Anger release

Most rentals have whitewashed walls and rising damp; this one was owned by an old lady who had moved to Spain in her dotage to escape the bleak London winters. It was well-appointed, with an open-plan living room and kitchen, trinkets on shelves accumulated over decades, and a patio for barbecues in the summer.

The residents at Larkhill were friendly. Noah and Olivia, a couple from California, and Richard, a quiet man with narcolepsy who no-one saw much of. We had all chatted briefly and they seemed happy to have me for the next few weeks while I figured out my work situation.

It was time for the Sunday journalling session – they did them every week. We retired to different corners of the house to write, and then returned to the patchwork of sofas in the living room. While I was upstairs they had been pushed together to make a single, large surface, on which we all lay. The narcoleptic did not join us.

Olivia went first, sharing some of the things that happened during her week – a few clients at her therapy practice, some disagreements with her boyfriend Noah (I found it curious that these were described in some detail despite him being in the room).

Noah was next. He mentioned the “Art of Accomplishment” course he was doing. I googled it later. The head coach was a man called Joe Hudson, a man in his fifties with a perfect white smile and close-cropped hair. The website showed him on the Modern Wisdom with Chris Williamson podcast, two gleaming smiles beaming at each other. There was a carousel of shortform videos, each with a title like Beyond discipline, Do the scary thing, Anxiety is excitement.

The website had a testimonial from Sam Altman, extolling Joe’s virtues. This did not strike me as a good thing.

“I’ll be doing my anger release at 7pm tomorrow, so you might want to wear headphones,” Noah said.

We moved on before I had time to ask what this involved, or why I had to wear headphones. Not wanting to seem perturbed, I didn’t return to it.

The following day, my phone buzzed as I walked through the door – a calendar event, anger release wear headphones. I rummaged around for my headphones and put them on.

I didn’t hear anything from upstairs. Noah and Olivia shared the attic room at the top of the house, so perhaps the headphones and distance meant I wasn’t going to hear whatever shouting was involved.

After about twenty minutes, I felt a bump on the floor, then another – like something heavy was being lifted up and dropped on the floor over and over. I lifted the headphones off one ear. I could hear shouting from upstairs but couldn’t make out any words. I figured this is what anger release meant – getting your emotions out by making some loud noises and throwing a medicine ball around or something. The sounds stopped after a few minutes.

Next Sunday, the same notice from Noah – anger release at 7pm, wear headphones. Was this going to be every week? I mentioned this, mostly out of curiosity, to Olivia. What’s this about? Why does Noah need to do all this screaming, and why in the house? She cut me off, and asked me what trauma I’d encountered that meant I didn’t like people authentically experiencing their emotions, so I left it at that.

This time the noises were much louder. The slamming continued, but I could hear screaming, a kind of guttural roar, a voice breaking as it was pushed to its limits. The slams from above got closer and closer together. More screams, but this time a second voice. It couldn’t be Olivia; she was out seeing a client. Then a thud which shook the house. And then silence.

My heart raced. I didn’t want to go upstairs; interrupting because the sounds were scary seemed incredibly feeble. I am the kind of person who encourages people to authentically express their emotions.

Eventually my curiosity got the better of me. I crept up to the top of the house. The loft door was ajar, the room dark. “Noah?” No reply. I waited a minute before carefully pushing the door open.

The room was destroyed – holes punched in the walls, bloodstains on the carpet, the wooden bedframe splintered. The narcoleptic was lying face down on the ground, beaten to a pulp. He was naked, emaciated, ligature marks around his wrists. How long had he been in here?

Noah was standing motionless, shoulders slumped. His eyes glinted in the light from the laptop screen. On it, a Zoom call was open, Joe Hudson’s beaming smile on screen. I could see at least a dozen other squares, each with someone watching intently at the destruction. Noah turned to me, eyes glazed, saying nothing.

“What the fuck is going on here?” I shouted. Noah breathed raggedly but said nothing. From the screen, Joe said, toothily: do you not like people authentically expressing their emotions?

ART OF ACCOMPLISHMENT – INTERNAL ONLY
2 Apr 2026

Team,

Q1 performance has exceeded expectations:

• 78% year-on-year increase in unique web visitors

• 3,200 Connection Course paid memberships ($200 ea.)

• 150 Master Class tier members onboarded ($10,000 ea.)

As we move into Q2, capitalising on growth remains essential. Our Connector Course members represent our highest-leverage opportunity for authentic emotional release.

Master Class members are increasingly asking for curated viewing experiences calibrated to their new nervous system thresholds. The new invite-only Vision Tier, launched last quarter, has proved enormously successful, with over 100 livestreams run to date. Reception has been extremely positive.

The enhanced Connection Course protocol has approximately doubled the conversion rate from member to integration participant, providing more capacity for curated Vision Tier experiences. The Larkhill intervention exceeded engagement metrics, setting a new benchmark for our member experiences.

Remember: together, we’re rewiring how people relate to themselves, to others, and to the inner journey.

Onwards,

Joe