The shape of connection

- Jan 19, 2026

The signs were there.

Intellectual loneliness is something I've suffered from since I left Christian Louboutin.

It took me many years to diagnose myself, though there were signs. The first: mere months after I packed up my office and settled into my work from home routine, I had signed up to my first online course. The alMBA, with Seth Godin. First indication that I was following a new direction, but I didn't understand what I was reaching for, or what I'd lost. Let me back up.

Cut off from the source

During the years that I helped build Louboutin World (this is a nod to our Instagram account), I traveled extensively and met tons of extraordinary people, with and without Christian. Including some of my favorite artists (Beyoncé, Mary J Blige, Pharrell). I had always been a big dreamer, curious, enthusiastic, devouring books. My boss was (is) incredibly curious too, endlessly fascinated by the world, a true lover of deep thinking, exploration, discovery. We were a good fit for each other. Just as the industry I evolved in was filled with wonderful talents who wore their depth on their sleeve. As my friend the designer ​Todd Lynn said on Out of the Clouds​: "Fashion is about ideas, and sometimes these ideas become clothes."

Once I left the job, delighted though I was to chart my own course and build something away from the original mothership I'd become associated with, I found myself cut off from the source, completely unaware of the consequences on my system.

What I noticed instead was what I referred to as a “crazy thirst for learning”. Reframe. My curious constitution had always needed that. Learning. Perhaps this is the very reason I stayed at Christian Louboutin for so long. Because it brought to me a kind of intellectual sustenance I wasn't aware I needed.

Unaware though I was as to what was missing, I followed my instinct. Online courses became my way of reaching for something I couldn't yet name.

By 2024, I'd taken several online writing courses. Writing had emerged as something that was not just important but essential to me. I was working on myself (coaching, therapy), studying (mindfulness, loving kindness, story structure, copy writing), hosting and producing podcasts (getting a masterclass in each of my guests), and I was by then already a member of several online communities and forums, including the Bento Society. (*) All that, on the side of my work as a communications consultant for luxury and fashion brands. Writing emerged as THE tool that helped me process my life and my experiences.

Joan Didion said, "I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I am looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear."

With an innate understanding of this truth, I’d designed my own version of an intense writing sprint by putting myself on the line, publicly, when I began publishing a weekly newsletter in 2020. Calling it a Weekly Digest had locked me into a punishing publishing cadence, until writing turned from obligation (the public commitment) into an expansive form of personal and professional expression (I slipped into personal essays within four weeks of launching).

But here's what I understood early on: even with only 40 or 50 readers at the time (friends but also clients), I knew I couldn't do this alone. The pressure of fast writing and regular publishing combined with the inevitable snow blindness (when you've read your own words so many times you stop seeing the typos, the awkward phrasing, the unclear thinking) meant I'd get caught in a loop. The more I reread my own drafts, the more blind I became to what was actually on the page. So I asked for help, the only kind that I knew of: I worked with two copy editors (​Manfredda Cavazza​ for the Metta View and Sheila Loesch for Out of the Clouds ) for five years.

What I initially thought was perfectionism (making sure what I put out was good enough) was also something else: I needed another set of eyes, another mind, to help me see what I couldn't see alone. Let's note that I'd smartly chosen about generous, smart, and talented editors, it wasn't just any old help.

That's how ​the Metta View​ came to life.

For a while, it lived on Mailchimp, then on Substack, before I chose to build my own platform.

By the time I heard about Write of Passage, I was convinced that was one course I didn't need.

The first mention I remember of David Perell and Write of Passage (WoP for the insiders) came from​ Salman Ansari​, an online writer, startup founder, artist, who penned a regular newsletter, the ​Quick Brown Fox​. He had become internet famous for his excellent blog post,​ The Polymath Playbook​. After reading it, I had dropped him a line to share my appreciation of his writing (turns out I’m a polymath too), then got to know him and even interviewed him for ​Out of the Clouds ​(a wonderful interview if I do say so myself). Salman, as I learned, was an alumna of WoP. I met, interviewed and collaborated with several other writers over the following years who also had found their online writing voice (or the confidence to publish) thanks to David, his online learning platform, and the dedicated team that gave the project its unique aura.

In certain circles, David's online writing course was something of a unicorn both in its form (intense few weeks, lots of support, mentors, alumni, big promise) and its reach (thousands of people had taken it and sung its praises). The pitch was compelling: "Learn how to write, publish, and thrive online with live instruction, feedback, and a supportive community. Write of Passage is a five-week program that transforms your writing and your life." Notably writing online following this methodology had significantly elevated its alumni (like Salman) as well as its founder's status (David now podcasts and has interviewed the likes of Sam Altman). That said, I'd come to tell myself that WoP wasn't for me.

I already had a system.

Added to that the course fee was around the $7000 mark which I found too high.

And then the email arrived: Write of Passage was closing. Final cohort. September 2024.

FOMO crept in.

On a sweet September evening, Matt and Parul, the co-founders of the London Writers’ Salon, teased out of their guest, David Perell the reasons behind him closing down the gates of Write of Passage. Walking my dog Nandi, busy sniffing his way around our local park, I found myself connecting to David in a way I didn't expect.

Writing is social, he said.

My left eyebrow went up.

How's that?

He explained to the hosts how he had felt creatively stuck in his early beginnings, and how he had discovered an unexpected unlock: talking to other writers about ideas, arguments, structure—that had been the gateway to his own writing voice.

And his voice (and ideas) became a magnet for people who cared about what he cared about. Voice was the gateway to connection.

This discovery earned him the nickname "The Writing Guy" and shifted his entire career toward teaching people to express their ideas in writing.

This is what had led him to launch Write of Passage. He added that processing ideas verbally helped the flow as well as the tone of the online writing voice (online writing is its own style of writing FYI). WoP was designed to offer conditions and containers to help participants bring out ideas (and stories), along with frameworks to develop their drafts, and daily 'gyms' where writers support each other in offering generous feedback to help each other generate the best possible essay.

At that point, David added that this being the end, the final course, the fee to join would be halved for listeners of the podcast. His intention was to make this the best ever WoP cohort, to finish with a bang. His voice rose in my ears, his energy bubbling, I could feel the breadth of his smile. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket while my dog sniffed the grass near me. David’s beaming face filled my screen. The invitation felt impossible to refuse.

Oh.

Crap. Another online course…

Five weeks later, I was back on Zoom, but this time, to celebrate the end of the cohort, say goodbye to WoP, David taking that final bow with us.

As I listened in to the team and peers sharing their wins, offering gratitude for the space, and talking about what they had taken away from the month together, I checked in with myself.

I'd been right all along. WoP wasn't really for me. The time commitment was too intense on top of my workload, the schedule of calls didn’t align with my hours. I barely made any of the gyms. And the one time I shared a draft early (which I felt was too early for my process), the feedback had me crawl back into my own skin.

Trust thyself. When will I learn the lesson?

BUT!

What it did do is that it had me feeling like I was part of something bigger than myself. In those digital rooms, I was no longer solo Anne, in her echo chamber of 1. I was there with folks from around the world, who like me had a sense that their voice could matter if they got it right.

Those rooms filled with strangers felt like a family in no time. Thanks to the exchange, the multiplicity of inputs and opinions, doors were opened inside of my mind that I couldn't have unlocked by myself. Writing was social after all.

We all felt the gift

We were invited to raise our virtual hands to offer feedback. Shy, I kept my 'hand' down. Until I didn't. An insight emerged. And just as I'd felt a rush of emotion during that first call in the park, my eyes started to swell. David called on to me.

I don't do well in large groups, so I took a big inhale before launching myself. Pressure. I was the last to speak.

"Thank you so much. This meant a lot to me,” my voice quivering just a bit, 'This course filled a void I didn't know existed. I didn't realise I was intellectually lonely. Not until now."

By then, salty tears had crept into my eyes just as David’s started to spill out. We all felt the gift of what had been created through WoP and its founder's vision. Even now, typing these words, I feel the emotion, it's still present.

David Perell may have built a course about writing online, but what he offered was a Trojan horse for connection, one built around sharing our ideas, shaped in the form of essays.

WoP filled a gap in the lives of many who like me want to connect emotionally in an intellectually rich context, with people who want the same thing.

I met some really special people thanks to this course. And thanks to other transformational offerings, like the also defunct altMBA. Some of my peers became friends, friends who I spent time with in real life too.

That breakthrough on Zoom gave me the words. I'd been solving for my intellectual loneliness all along, I just hadn't known what to call it.

Dozens and dozens of courses later, here I am. Heading a social learning studio. Hosting online and in person courses, workshops, gatherings, podcasts. And writing online.

Yes, I'm building my own container. Le Trente is finding its shape. Not by imposing something intellectually rigid (though my mind wants to), but by letting it move with the people who join. The structure needs to be clear enough to signal what we're about: depth, seeking, ideas, exchange. But loose enough to respond to what emerges when curious minds gather.

The salon, the workshop, the essay, the conversation: these are shapes that create conditions. Who shows up shapes what happens inside them.

Just like WoP, it's not for everyone.

It's for people like me. Maybe people like you.

Those of us looking for the others.

Who feel intellectually lonely, who want to explore life in its full depth, and maybe even do so in writing.

A heartfelt thank you to my Write of Passage peers who gave feedback on early drafts of this essay—especially Becky, whose insight helped me see I'd buried the most important part. Writing really is social. Thanks so much for reading me.

Until next time.