheese grating" her own ideas with the people most likely to shred them, and what it actually takes to scale a culture people want to stay in.

🎧 [Apple Podcasts] | [Spotify] 📸 [@wildheartspod]

Danielle Strachman has built her whole career around a hard question: how do you spot someone who's going to do something extraordinary before there's any proof they will? She started as a school principal, helped build the Thiel Fellowship, and now runs 1517 Fund, backing founders without degrees and scientists most institutions won't go near. What she looks for is almost embarrassingly simple. Can this person not stop talking about the thing they're obsessed with? If the answer's yes, she'll ask for a Venmo handle and send $1,000 before the call is over.

It's an instinct with a track record. Ethan Thornton was seventeen when 1517 handed him a small grant to tinker in his garage. A year later, that became a $100,000 grant to start his defence tech company, Mach Industries. A year after that, Sequoia was in.

Most of our Wild Hearts guests this season are founders and builders. This one sits on the other side of the table, with the person who decides who gets backed. There's another twist: it's Joel Connolly, Creative Director and Head of the Blackbird Foundation, behind the mic. Back in June 2025, 1517 flew him to San Francisco to open their Fellowship Summit. Earlier this year, Blackbird flew Danielle out to speak at their startup festival, Sunrise.

Joel and Danielle get into what actually makes a weirdo worth backing, why she won't measure the return on last month's grant, how 1517 makes a call when the whole team disagrees, and why she thinks of the job as "homeschooling CEOs".

🎧 [Apple Podcasts] | [Spotify] 📸 [@wildheartspod]

Before Phoebe Saintilan-Stocks had a website, a company name, or a single piece of content published, she cold-messaged the COO of the Gates Foundation on LinkedIn. And they funded her.

It’s a pattern that runs right through both this episode and everything Phoebe has built since. The media company reaching 3.5 million people a month, the women's sports show on TV, the podcasts in categories nobody expected young women to care about, and the book built on cold emails to the chiefs of staff of Nelson Mandela, Jacinda Ardern, Justin Trudeau, Tony Blair, and Kamala Harris.

Most of us have started something without knowing quite what we were doing - no map, no contacts, figuring it out as we went - that part is familiar. The difference with Phoebe is what she did next. Because when her finger was hovering over the send button, she pressed it. And that one habit repeated relentlessly is how Missing Perspectives got funded, how The Right Hand got written, and how a blog on Squarespace became one of ANZ's most interesting media companies.

In this conversation with Kate, Phoebe talks about what the beginner's mind actually unlocks, why data will force you to kill the things you love and why you should let it, and what the chiefs of staff to the world's most powerful leaders taught her about trust, loyalty, and the one quality that makes or breaks any working relationship.

Jess Richmond thinks the premium on technical founders is about to flip. Building is cheap enough now that anyone can ship a bookkeeping app in a week. What's scarce, she argues, is having actually lived the problem: reconciled the transaction, sat in the procurement meeting, knows exactly what a customer will and won't trust.

She pitched Blackbird on Sumday with a screenshotted SharePoint site. Four years on, she's betting the company on government agencies, the buyers with the least patience for anyone who hasn't already done the work of understanding how they operate.

Kate sits down with Jess to talk about why not knowing venture capital's unwritten rules might have made her braver rather than naive, the $50,000 supplier decision that never accounted for its own emissions, and how she reverse-engineers a buyer's psychology before she ever mentions the product.

Sagalee Omer looked around at the world he grew up in and decided to build the one he needed. Not metaphorically. Bikes for kids with no way to get around. Free therapy for a community that didn't talk about it. A storytelling platform to put everyday people on screen. A basketball tournament that's raised over $100K to fund it all. Four projects, one mission: young people who are seen, heard, and have the infrastructure to become who they are.

The ambition is the same as any founder on this show. So is the discipline - knowing what to ship, when to push, and when to stop. What's different is who's investing: not a cap table, but a community. Sagalee is still in his twenties, came up through Blackbird Foundation's Protostars program, and has thought harder about identity, mission, and building for the long term than most people in this industry with a decade on him.

Theia Gabatan from Blackbird Foundation sits down with Sagalee to talk about where the mission came from, what founders can take from building without institutional backing, why he calls himself a director not a founder, and the belief he holds that most people don't.

In 2017, Mick Liubinskas got one line from an old basketball mate: "maybe it's time you got in the game." He'd just moved to the US, read the IPCC reports for the first time, and had three kids under seven. But he couldn't unsee it, so he got in the game.

Nine years on, Mick leads Climate Salad - a community of 800 Australian climate tech founders and operators that he deliberately chose to keep lean when it could have grown. He knows the funding volatility, the long hardware timelines, the challenge of selling Australian innovation to Australians who'd sooner trust the same thing from a US startup. But when three founders in the same week told him their sales cycles were getting shorter, he almost cried.

What this conversation gets into is the tension in climate tech right now: how do you hold genuine conviction about an existential problem while speaking a language that CFOs, customers and markets can actually act on? And what happens when you finally make peace with what kind of builder you actually are instead of the one you assumed you were supposed to be?

Kate sits down with Mick to talk about why he walked away from a tech career to work on climate, what he learned from building and deliberately shrinking a community, the one leading indicator that tells him the tide is turning, and what he changed his mind about.