Reflecting on Four Very, Very Strange Years: A Journey Through Corporate Psychosis

I’ve stayed silent for almost two years. In fact, more than four.

I did not work inside the company that I observed. Yet, what has unfolded there — the contradictions, the relentless demands placed on employees who are told to “be resilient” without a clear purpose, the unacknowledged failures — has left a trail of harm that has extended far beyond its walls.

It was July 2021. Sydney had entered yet another Covid-19 lockdown. The café I worked at could no longer sustain regular shifts, and I found myself out of work… again.

I had long wanted to work in tech. When I was 19, a Microsoft internship was my true goal — whether I ever applied, I can’t remember. I didn’t really know myself, or even realise that I could wait and explore other opportunities. Instead, I took the first offer that came my way: my very first internship interview. Robert Bosch.

I worked in Power Tools, specifically Accessories. The days were long and mostly boring. While I’ve written a description of my role on LinkedIn, I mostly can’t recall what I actually did — I spent much of my time just waiting for the day to end. It was an early lesson in the importance of alignment: knowing what you want, and finding a role that actually engages you. I’ve spent my whole career searching for that.

When Words Don’t Match Actions: The Cost to Culture

It’s accurate to say I haven’t always acted from alignment. Sometimes I still don’t. But I’ve learned something important: I know what I want, and I know what my authentic self looks like. That knowledge has guided every choice I’ve made since.

After a career through marketing, events, my own business, back to hospitality, I’ve moved into leadership and culture consulting — and I’m also launching a podcast as I continue exploring what’s next.

I Wanted to Believe the Hype: My Experience with Culture Amp

The "Culture Expert" Paradox: Inside the Disconnect?

I wanted a Customer Success role. After speaking to Jitjatjo and going through three rounds of interviews — with the Country Manager, Gavin McDonough, the Chief People Officer, Marcella Barry, and finally a member of the team — I was warmly welcomed and told, “We look forward to welcoming you to the team.” And then… I was ghosted.

After weeks of negotiating salary, deep-diving into the company, and the back and forth of coordinating across time zones, I was left waiting. To go from a promise of “welcoming me to the team” to absolute silence is more than just a lapse in manners — it is deeply disrespectful.

When a company builds its brand on the promise that they “want talent to feel valued” and that every individual “needs to be believed in,” they are setting a standard they are then obligated to meet. But when that same company goes silent after a verbal offer, they aren’t just failing to hire someone; they are actively contradicting the very values they use to sell their product.

Trust is built on follow-through. It rests on three values: Authenticity, Empathy, and Cogency.

Of course, I didn’t consciously articulate it that way at the time, but the words that had already begun to echo in my own life were simple: “your word is your bond.” It became a non-negotiable standard I chose to live by in 2020: if I say I will do something, I do it, and when I can’t — because circumstances change or I learn new information — I explain why, because trust is preserved not by pretending otherwise, but through transparency and accountability. I quite simply learned to treat others the way I would like to be treated.

Following the rejection and the experience of being ghosted, I kept searching. After my interviews with Jitjatjo — and after how much fun I had researching the company and preparing a whole list of questions for each person I spoke with — I realised that tech was definitely my thing. I had already been thinking about it deeply, especially after noticing that the people I had such strong connections with at my events were mostly men (unfortunately I didn’t meet any women in the field) who worked in tech — some at Google, some developers, some who had built their own apps, and even some who had tried their hand in Silicon Valley. There was something about their energy, their way of thinking, and the problems they were tackling that drew me in, and I wanted to be part of it.

I started brainstorming ways I could make my own mark in the field. I had long imagined growing my business on a global scale, thinking about ways to connect people across cultures and create experiences that bridged communities. The perfect way, I decided, would be to develop an app.

Alas, the app didn’t get off the ground, but the process gave me the opportunity to speak with several people already working in tech — including my cousin, a Singaporean start-up founder and managing director with extensive experience scaling tech companies, developing AI solutions, and investing in and mentoring startups through accelerator programs, as well as developers who had built apps themselves.

It was around this time, while discussing my app and learning from my cousin about the next steps for validating my idea, that I discovered Culture Amp. I had been exploring several possibilities — I even had a whole spreadsheet of companies I was speaking to — but none of them felt like the right fit. Udemy, for example, showed real promise: I had connected with a Customer Success Manager there who was genuinely excited about having me on her team.

The role required significant travel, particularly to India and Singapore — which was more than exciting for me, as I love Asia and connecting with other cultures, and Singapore feels like a second home — but it was still the middle of COVID, and the timing didn’t feel right. Having lived with a chronic illness for what is now 20 years (15 at the time), I knew my immune system might not withstand the potential exposure to the virus. So, I said no.

Then I discovered Culture Amp. It appeared in my LinkedIn suggested jobs as a Sales role. I knew I wasn’t interested in sales, and I couldn’t find a Customer Success role advertised — I later discovered it was listed as Customer Success Coach, instead of Manager, which explained why no listings had shown up. At the time, I hadn’t thought to check the company’s LinkedIn page either, since I wasn’t yet fully invested in the opportunity.

I submitted my CV and cover letter and was invited to an initial interview with the recruiter, Charlie Raines. I was excited, and a little nervous, but mostly curious — this felt like the first step toward a role that could really align with my interests and skills. However, towards the end of the interview, when I mentioned that I was also in discussion with Udemy about a Customer Success role and asked if Culture Amp would consider me for a similar position instead, Charlie didn’t address it. He quickly moved on and said he would put me through to the next round. The abruptness caught me off guard, leaving me little opportunity to clarify or respond to his reaction. I wasn’t happy about how he responded, but I rationalised it, knowing that going through the process would still give me valuable experience and help me prepare for a Customer Success interview in the future.

Before the sales interview, I did what I always do when I’m curious about a company: I prepared.

I looked up the Sales Manager I’d been told I would be meeting and connected with him on LinkedIn, sending a brief note to say hello. I even tried to guess his nickname in an attempt to connect — needless to say, I got it wrong. It wasn’t Nic, it wasn’t Nick… it was Nico. And I felt a little worried that I’d annoyed him before the interview had even begun.

The interview confirmation email included a form where candidates could record the pronunciation of their name. Instead of simply submitting the pronunciation, I used the recording to say a quick “Hi”. I wasn’t too sure if he would appreciate my creative use of the form either. Nevertheless… I was having fun. It was a small, silly moment, but it reminded me that even in a formal process, I could still bring a bit of myself.

The day of the interview came, and I remember sitting there, waiting for the Zoom call to connect. That brief pause before someone appears on screen always feels a little suspended in time, equal parts nerves, excitement and curiosity. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was excited to learn something new — about the company, about its people, and maybe even something about myself.

What stands out to me now is not the specific questions. Most of them I have already forgotten. One question sticks in my memory, though, or at least something along the lines of: “Tell me about a time you learned something on your own.”

I spoke about the year I spent teaching myself Portuguese before travelling to Rio de Janeiro for one month. I had committed to studying consistently for twelve months on my own, focusing on grammar, vocabulary, and pronunciation, before I even booked the trip. Once in Rio, I enrolled in an intensive program. I studied 20 hours of Portuguese per week for four weeks, a total of eighty hours fully immersed.

I thought it was a solid example of self-directed learning, but he didn’t seem particularly engaged or impressed by my answer. It left me with the feeling that, even when I brought something meaningful to the table, I still went unseen.

I cannot recall most of the other questions at all. The only one that stands out was phrased more like a put-down than a genuine question. He asked something along the lines of, “You’ve led a team of 15, but have you worked with KPIs?” I was confused, because it was already clearly stated on my CV. I also wasn’t sure why he felt the need to preface it with the fact that I had led a team. At the time, it left me feeling unsettled and unsure how to respond.

I stumbled through my answer and, despite knowing the correct response was yes, I felt like he didn’t really want to hear it, so I said no.

After the interview, I was still put through to the next round with the Head of Sales. I thanked Charlie for the opportunity but explained why I did not feel comfortable proceeding. He thanked me for my feedback regarding the interview process, but it left me with the sense that it wouldn’t be passed on to the manager or anyone else in an attempt to address the bias I’d experienced. As far as I was aware, I don’t know if the interview was even recorded, or at least no one confirmed that it had been, which would have meant there was no opportunity for it to be reviewed to improve the process.

I also asked Charlie again if there was a possibility of speaking with someone in Customer Success, as that was the role I was genuinely interested in. I can’t remember his exact response, but it was a clear no. Frustrated by the process, I decided to reach out directly to the manager hiring for the Customer Success role I was interested in, Cait Kavanagh. I sent her a copy of my CV and cover letter and waited for a response.

At the time, I assumed the platform was truly anonymous and that the team “walked its talk,” insights I only fully understood later.

To my surprise, her reply was enthusiastic and much longer than I expected. “You are absolutely a People Geek <3,” she said. “Would you like to do a Zoom coffee?” I was taken aback, not just by her warmth, but also by the level of detail and encouragement in her message, which made it clear she had genuinely read and engaged with my cover letter.

At the same time, I couldn’t tell if the message was an attempt to help me get into Customer Success, an assessment to see if I would be a fit for the role, or both. It was unclear.

At the time, I had stopped drinking coffee, but curious about what she might offer, I accepted the Zoom tea anyway.

During the Zoom, she spoke to me about ways I could learn more about Customer Success and suggested a few resources. I sensed she was slightly surprised by how prepared I already was. By that point, I had completed LinkedIn Learning courses, was reading about Customer Success, and had even joined an online CS community to deepen my understanding. I wanted the job.

On a personal level, we chatted about dogs, and she even showed me her Dachshund, Daisy, which I distinctly remember from noticing the small daisy-shaped tag on her collar.

I can’t recall everything else we discussed, but I do remember asking if Culture Amp used its own platform internally. Rather than answering directly, she quickly pivoted to offering a demo.

That was the first moment I began to seriously question the company’s values. While I had noticed a similar issue around openness with the sales manager, this interaction suggested a pattern was emerging. I found myself wondering why vulnerability seemed so difficult to practise, despite it being presented as a core value.

Determined to address the company’s cultural issues, as I was highly invested in its mission, I set out to design a solution. Around that time, I came across an Operations role within the company. I realised that meaningful change would require engagement at the executive level.

The role outlined responsibilities that included designing strategic frameworks and engaging with the C-suite. While my CV did not reflect a traditional Operations background, I believed the role required capability rather than title. Rather than relying solely on a conventional application process, I chose to demonstrate those capabilities directly.

By the time I applied, I had spent three months researching the company and speaking with employees across Sales, Customer Success, HR, and DEI to better understand the organisational landscape and its culture. I also applied concepts from Blue Ocean Strategy to explore potential pathways for the company, including alternative industries, strategic market segments, buyer perspectives, complementary offerings, functional and emotional value to customers, and timing opportunities. This helped me reflect on where meaningful change could be made and how I could position my proposal.

To demonstrate that I met the key requirements outlined in the advertised role, I decided to share my strategy directly with the executive team on LinkedIn. I sent tailored messages to Didier, Rod, Doug, Sally, and other members of the C-suite at the time, briefly highlighting the frameworks I had designed and the insights I had gathered. My goal was simple: to demonstrate my capabilities and to encourage reflection on the clarity of their strategy and the consistency of their values.

I felt surprised when Didier accepted my LinkedIn connection request and immediately asked if he could help me find a role at the company. I told him I had applied for an Operations role, and he responded enthusiastically, offering to assist me with my application.

However, I received an immediate rejection, which came very quickly and caught me off guard. I had included a copy of my 27-page PowerPoint proposal, noting that I had shared it with all the executives, and after three months of dedicated work, I was not just disappointed — I was utterly heartbroken by the complete lack of consideration for the effort I had invested.

I wasn’t sure if the rejection was related to my earlier conversation with the recruiter, Mhairi Kerr, whom I had asked briefly whether she was familiar with the company’s strategic frameworks — to which she responded that she was not.

This deeply concerned me.

How can a company’s staff make sound decisions if there is no shared understanding of its strategic frameworks and long-term direction?

Discovering this gap in strategic understanding was just the next of several cultural misalignments I noticed.

After calling the Sales team, I spoke with Beau Raiti. I asked what he believed was Culture Amp’s competitive advantage. He mentioned the sheer quantity of data points the company had collected, and its benchmarking capabilities, or something to that effect.

What unsettled me was not his answer itself, but what it revealed: even those in Sales didn’t seem to know what the company’s true competitive advantage was. If the people representing the company can’t articulate it, then it isn’t aligned with their marketing — despite banners on LinkedIn proclaiming that the company builds competitive advantage by putting culture (and people) first. Clearly, the organisation’s own staff don’t feel like they are the advantage.

To me, culture isn’t an abstract concept, culture is people. More precisely, it is the collective behaviour of those people, and an intentional culture aligns those behaviours with the company’s vision, mission, and values.

In any case, since Didier had replied to my message on LinkedIn, I took the opportunity to have a chat with him and share my thoughts on what I’d discovered. He offered to help me with the Operations role and seemed willing to follow through, but when I messaged him to check where things were at, he told me he was in the US. Before I’d even heard back from him after that, I received the rejection email from Mhairi.

We chatted briefly, though I don’t remember all the details. I do remember telling him that it was my birthday, the same day I had applied for the role, and that his help with the Operations role would have been the best 30th birthday present. I also asked how involved he still was with Rising Sun, since Rising Sun Research is still listed on his profile, however I cannot recall his answer.

I was curious about how involved he might be with other ventures, since I had noticed that many employees on LinkedIn seemed to take on side projects or additional roles alongside their work. It’s my belief that true impact is achieved through focus. We can either do exceptional work by dedicating ourselves to a single goal or mission, or accept that spreading ourselves too thin limits our potential.

Not long after, I sent him a culture framework I had designed, only to quickly follow up and admit that I had contradicted myself and that he could disregard it. He replied that he contradicts himself all the time. That response was concerning to me, so I did not reply. It wasn’t the contradiction itself that concerned me, but the way he shared it so openly — it suggested a lack of clear direction and consistency at a leadership level, which left me uneasy about the company’s alignment and focus.

After a brief pause, I decided it was the right moment to share my experience going through the recruitment process. I detailed (in less detail than here) what I’ve shared, along with other observations I had made. I can’t recall everything, but I shared videos about listening to your intuition — something I had discovered a couple of years prior that had truly changed my life. I also sent a Ted-Ed video about understanding power, noting that it overcomplicated things and that I believe power ultimately comes from two sources: money or the people. Additionally, I shared observations of employees I had noticed during online events, such as one instance where a Culture Amp staff member seemed completely disengaged while a guest was speaking about their own experiences.

I also sent an example 5-star review of the product, written from the perspective of an employee, and questioned why employees weren’t sharing testimonials. I also noted that, from the data I could see online, at least 20% of campers were not responding to surveys.

My company uses Culture Amp, it completely changed the way we work! Something's changed, I feel like they really care about us, my manager wants to find better ways to help me and the team succeed, I finally feel like we're a team! The work environment is more inclusive, I've found my voice and I really think there might be some growth opportunities for me here.

I've noticed something else too, I'm taking better care of myself outside of work - my family told me that they've noticed a difference, I just feel happier.

It was at this point that I noticed he was reading all of my messages but had stopped responding.


I wasn’t sure whether it was because my work wasn’t good enough, or whether I didn’t have the right background for a role like that, despite it not being explicitly listed in the job ad. Or if he simply didn’t understand the strategy I had shared. Either way, I was determined to explain my thinking in detail, so he could see how and why I had arrived at my conclusions.

I continued sharing and clarifying my ideas over an extended period. I didn’t speak to him every day, but I regularly checked in and provided additional context, reflections, and examples as I felt necessary — from my recollection, this went on for several months.

After receiving no response or explanation for the silence, despite all messages being read, I decided to unconnect from him on LinkedIn and refocus on my own my learning. During that time, I studied the fundamentals of Python and R, alongside a range of business topics. I also explored subjects driven by personal curiosity, particularly history and biology, because I don’t believe we can truly understand ourselves (or organisations) without first understanding the human behaviour and the systems that shape it.

I didn’t know what my next opportunity would be. However, part of me still hoped that if I proved myself, I would finally be seen as good enough for a role at Culture Amp or another opportunity in the tech industry.

During the following six months or so, I didn’t come across any opportunities that truly spoke to me or aligned with my personal mission. I was still driven to address the culture problems I had observed in the hospitality industry. By the time January/February rolled around the following year, I decided to reach out to Didier via email, as I assumed this was likely the period when the company would be focusing on strategic decisions and priorities for the coming year.

In the email, I mentioned that I had recently moved back to Melbourne. This was partly because my tenancy contract had ended following a lengthy legal dispute with my landlord over safety issues, and mostly because I simply missed home. I had grown up in Melbourne and lived here for most of my life, aside from two short exchanges to France (totalling approximately one year) and six years in Sydney, and I never truly felt settled living away from home.

None of these personal details beyond the move were shared with Didier in the email; I only provided what was necessary to give context for my relocation and availability. I also asked if he would like to meet, as I wanted the opportunity to discuss my strategy proposal in person.

At the time, I wasn’t sure if my emails had been received or read, as they went unanswered, so I focused on other things. A couple of months later, I noticed that Rod Hamilton had viewed my LinkedIn profile, which led me to assume that Didier might have been speaking with him about the potential for a role.

I decided to reach out again to clarify this, but once more, I was met with silence. I found myself wondering again if there was something wrong with me — if I wasn’t good enough for the role, or if he hadn’t fully understood what I was communicating in my proposal. Hoping to address any confusion, I began to explain my conclusions in more detail, providing context, examples, and reflections to make my thinking as clear as possible.

I spoke about my previous work experience at Robert Bosch, the only enterprise-sized company I had ever worked at, and why I had ultimately decided not to pursue roles in companies of that scale. I shared personal stories, similar to some I had posted on Instagram, about wanting to be an engineer at the age of three but being told by a boy that I could not — a belief I hadn’t realised would shape many of my life choices. I also shared perspectives on DEI, including experiences of intersex and transgender people, and shared videos and resources in the hope that he would understand perspectives different to his own.

I also mentioned his wife and sons, asking how his work life affected them. I sent him videos of Greta, encouraging him to listen. Early on in my emails, I had suggested he share the strategy with her, because I believe that any changes he makes at the company will inevitably affect his home life. Having previously dated a very ambitious entrepreneur, I understood firsthand how sudden decisions without inclusion can make people feel, and how the lack of clear boundaries between work and home life had left me feeling unhappy and depressed.

I also sent emails outlining the wide range of skills an operatic soprano needs to develop. I shared something along the lines of how, beyond basic vocal control, operatic singers require breath support, pitch accuracy, tone quality, musical interpretation, and the ability to articulate lyrics in multiple languages, which involves precise control of the muscles of the mouth and a strong understanding of linguistic nuances. They also need strong sight-reading skills, a deep understanding of musical phrasing and dynamics, and the ability to convey emotion and story through both voice and stage presence. Performing demands acting, precise timing, coordination with an orchestra, and movement or gestures that complement their singing.

Even what appears to be a single role requires a multidisciplinary skill set, blending musical, linguistic, and theatrical expertise. I shared this because I had a gut feeling she might not have felt fully seen or appreciated by him, and I wanted to convey the breadth of skill, effort, and dedication required for work that demands both talent and commitment.

I also shared reflections on the Bradman family name, although I can’t recall my precise words. I have since written about their experience and the impact of fame, highlighting how public attention shapes personal lives and the pressures that come with a well-known family legacy.

I also sent emails referencing Finland and the Nordic countries, including reflections on leaders such as Sanna Marin and the broader findings of Gallups’s World Happiness Report. While I do not remember the specific details of what I wrote, the underlying perspective aligned with my broader belief that the happiest nations are not simply the richest, but those that rank highly in trust in leadership, freedom of choice, and strong social support. I vaguely remember drawing connections between these themes and organisational culture, questioning whether success should be measured purely by growth and financial outcomes, or by the quality of trust, autonomy, and collective wellbeing within a company.

Around the same time, I shared a video about Finland being ranked the happiest country in the world and reflections on why that might be the case. Although I cannot locate the exact video now, it discussed themes such as social trust, connection to nature, and even the role of healthy intimacy and sexuality in overall wellbeing. Similar themes are reflected in initiatives such as Visit Finland’s “Masterclass of Happiness,” which highlights the country’s deep connection to nature, strong community bonds, thoughtful design, and cultural attitudes toward balance and wellbeing, including cooking and food. My intention in sharing this was to point toward models of leadership and culture that prioritise trust, connection, and quality of life rather than purely financial measures of success.

After a period of sending messages that went unanswered — while I couldn’t be certain they were even being read, I strongly suspected they were — I reached a turning point. I no longer wanted to continue sending them, or to tie my sense of purpose to a role that may never materialise. I resolved to move on, or at least begin to move on, from the idea of working with the company. I requested that Didier call me by 5pm the following day, making it clear that if I didn’t hear from him, I would step away entirely.

I also I often communicate symbolically, as I have shared on my Instagram. In line with this, I referenced events such as the NSW Wedding Bus crash at Greta and the death of the OceanGate CEO, noting that he died because he did not heed safety warnings. Experts had repeatedly cautioned about the risks related to hull integrity and operational limits, but these warnings were not fully considered, ultimately leading to the tragic loss.

My point was symbolic rather than literal: Culture Amp would not directly harm anyone, but ignoring foundational issues could result in a slow decline of wellbeing, engagement, and ultimately the company itself, a form of cultural decay.

I highlighted the guests on board the submersible — a Frenchman, a billionaire, a son trying to please his father, and the father himself — referencing this as ‘ego death.’ Each represents a version of the self shaped by societal expectations, familial obligations, or external status, none of which are the true, unfiltered self (unless, of course, you actually are French). They embody versions of the self seeking validation from others rather than living in alignment with our inner truth.

It was around this time — mid-2023, perhaps late June or early July — that I first realised my emails were being read. The police came to my door to inform me that Didier had claimed I said he had to call me by 5pm, and subsequently raised concerns that I had issued a threat. In that email, I had used the phrase “today is your funeral” in the symbolic context of the ‘ego death’ I had been discussing. While I understand that the wording could be interpreted as a threat out of context, I believe that in context it was understood symbolically. My intention was not literal; however, it appears that it was later used against me.

Neither Didier, nor Culture Amp’s legal counsel I spoke to, Sarah Tinsley, nor anyone else in the company, has ever provided me with any verbal confirmation or clarification regarding how my words were interpreted.

After the police visit, I was told that if I continued sending emails, it could be reported as stalking. I struggled with that framing. From my perspective, my emails had been sent over months without objection, and I now had reason to believe they were all being read, just as my LinkedIn correspondence had been. There had been no direct request for me to stop, no clearly communicated boundary, and no attempt at conversation to clarify concerns. Instead, the first explicit response came through law enforcement.

I pushed back because autonomy and direct communication matter deeply to me. I believe in communicating openly with authenticity, especially within an organisation that publicly claims to value the courage to be vulnerable. To have my attempts at communication redirected into a policing framework, rather than addressed through dialogue, felt completely misaligned with those stated values.

Shortly afterward, Culture Amp’s legal counsel issued a cease and desist, referencing potential legal enforcement. While I am not certain of the exact timing, this formal demand seemed to follow the same pattern: warnings communicated through external enforcement rather than direct conversation.

In response, I sent Didier a formal cease and desist notification via email, instructing him to stop lying. Clearly, he did not follow my instructions. Likewise, I did not comply with the cease and desist issued to me.

After this, I continued sending emails to Culture Amp’s legal team and the executives and board members, including Rod, Doug, Rachel, and Didier. By this stage, my perspective had already been clearly laid out, and my correspondence became a form of pushback — highlighting their lack of courage to engage authentically with me, their employees, and their customers. I wanted to call out the discrepancy between the company’s stated values of vulnerability and the reality: true courage would have been to communicate with me directly.

I was very aware of how my behaviour was perceived. I knew that sending multiple short emails, or emails with one-line subjects, would result in being blocked and would almost certainly lead those with little interaction with me to assume I was unstable or mentally unwell — and I am confident that they were blocked shortly after, even though I have no direct confirmation. To test this, I created a new email address and sent the same style of messages, which were quickly blocked again.

I continued sending emails in the hope of a response; my goal was simply to have a direct conversation regarding my strategy proposal and correspondence dating back to the beginning of 2022. However, I was still not afforded this opportunity.

Despite being blocked, as I continued sending emails, a Personal Safety Intervention Order (PSIO) was issued against me, specifically naming Didier. The order prohibited me from contacting him directly. Technically, this meant I could still continue sending emails to all of the other recipients. I did, however, continue to include Didier in the messages, as I wanted him to remain aware of my correspondence in the event that anyone was still monitoring it.

I even reached out again to the other recipients via LinkedIn, confirming that my messages were being seen and holding them accountable for not upholding the company’s stated values. Even at the court hearing for the PSIO, I spoke briefly to Sarah as I saw her arrive and speak to reception, standing in line just ahead of me. When they asked whether the other party had arrived, I spoke up and confirmed that I was present. Before the hearing began, I asked her directly why Didier hadn’t simply blocked me after 18 months of intermittent correspondence, and why such legal action had been deemed necessary. She simply said, “That’s not the point.”

What was the point? To this day, I still cannot understand what I was being punished for. Was it for holding the company accountable for taking care of their employees? Was it for holding them accountable for living up to the very values they claim are their “DNA”?

This experience made me realise exactly how employees inside the company are treated when they speak up: ignored, dismissed, or even punished.

Notably, in order for the PSIO to be issued, Didier misrepresented the situation in his application. None of the context of my previous correspondence was included, and my words and actions were distorted. According to him, I had been ‘rejected’ for a sales role, which prompted my initial outreach. He presented my mentions of his wife, Greta, and his sons, along with my suggestion to transmute sexual energy, in a way that implied inappropriate or stalker-like behaviour. In reality, all of these comments were made entirely within the context of workplace culture and leadership dynamics. Despite this, I was portrayed as a stalker, rather than as someone he had actively engaged with, made promises to, and then passively engaged with before ultimately ghosting — ultimately invoking the legal system as a means to silence my attempts at accountability.

In submitting his application, Didier would have likely been required to sign a Declaration of Truth, swearing that the contents were "true and correct to the best of [his] knowledge and belief." By omitting the fact that he had engaged with my professional correspondence over an 18-month period without objection — only to later weaponise the legal system while distorting my words and actions to imply 'stalking' — he has fundamentally breached this oath. Under the law, the Declaration of Truth also states that knowingly making a false statement in a declaration of truth is punishable by up to 600 penalty units, five years' imprisonment, or both. This legal threshold exists for the exact purpose of preventing individuals from weaponising the court through perjury, and it confirms that lying in these applications carries serious criminal weight.

I am documenting these facts with full transparency. If Culture Amp or Didier believe that my account of these events is inaccurate or constitutes defamation, they are welcome to pursue the matter in court.

Further, before any application was made, in my emails, I had even stated that if he felt my communication was inappropriate, a PSIO was a legal avenue open to him. I raised this as an acknowledgement of the formal avenues available. I referenced this because, based on his prior avoidance and the broader pattern of disengagement from the other executives, I had little confidence that a direct conversation or accountability in line with the company’s stated values would occur, though I remained cautiously hopeful. At that stage, my objective was simply to obtain a clear response — either engagement in a direct conversation, as I had requested through Sarah following the hearing, or formal legal action to prevent further correspondence.

The conversation with Sarah yielded no meaningful resolution. I gained little beyond the insight that others within the company were willing to execute his decisions without questioning or offering a logical justification.

I continued my correspondence following the initial legal threats because I firmly believed — and continue to believe — that there were no legitimate legal grounds for such an intervention. I chose not to formally contest the application at that stage because I did not have evidence available to support a response. In fact, before we went into court, I was upfront with Sarah and stated that I would not be contesting the application. I had already deleted our initial correspondence after unconnecting from him on LinkedIn, as I did not want to retain unnecessary communications in relation to a role I was not guaranteed to obtain.

Knowing that my actions would technically constitute a breach of the order, I continued to send correspondence regardless. My reasoning was twofold: first, I refused to allow a legal order based on a distorted premise to dictate my silence. Second, I operated under the assumption that I had been blocked across all platforms, believing that these communications were essentially being sent into a void rather than directly reaching him or the other recipients.

There was also a certain dark irony in the fact that I was still sending these emails while sitting in the court waiting room before the PSIO hearing. I was aware that Sarah was likely receiving them in some form, as I understood that even if I was "blocked" from direct view, the messages were still accessible for them to monitor. In the context of the absolute farce taking place, I found the situation absurdly hilarious. It was my way of signaling that I wasn't intimidated by a process built on a curated lie; I was more interested in the truth than the performance of a legal order.

I continued to send these communications until the matter was eventually reported to the police. It is important to be clear: at no point did any of my correspondence contain threats, or any language that could be reasonably construed as a danger to anyone’s safety. Even my own legal counsel, after a thorough review of every single email sent, confirmed that there was nothing within them that constituted a threat.

The issue was not the content, but the sheer volume. I was charged based on the quantity of my emails — a direct result of my refusal to stop seeking a truthful resolution to a situation built on a lie. Didier didn't go to the police because he was in danger; he went to the police (backed by a corporate legal team) because I refused to stop speaking the truth. It was a calculated use of authority to end a conversation he no longer wanted to have, using the legal system to attempt to silence me because he lacked the integrity to be honest with me and the courage to face the shame of his own actions.

The Courage to be Vulnerable - it’s a great value in theory.

In the end, I was charged and sent to prison because I refused to stop speaking. That is the price of seeking accountability from a culture that would rather criminalise a person than admit to a mistake — or many, if I’m being honest. The entire foundation of the company is rotten.


Appendix
A. Title inspired by Susan Fowler: Reflecting on one very, very strange year at Uber. (February 19, 2017).
B. Cover Letter Submitted to Culture Amp (November 5, 2021).
C. Culture Amp Strategy Proposal (January 2022).