Hi, I’m Sarala — a lawyer, storyteller, and unapologetic lover of good wine, good dogs, and good conversation.
After years navigating boardrooms, deals, and governance across the Caribbean, I’ve learned that life — like leadership — is best lived in chapters. Some are bold and ambitious. Some are quiet and healing. And most are best shared over a glass of wine and a wagging tail nearby.
This space is where I write about it all — the beautiful, messy balance of careers, canines, and cabernet. From reflections on purpose and courage to lessons from leadership, love, and dog walks, these are the stories that shape who I am — and, maybe, who we’re all becoming.
Pull up a chair (or pour a glass) and stay awhile. Here’s to life in chapters — imperfect, authentic, and deeply human.
I wouldn’t start with Parliament. I would start with the boardroom.
If I had the power to change one law, it wouldn’t be written in statute. It would be the implied corporate law that says:
“Survive by alignment. Rise by silence. Stay safe by being smaller than the insecurity above you.”
It’s the unwritten rule that politicking is strategy. That closing ranks protects “the business.” That the high performer who asks uncomfortable questions must be “managed.”
We laugh at cancel culture on social media, but inside corporations scapegoating is often a performance management tool. Gaslighting is dressed up as “feedback.” Narcissism hides behind passive-aggressive emails and withheld advocacy.
There is nothing more destabilising than reporting to an insecure leader who will not advocate for you—not because you are incapable, but because you are uncontrollable.
Some people are made examples of. Not because they failed. But because they cannot be folded into fear.
And fear, in many corporate cultures, is currency.
In my work across post-merger integrations and change initiatives, I have seen it repeatedly: culture eats strategy for breakfast. But culture only nourishes growth when people are not living in quiet survival mode.
When integration becomes consolidation of power rather than alignment of purpose. When “fit” becomes code for compliance. When HR—often structurally designed to protect the company from liability—cannot protect the employee who represents necessary disruption.
We talk about governance frameworks. We draft beautiful codes of ethics. We commission culture audits.
But the real law in many organisations is still this:
Protect the hierarchy. Contain the truth. Reward loyalty over courage.
That’s the law I would repeal.
If I could change one rule, it would be this:
Advocacy for your people would be mandatory, not optional.
Leaders would be measured not by how well they protect themselves, but by how safely their teams can challenge them. Promotion would require demonstrated sponsorship of others—not silent tolerance. Performance reviews would include psychological safety metrics with real consequence.
And retaliation disguised as “strategic restructuring” would be what it actually is: misconduct.
Subtle? Perhaps not. Necessary? Absolutely.
Here is the harder truth though:
Implied laws exist because we uphold them.
We participate in silence. We normalise dysfunction. We tell ourselves it’s just how things are.
But it all starts small. It starts at home. It starts in the decision to not gaslight yourself about what you are seeing. To not shrink to stay palatable. To not trade your full life for a survival contract.
I have been in rooms where pivot was forced upon me. Where the system quietly signalled, “You do not belong in this version of the story.”
And yet—what felt like punishment became liberation.
Because the real law I now live by is this:
A career should not be your sentence.
We need to be truest to ourselves—even when that truth costs proximity to power. Especially then.
Change the implied law. Start with how you lead. Start with how you protect others. Start with how you refuse to participate in fear.
Because a life lived in quiet compliance is not stability.
Not because they were bad or frivolous, but because I changed.
There was a time when I loved the thrill of being everywhere at once – saying yes to every invitation, every committee, every event, every networking opportunity that promised “visibility.” I thought busyness was a personality trait and exhaustion was a badge of honour.
I’ve outgrown that.
I used to enjoy the performative parts of professional life – the small talk, the forced smiles, the endless cycle of showing up simply to be seen. Somewhere along the way I realised I didn’t actually like rooms filled with people I had to impress. I liked rooms where I could be myself.
So I lost interest in performing.
I’ve also outgrown hobbies that required me to shrink. Activities I only did because they looked good on a résumé or because “people like us” were supposed to enjoy them. I used to collect interests like accessories – book clubs I didn’t really read for, fitness trends I pretended to love, social circles I didn’t feel safe in.
Over time, I stopped.
These days my hobbies are quieter. Slower. More honest.
Long walks with my dogs. Cooking meals that taste like home. Writing. Reading without needing to finish the book. Sitting with a glass of wine and a sunset instead of rushing to the next thing. Protecting my peace as fiercely as I once protected my calendar.
What I’ve really outgrown is urgency.
I’ve lost interest in anything that asks me to be less than myself or more than human.
And that, I’ve learned, is not a loss at all. It’s growth.
It took me twelve years to realize that someone I called a true friend was never really my friend at all.
Twelve years.
And even when she stopped speaking to me, I still didn’t believe it.
I held on to the story of us long after the story had already ended.
It wasn’t until another friend—now also an ex-friend—sat down with me over various “get togethers” cooking and laughing in my kitchen that the years of two-faced deception began to unravel and the truth began to surface. The many conversations she had apparently had about me. The times she said we weren’t really friends. That she was just “going along with me.” That I was pressuring her.
All while we traveled together, spoke every day, shared traditions, celebrated milestones. She was my self-proclaimed best friend. I rallied for her, defended her, turned up for her when life was hard. I dragged my poor husband to her family home every Christmas Eve for years because it was “our tradition.” She was a permanent fixture in my life.
And yet, it was all built on a lie.
She even lived in my home for over a year—rent free—when she was rebuilding her life. I wanted to give her a safe place, a soft landing, because that’s what friends do.
Or at least, that’s what I thought we were.
Looking back, I can see how my own childhood loneliness shaped my judgment. My desire to be loved. To belong. I poured and poured into that friendship, hoping it would finally fill something in me.
Maybe I wasn’t a perfect friend. I’m sure I wasn’t. But I loved her the best way I knew how at the time.
And in the end, it still dissolved without closure—except the closure that came later when I learned the convenient narrative she had been telling about me all along.
They say you become who you associate with.
Truth be told, shedding that entire circle—my “musketeers”—was a blessing in disguise. I was dropping my standards, exhausting myself, pouring into people whose cups could never be filled with authenticity because they simply weren’t my people.
They were stuck. Unhealed. Not doing the work.
And I was trying to save friendships that were never meant to be saved.
I thought writing about this would stir up emotion. That I would feel anger or sadness or resentment.
But the truth is—I feel nothing.
No rage. No heartbreak. No longing for what was.
And that, in itself, is a lesson.
It means I’ve done the work.
I’ve come to understand that the friendship served its purpose. Maybe it was meant to teach me what loving too much and too disproportionately can do. Maybe it was meant to teach me about seasons. About boundaries. About releasing people without guilt.
My season of shedding has been long, vast, and strangely fruitful—if such a thing can be said.
For every friendship I have lost, space has opened up. Space for myself. Space for healing. Space for relationships that are honest and mutual—where mirrors have become windows.
Do I regret some losses? Of course. There are two that still sit softly in my heart. One I’ve already written about. One that lives in a grey area—a season that is good for both of us right now.
But I’ve learned this: real friendships are not built only in trauma.
They are built in mutual pouring. In meaningful connection. In honesty. In effort. In the ability to stay—and also in the grace to let go.
I could write pages about the pain of that breakup. About the year it took me to come to terms with it. About the six months of quiet crying. This wasn’t melo drama; it was the loss of what I considered the first friendship on my return “home”.
But those tears were for me, not for her.
Not everyone is worth your tears. And when you shed them, let it be for your healing—not for their memory.
The most powerful realization for me has been this: I no longer have any accumulation of feeling for that person.
And why should I?
Why should someone occupy space in my life—or in my heart—that they do not deserve?
We are not on a quest to hand out our power like candy.
So this is the lesson in the becoming of friendships:
It hurts because we care. Because we are human. But it is okay to leave some friends in the seasons of the past. It is okay to ask, “What is the lesson here?” And to move forward with purpose instead of bitterness.
I’ve learned recently how important it is to be intentional about who is in your circle—and who is not.
Your friendship is a privilege. Your time is a gift. Your heart is not a community project.
Don’t be ashamed of your worth.
Share it sparingly.
And leave the overage for that extra caramel sauce you want on your brownie.
Not every goodbye is a loss—some are promotions.
Perhaps the writing was on the wall: she didn’t like dogs, and my dogs have excellent judgment.
Clue of the Week: If a friendship constantly leaves you drained, confused, or questioning your worth, that is not a season—it’s a signal.
About the Author: Sarala writes her life in chapters—honest, imperfect, and human. A corporate attorney turned intentional living advocate, she believes in healing out loud, setting brave boundaries, and choosing people and spaces that choose you back. When she isn’t reflecting on lessons learned, she can be found with a strong cup of coffee, her two dogs at her feet, and a good book reminding her that growth is always a work in progress.
I’ve learned that life only really changes you if you’re brave enough to ask the important question: What’s the lesson here?
And then—harder still—if you’re willing to do the work.
The healing work. The practical work. The uncomfortable, messy, no-one-else-can-do-it-for-you work.
When you do, you come out stronger. More assured. More aware of what truly matters. It feels a bit like stripping back a mask—the one you’ve worn for years because it was expected of you. But there is breaking in the becoming, and you have to be prepared for that. Sometimes to break hard. To sit with anger, despair, hurt. To let the tears come without rushing to tidy them away.
Not everyone allows life to change them. Some people go through enormous experiences and remain exactly the same—whether for better or worse. As with everything, it comes down to choice. The choices you make for yourself. The signs you decide to notice. The quiet nudges that tell you you’re growing, that you’re becoming a version of yourself that is freer from shame you were never meant to carry and doubt that has held you back for far too long.
I no longer believe that “time heals all wounds.” Time on its own does nothing.
It’s your actions—and your inactions. Your willingness to be open to different approaches. Your decision to move, or to stay stuck.
Those are the things that shape your outlook on life.
I recently heard a quote that struck me deeply: it is a heavy weight to carry the disappointment of unmet expectations of another person. That felt apt. Life events are not simply things that happen to us; they are things we decide what to do with.
Sometimes going through the worst shows you that you can survive things you never imagined you could.
For years I struggled with being alone. In my childhood, “alone” was framed as punishment. Something to fear. Something to avoid. Now, in this season of my life, I rather enjoy it. Quiet mornings with coffee. Snuggling in bed with the dogs. A carefully set dinner for one while I read a good book. I’ve learned that solitude, when chosen, can be a gift.
I pinned so much expectation on turning forty—imagining it as a magical turning point. But when forty arrived, I realized change had been all around me for years. The only thing missing was my willingness to step into it. Meaningful change doesn’t arrive with a birthday or a calendar year.
It arrives when you decide to embrace it.
For yourself. By yourself. One honest choice at a time.
If I’m honest, the things that most often stay untouched on my to-do list are the ones that are personal to me.
For years it was so easy to kick the can on anything that didn’t feel urgent. Work deadlines? Never missed. Commitments to others? Done with precision and pride. But the things that only affected me?
Doctor’s appointment? I’m not dying. Dentist cleaning? It can wait a few more months. Eye test? I can still see well enough. Gynecologist visit? Is it really necessary this year?
Somehow, my own care always found itself at the bottom of the pile.
I used to tell myself it was efficiency – that I was prioritizing what “mattered most.” The truth is, I was simply conditioned to believe that my needs could wait. That personal maintenance was optional while professional performance was mandatory.
What I’ve learned, slowly and sometimes the hard way, is that ignoring yourself isn’t discipline – it’s neglect disguised as dedication.
These days I’m trying to rewrite that habit. To treat the appointments that keep me well with the same seriousness I give a board meeting. To see self-care not as indulgent, but as responsible. To remember that the life I’m building only works if I’m healthy enough to live it.
So the answer to the prompt?
The thing that never gets done is “me” – unless I choose, deliberately, to move myself to the top of the list.
A complex, high-stakes game played by sly navigators who smile warmly to your face, then mispronounce your name in rooms where you aren’t present. Athletes of insecurity—those who dim others because they haven’t learned how to stand in their own light.
I watch those obsessed with titles, money, optics—trophies that matter most when self-respect is missing. The players who take freely but never give, who justify private harm if public perception benefits, who confuse strategy with character.
It’s a fascinating sport, really. Because many never realise that the life they’re living is the consequence of the damage they’ve inflicted—no matter how glossy it looks from the outside.
And me? I don’t play to win anymore. I observe. I learn. I do the work.
Even in my softer, sadder moments, I’m discovering this: it’s far better to be who I am than to perform who I think I should look like.
This post contains personal reflections on loss, sudden death, suicide, depression, illness, and grief. Please read with care. If you or someone you know is struggling, consider reaching out to a trusted person or a mental‑health professional. Support resources are listed at the end of this post.
One Year On
It has been one year since my husband’s—later, my—dear friend, Kirn, died by suicide. A year that has passed both slowly and impossibly fast.
I still remember that Wednesday. I was in a strategy session—one of those meetings where you are expected to be present, sharp, purposeful. My phone buzzed with a call from my husband. That alone wasn’t unusual, but he knew exactly where I was. I missed the call and messaged: Don’t forget I’m in a meeting. He replied: Ok, call me after.
Nothing about the exchange was extraordinary. And yet, something in my body went on alert. I excused myself, stepped into the hallway, and called him back.
For someone who is guided by purpose—who always needs to understand—and who for a long time led with philosophy and intellect rather than emotion, I was shaken in a way I hadn’t experienced before. This was a friend I had spoken to only days earlier. A friend my husband spoke to almost every morning, having known him since secondary school. One of the most expressive, caring, generous people we knew.
For a long time, I grappled with how he could take his own life. My husband grappled with how his best friend never shared that weight with him.
My therapist suggested I read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath—to sit with the interior world of someone who lived with depression and self‑harm ideation. I could understand self‑criticism. I knew how to diminish myself, reject my own strengths, fixate on failure—and then dust myself off and push forward. That wasn’t always healthy, but it was familiar. What I couldn’t understand was this.
I understand now that sometimes, you simply don’t understand.
Kirn’s death was meticulously planned—if a phrase like that can ever be used without discomfort. Funeral arrangements booked and paid for. Outfit chosen. Instructions left for the distribution of his assets; those not already shared or donated. His own eulogy written. Instructions of who should read it. Even an approved guest list.
I am still haunted by the words read by my father‑in‑law—because Kirn was like a son to them. That he was tired. That this was his choice. That he had lived a full life at 43. That he had given enough. That it was time. That we should not be sad for him, but happy—because he was happy now.
For 43 years, he worked relentlessly to provide: for his mother, his sisters, his children. Forever the hustler. Forever the giver. Always there for others.
A stark lesson: you cannot pour from an empty cup.
Later, through letters he left for my husband and a small few others, we learned he had been diagnosed with stomach cancer. The prognosis was not good. He decided he did not want to be a burden.
Those words—I don’t want to be a burden—landed with a weight I cannot fully explain. They were familiar. And they filled me with guilt. That someone so generous, so loving, so consistently present for others could believe he was undeserving of the care and priority others would surely have given him. That we would have given to him- was that my ego?
During that time, as I was learning about anger in therapy, I felt flashes of it—at him, at us, at the world, at God. Cancer does not discriminate. That is a fact. But emotion is not always rational.
In a moment I once would have called pettiness—but now recognise simply as emotion—I thought of someone else I knew. Someone deeply disappointing, insecure, two‑faced. Someone who survived their own cancer journey. I had shown up for them professionally and personally, even without knowing the full story. They survived. They thrived. And from what I could see, learned not one meaningful thing about humility, authenticity or humanity. As I still lament on this, perhaps this is my unhealed wound of that experience coming up.
And then there was Kirn. A good person. Exhausted from fighting for everyone else. Too tired to fight for himself.
That is not a sugar‑coated lesson. It still makes me angry.
Just writing this, I felt it again. I messaged my husband to say so. He asked—gently—whether I was just feeling randomly angry. (A fair question. I am capable of that.)
Our feelings don’t disappear. We work on healing, authentically, but the feelings live in us. We can give them space, acknowledgment, and grace—and we must also choose not to let them consume us.
I still don’t understand. But I accept that it happened.
I understand now that we cannot judge what someone has carried unless we have lived it ourselves. And no—this is not a justification for treating others poorly. Harmful behaviour is still a choice. Sometimes deliberate. Sometimes born of unhealed wounds. Both can be true.
I turned 40 last year. In the years leading up to it, I learned real, unglamorous life lessons. I am grateful that I chose not just to survive them, or rush past them in search of a victory narrative. I sat with my mistakes. With my losses. With friendships that ended. With questions about who I was becoming and where I wanted my life to go.
On a lighter, but strangely meaningful note—my best friend deepened my interest in astrology. Last year, I asked my priest what my stars looked like. The answer was bleak. There was no way to dress it up. This year, I asked again. The difference was profound. When I questioned how such a change was possible, his answer stayed with me:
Time, karma, and the work you’ve done—this happened because of you.
Faith—spiritual or otherwise—can anchor us. It reinforced what I already felt: that the internal work matters. That what truly matters in life is not always what looks impressive from the outside.
Kirn fought a good fight for others. He was extraordinary. And still, he suffered. Perhaps he felt he was not enough. Perhaps he believed it truly was his time. We will never fully know.
What I do know is this: we all have a choice in how we live and who we become. The lessons of the last few years have shaped the choices I make today.
We are all worth the fight. We owe it to ourselves to say that out loud—to examine who we allow into our mental, physical, and spiritual spaces.
The sound of Kirn’s mother’s cries as his body was taken away still rings in my ears. A reminder that our choices carry consequences that ripple far beyond us.
It is harder for my husband. Losing Kirn is like losing a limb. I advocate deeply for therapy—for myself, for others—not as a cure, but as a companion in learning how to live with pain rather than be ruled by it.
I believe Kirn lived a full life because he was full of life. Do I wish he were still here? Of course. But that is my lens, my longing.
He left behind three beautiful children. The road is unimaginably hard. And still, his life—and his loss—continues to teach.
I am thinking of him today. And of everyone who is struggling. Words urging people to speak and seek help matter. And so does the quieter work: choosing how we live, how we care for ourselves, how we care for others.
It feels fitting—and painful—that this reflection is written on a Wednesday. The call came on a Wednesday. I moved my therapy session that week from Wednesday to Thursday; and ironically my schedule did not allow for a session today. Full circles have a way of finding us.
Books have enriched me. But it is life that has taught me most—the tears, the endings, the pivots, the disappointments, the joy. I try to pause now and ask: What is the lesson here?
I am trying to live kinder. More purposefully. Less impressed by titles and optics, more guided by integrity and truth.
For all the lessons—even the ones that broke us—may we ask better questions. May we find meaning where we didn’t think to look. May we choose quality over quantity.
Kirn’s lessons live on. They continue to shape me.
🌿 If no one has reminded you today: you matter, your life matters, and you are worthy of care—especially from yourself.
✍🏽 Author’s Note This piece is shared in remembrance, reflection, and honesty—not as an answer, a solution, or a guide. It is one person’s experience of grief, anger, learning, and ongoing acceptance. If it stirs something tender in you, please treat yourself gently and reach for support where you can.
If You Need Support
If this post brings up difficult feelings, please consider reaching out:
A trusted friend or family member
A mental‑health professional
Local or international suicide‑prevention helplines
“I’m trimming the noise to hear the truth of who I am.”
I will reduce clutter by giving myself grace and redefining my purpose to align with my values and what truly makes me happy. Rather than chasing society’s narrow definition of success, I will focus on:
Self-belief: Trusting my instincts and recognizing my worth beyond external validation.
A quality life: Prioritizing daily routines, relationships, and activities that nourish my body, mind, and spirit.
A value system that speaks to my soul: Identifying core principles (e.g., honesty, kindness, curiosity, courage) and letting them guide decisions, big and small.
Personal happiness and peace: Seeking joy in meaningful work, rest, connection, and nature, while letting go of what drains me.
Releasing others’ experiences and expectations: Freeing myself from the burden of living up to other people’s agendas; choosing what resonates with me instead.
Embracing anger as a healthy tool: Acknowledging anger as information and energy that can protect boundaries, fuel change, and signal misalignment—without letting it fester into bitterness.
Stopping unnecessary apologies: Reserving apologies for genuine harm I’ve caused, and not for simply existing in ways that others find inconvenient or painful.
To implement this, I will:
Clarify my values and write them down where I’ll see them daily.
Audit my commitments, obligations, and relationships, removing or renegotiating what no longer serves me.
Practice self-compassion: speak to myself with the same kindness I offer friends.
Set boundaries clearly and follow through with consistency.
Reframe anger as a cue for action (e.g., boundary-setting, assertive communication, healing).
Forgive myself for past missteps, and let go of the need to explain every decision to everyone.
The result I seek is a life that feels genuine, liberating, and aligned with who I am at my core—less noise, more intention, and a sustainable sense of peace.
That familiar, lingering scent of shadow beni, garlic, and pepper — measured not in teaspoons, but by instinct. A true Caribbean household measure. An afternoon treat that takes you straight back to youth, barefoot memories, and sticky fingers.
And because I’m rooted in balance these days, it would be followed closely by a tequila salt prune. Not exactly childhood nostalgia — but nostalgic all the same.
Some cravings feed memory. Others simply belong to a different chapter.
On enrichment, responsibility, loss, and the quiet lessons our dogs leave behind
There is a version of pet ownership that looks cute on Instagram. And then there is the real version — the one that smells like bone broth simmering on a stove, ear wipes at bedtime, puzzle feeders scattered across the yard, and the quiet acceptance that love requires time you often feel you don’t have.
This chapter is about the latter.
Enrichment Isn’t Optional — Even When You’re Tired
Over the years, I’ve learned that enrichment isn’t a luxury for dogs — it’s a responsibility. And if I’m honest, it’s something I’ve grappled with.
There was a time when walks were outsourced to a pet sitter because work consumed me. There were periods where “exercise” meant letting the dogs run around the back yard while I stayed glued to a laptop or phone call, convincing myself that proximity was enough.
What I know now — especially as my dogs get older — is this: they need as much stimulation as they did when they were puppies. Just differently.
For us, enrichment looks like:
Outdoor time running freely in the yard
Food puzzles at mealtime
“Seek and find” dinners hidden in their tunnel
Lamb bones at Christmas that they each joyfully cannibalised
Dehydrated chicken feet that take real effort (and patience) to get through
Even on days when I’m lazy. Especially on days when I’m lazy.
Because stimulation isn’t just about burning energy — it’s about engagement. And engagement requires presence.
Food as Care, Not Convenience
What started as a very specific mission — supporting George’s joints — slowly evolved into a fully curated feeding routine that brings me far more joy than I ever expected.
Both George and Bella eat:
A GI-supportive dry dog food (EN Gastroenteric)
Organic, locally sourced Trinidadian chicken or turkey bone broth
Fresh frozen chicken salad as a side
What began as bone broth for George’s limbs has turned into a breakfast-and-dinner ritual that I genuinely love. Watching them inhale their meals — especially as they seek out shiitake mushrooms in the broth like their lives depend on it — is one of those small, grounding pleasures that reminds me why routine matters.
Care has texture. And care, done consistently, becomes joy.
The Unseen Medical Routines
Behind every “spoiled dog” joke is usually a long list of quiet, necessary care.
For George:
Liquid Vet Hip & Joint Wellness Syrup with dinner
Nightly ear cleaning (he’s prone to infections)
Eye and fold wipes with cleaning pads
For Bella:
Liv.52 tablets and Vitamin E for immune support
Careful monitoring due to her sensitive tummy
Support for bile regurgitation and vomiting
Surafil syrup for a few days whenever stress — especially separation anxiety — unsettles her stomach
Over the past year, we’ve noticed Bella struggles deeply when left with a sitter. She almost always returns home with an upset tummy, her anxiety written all over her little body. So now, we pre- plan for the anxious stay and return home. Thankful, that we can afford an excellent pet sitting arrangement for our senior pup and anxious diva- because gratitude opens the way to abundance.
All of this to say: pets are wonderful — but they come with tremendous responsibility.
And responsibility teaches you something vital: you must put aside time for others.
Dogs, Trinidad, and the Reality of Care
Living in Trinidad adds another layer to this story.
We have what we lovingly call the “local shepherd” — mixed-breed dogs with a resilience that can weather almost anything. Alongside that, there’s the ongoing love affair with designer breeds. And in stark contrast, the heartbreaking reality of stray dogs roaming the streets, with only a few tireless souls trying to rescue, treat, and rehome them.
Vet care is not cheap — though I would argue it’s still cheaper than it should be. And when you find a good vet, you hold onto them with your whole heart.
Because care — real care — is not accidental.
Oona: Loss, Timing, and the Breaking Open
Screenshot
On October 1, 2024, we lost our family Akita, Oona.
She was the first pet my husband and I acquired together — back when he was my boyfriend — and she lived to 13 after an 18-month battle with cancer. We were incredibly fortunate to be able to offer her chemotherapy, which extended her life and gave us another year post-treatment, though it did change her personality in ways we didn’t fully anticipate.
At the time of her decline, she was staying at my parents’ home due to space constraints. My husband was away on a work trip. I was in the middle of an explosive period of change in my career.
My parents — who are known for controlling what they share (more on family dynamics another time) — didn’t tell us how rapidly her health was deteriorating.
The day after my husband left, they said she wasn’t doing well. Two days later — the same day my career pivot began — we had to accept that she needed to be euthanised.
I will never forget sitting on the floor of my parents’ house, on a video call with my husband, waiting for her to pass, while my phone lit up with work issues. October 1, 2024 is etched into me.
It felt like an out-of-body experience.
Her death represented so much:
A changing of the guard
Deep reflections on marriage, fertility and time
The removal of blinders about corporate life and culture
The loss of a being who entered my life just after returning to Trinidad — and just after meeting my husband
When my husband returned from his trip, he collected and brought her ashes home, I broke. Completely. All the anxiety, grief, exhaustion, and suppressed fear poured out in one moment. I remember seeing the worry on his face as I unravelled — just briefly — into something unrecognisable even to myself.
But I didn’t know then what I know now.
Moments that break you to the core also offer you a choice.
Some people experience life-altering events and learn nothing. Some come back harder, more closed, more bitter.
For me, Oona’s loss cracked something open. It forced me to ask how I wanted to shape my life — not just survive it.
What Dogs Teach Us, Even in Loss
The loss of a pet hurts in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. Especially when that pet carries entire chapters of your life within them — much like the loss of a friend.
And yes — I still get annoyed when my old boy George can’t quite hold his poop on the way out to a walk and leaves a little nugget in the garage.
But cleaning up a little poop is priceless compared to the nights when his warm, round body was my source of comfort — when I hugged the life out of him while grieving, sleeping, laughing, or just being still.
The Lesson of This Chapter
So what is this chapter about?
Enrich them — and enrich yourself.
Make the time that your employer, spouse, child — and even you — will not automatically give you.
For me, that looks like:
Sundays in the yard while they yelp at passing cars and imaginary threats
Evening training sessions disguised as dinner
Turning feeding into engagement instead of efficiency
Choosing discipline over convenience — gently, intentionally
It is purposeful discipline. And it rewires you.
I’ve lived the life where I didn’t have time — where I was glued to a laptop chasing the wrong things. Now, I am very clear: I am the CEO of my own life. And when you need to pivot, it’s the small moments of joy you’ve protected that will carry you through.
A Small Life Update (Because Balance Matters)
In other news — 30 Soft went well last week. We closed all the move, exercise, and stand rings. Steps were taken. Gold stars all around.
On Friday, I wanted a margarita and truffle fries. So I had them.
I’m committed to discipline — not rigidity. Two margaritas didn’t derail anything. Neither did the fries.
What mattered more was sitting on a balcony with my husband, present for a couple quiet hours, and still being home in pj’s by 8:30pm.
A Friday well spent.
For Busy People: Blending Doggy Care with Your Own Well-Being
Turn feeding time into training time
Use enrichment toys instead of passive bowls
Walks count as movement for both of you
Evening routines create calm — for humans and dogs
Care is not wasted time; it’s grounding
Closing Thought
Love asks us to slow down. Dogs don’t need perfection — they need presence. And in learning how to care for them well, we often learn how to care for ourselves better too.
If no one has told you today — you’re doing enough. And your dogs know it. 🤍
About the Author
Sarala Rambachan is a corporate attorney, governance advisor, writer, and lifelong dog lover based in Trinidad. She writes about leadership, loss, intention, and the quiet disciplines that shape a meaningful life — often with a canine at her feet and a cup of something warm nearby.
Clue of the Week
The things that ask the most of your time often give you back the most clarity.
Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage 