Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage

A life well-poured: work, wine, and everything in between.

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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.

  • Champagne Tones & Soft Power

    I came across a quote this week while very seriously (read: obsessively) researching Easter nail colours:

    “Like a glass of Veuve Clicquot garnished with berries, this strawberry beige color straddles the line between upscale polish and whimsy.”

    And I paused.

    Because… same.

    I love a Veuve. I love a strawberry. And I am, in fact, upscale, polish-ed… with a healthy dose of whimsy.
    (Let us not rush past that truth.)

    But somewhere between choosing nail shades and choosing how I want to live, something deeper has been unfolding.

    This week, I found myself sitting with advice I received recently—about rewriting the narrative I’ve attached to what a “good” life looks like. Not the curated, externally validated version. My version.

    And if I’m honest?
    What I have right now feels… wholesome.

    Not the kind of life that necessarily overflows a bank account—but one that fills something far more important. There is a quiet satisfaction. A stretch that I welcome (not one that is forced onto me). An absence of politics—except the ones I choose to spectate online with a glass of something chilled. And a completeness that comes from owning the work I do, fully and intentionally.

    And yes—there are still big, shiny moments.

    In April, I’ll be in New York City for the Legal Frontier Conference, joining a group of General Counsel and senior in-house leaders to explore the forces shaping modern legal leadership. Even writing that feels surreal. It affirms something I’ve known for a while—that stepping into my role as a Fractional GC wasn’t a pivot… it was an arrival. A quiet knowing that the legal profession was always going to evolve beyond the edge of the map, and I was meant to meet it there.

    But equally—if not more—exciting?

    Date night tonight.

    With my husband. Two friends. Good food. Probably wine. Definitely laughter.

    He’s heading into a week of vacation, and mine—deliberately—is not packed. No frantic scheduling. No over-engineering joy. Just low-intensity living. The kind that lets you breathe, linger, be.

    That, right now, is the balance I feel deeply grateful for.

    A life shaped by choice.
    Not performance.
    Not validation.
    Not the quiet pressure of what I thought I should want.

    And let me tell you—this shift? It’s not light work.

    It requires unlearning years (and years) of measuring success against a yardstick I didn’t even consciously choose. It asks you to sit in the discomfort of “less” in one area while realising you’ve gained so much more in another.

    A mantra I keep returning to is this:

    Two things can be true at the same time.

    I can miss the certainty of a steady corporate income… and recognise that I was using that “extra” to compensate for a lack of quality in my quality of life.

    I can feel fear… and still feel deeply, genuinely happy.

    I can honour what was… and still choose what is.

    And perhaps most importantly—I can finally craft a life that feels like mine, rather than one I believed was required of me.

    So these are my almost-weekend musings.

    Gratitude. Growth. A little Veuve energy.
    A lot of softness. A lot of self.

    And a quiet excitement for all the fun still to come.

    That’s all for today 🤍

  • The Week I Cried Ugly (and Lived Anyway)

    This week, I cried.

    And not the soft, feminine, aesthetic, “single tear rolling down a cheek” kind of cry either.
    I mean the red-faced, pressure-in-your-ears, nose-running, can’t-catch-your-breath kind.
    The kind that leaves you puffy, exhausted, and slightly offended that your body betrayed you so publicly… even if the only witness was you.

    I was sitting at my desk, already feeling physically off.
    A sprained back meant no proper exercise for over a week.
    My body was deep in PMS overdrive—sore tummy, sore everything (yes, everything).
    And then, because life has a sense of humour, I got the car insurance renewal.

    You know the one.
    The “cost of breathing is rising” email.

    And in that moment… I just felt sad.

    Not victim sad.
    Not “why me” sad.
    Just… behind.

    Like I was trying so hard to hold onto positivity, to be this version of myself that pushes through, stays grounded, stays grateful—and for a second, it all felt a little fraudulent. Like my “enough” wasn’t enough.

    Since February, it’s been one thing after the next—flu, stomach bug, now a sprained back.
    All cutting into the carefully curated routine I rely on to feel like myself.

    And when that structure slips, so does something inside you.

    But here’s the thing about perspective—it doesn’t always show up when you want it to… but it does show up.

    Because just last week, I sat with a girlfriend I hadn’t seen in almost six months.
    We talked for nearly three hours straight—no pauses, no filler, just connection.
    And I left that catch-up filled with love. Real love. The kind that reminds you who you are.

    There was also that random Tuesday escape—down the islands, unplanned, sun on skin, laughter in the air.
    Spicy margaritas on date night with my husband.
    A Sunday filled with noise and joy and family—my brother-in-law and niece visiting, laughter spilling into every room.

    So yes, I had a moment this week.
    But I also had many moments.

    And then—because the universe has impeccable timing—I came across a LinkedIn post from a former Big 4 professional who taught one of my M&A classes.

    He was speaking candidly about his pivot into entrepreneurship.
    The fear. The financial pressure. The “what if I don’t make it” thoughts.

    And it struck me—how is it that we all feel so alone in this?

    How do we convince ourselves that our fears are singular, when they are actually so shared?

    We build these towering narratives in our heads, when in reality, so many of us are quietly navigating the same uncertainty.

    And just when I had my little emotional crash-out… faith showed up.

    Quietly. Gently.

    On Friday, I received an email from a woman who had presented at the same conference as me in Toronto last October.
    She invited me to speak at an event she’s hosting this September in Washington.

    And I smiled.

    Because life may feel uncertain, but it is still moving.
    Doors are still opening.
    Opportunities are still finding me—even when I’m sitting at my desk, puffy-eyed and questioning everything.

    Life looks different right now.
    And maybe that’s the point.

    Change is the only real constant.
    And I am learning—slowly—that I cannot keep measuring myself against standards that no longer apply to who I am or the life I am building.

    It is okay to be imperfect.
    It is okay to feel off.
    It is okay to not be understood.

    Because the truth is—people can only meet you at the depth they’ve met themselves.
    And your life cannot be driven by someone else’s definition of success.

    Right now, my days are full.

    Not in the old way.
    Not in the structured, hyper-productive, tick-every-box way.

    But full in a way that feels… mine.

    Work at a pace I choose.
    Engagements that actually bring me joy.
    Time with my dogs.
    The freedom to skip a workout, eat Indian sweets, have prosecco—and know that nothing is falling apart because of it.

    There is presence here.

    There is softness here.

    There is life here.

    Yesterday was a holiday in Trinidad.

    I exercised.
    Spent the afternoon day drinking with my husband and his friends.
    Ate pizza.
    Played with my dogs.
    Went to bed at 8 p.m. and had the kind of sleep that resets your soul.

    And today?
    A slow Saturday.
    A spin class.
    Bathing the dogs (which is never as calm as it sounds).

    Simple things. Good things.

    So maybe this is the reminder—mostly to myself:

    Let’s be grateful for the “what we have’s” first.

    Not in a forced, toxic positivity way.
    But in a grounded, honest way.

    You can cry ugly tears and still have a beautiful life.
    You can feel behind and still be exactly where you need to be.

    Both can exist.

    And both, somehow, are true.

    About the Author

    Sarala writes about leadership, life in transition, and the quiet, complicated moments in between. A Caribbean-based legal strategist and storyteller, she believes in people-first growth, honest reflection, and finding meaning in both the chaos and the calm.

    Clue of the Week 💭

    If your life feels unfamiliar, it may not mean you’re lost.
    It may mean you’ve outgrown the version of life you once understood.

  • Learning to Trust Myself

    Daily writing prompt
    Who is the most confident person you know?
    View all responses

    The most confident person I know is… me.

    Not the loud version of confidence that fills a room or dominates a conversation. Not the kind that needs constant validation or applause. The kind that is quieter, steadier, and sometimes hard-won.

    For a long time, I might have answered this question differently. I might have pointed to a leader I admired, someone charismatic and commanding, someone who seemed effortlessly sure of themselves. But time and experience have taught me something important: real confidence rarely looks effortless.

    Real confidence is built.

    It’s built through disappointment, through mistakes you wish you could undo, through moments where you realize you have to stand alone in a room because speaking up matters more than fitting in. It’s built through seasons where life strips away roles, titles, or expectations and asks you to rediscover who you are without them.

    Confidence, for me, came slowly.

    It came from navigating difficult workplaces and learning that someone else’s insecurity does not define my worth.
    It came from stepping into new rooms and trusting that I belong there.
    It came from choosing integrity when it would have been easier to stay quiet.

    But the most surprising place confidence shows up is in the small, ordinary moments.

    It’s the confidence to rest when the world tells you to keep proving yourself.
    The confidence to start again when a chapter closes.
    The confidence to say “this is who I am” without shrinking to make others comfortable.

    Confidence isn’t perfection.
    Confidence is acceptance.

    It’s knowing your strengths, acknowledging your flaws, and understanding that both can exist in the same person.

    So yes—the most confident person I know is me.

    Not because I have it all figured out. But because I trust myself to keep growing, learning, and standing firmly in who I am becoming.

    And that kind of confidence doesn’t happen overnight.
    It’s earned, one choice at a time.

  • A Saturday Without a Plan

    There is something revealing about a Saturday when you have absolutely nothing you must do.

    Not the performative kind of “busy Saturday” where brunch, errands, gym, and social plans are stacked like a corporate agenda. I mean the rare, quiet Saturday where time stretches out in front of you and the only real decision is whether you want coffee or tea.

    Those Saturdays can be surprisingly uncomfortable.

    Because when life slows down, you start to notice things.

    For years, my Saturdays were filled with motion.

    Deadlines. Meetings. Flights. Social commitments. Events. Even my downtime was structured—planned brunches, gym classes, networking events disguised as social outings. Productivity has a sneaky way of creeping into every corner of life when you’re a high-functioning professional.

    But lately, Saturdays have started to look different.

    Sometimes it’s just me, a book, ginger tea, and the quiet hum of the house. George snoring somewhere nearby. Isabella loudly announcing to the neighbourhood birds that she disapproves of their existence.

    And in those slower moments, something interesting happens.

    You start to notice what actually feels good.

    Not impressive.
    Not productive.
    Not socially validated.

    Just… good.

    You notice which friendships feel easy and which feel like effort.
    You notice how your body responds to rest after years of running on adrenaline.
    You notice the thoughts that appear when you’re no longer distracted by work.

    Sometimes they’re beautiful.

    Sometimes they’re uncomfortable.

    But they’re honest.

    I used to think slowing down meant losing momentum.

    Now I think it might actually be where clarity lives.

    The clarity about who you are becoming.
    The clarity about who belongs in this next chapter.
    The clarity about what you no longer need to chase.

    A quiet Saturday has a way of revealing whether the life you’re building actually fits you.

    And if it doesn’t, it gently invites you to start adjusting the pieces.

    These days, I’ve learned to respect the quiet Saturdays.

    They may not look like much from the outside, but they are often where the most important parts of life quietly rearrange themselves.

  • The Beetle and the Question of Being Seen

    Daily writing prompt
    Which animal would you compare yourself to and why?
    View all responses

    A former friend once nicknamed me “Bee” — short for beetle.

    At the time, I never questioned it too deeply. Nicknames often stick without explanation, and friendships have a way of creating their own language. But over time I found myself wondering about it.

    Did she really see me?

    Or did she simply project the version of me she needed to see?

    Ironically, the beetle carries a very different meaning in many spiritual traditions than the one people might casually imagine. In ancient symbolism—particularly the scarab—the beetle represents transformation, renewal, persistence, and evolution. A creature that pushes forward, carrying its world with it, constantly reshaping what came before.

    When I later learned that, I laughed.

    Because if there is one thing that has defined my life, it is the constant pursuit of growth and evolution. Professionally, personally, spiritually—I am always asking the question: What is the lesson here? Even when the lesson arrives wrapped in discomfort, loss, or change.

    So perhaps the nickname was more accurate than either of us realized.

    Or perhaps it reveals something else entirely about relationships: sometimes people give us names not because they truly understand us, but because they are trying to place us neatly inside their own story.

    The truth is, the people who know us best are rarely the ones who define us.

    We define ourselves through the work we are willing to do — the healing, the learning, the shedding of old skins, the courage to keep moving forward even when the path feels uncertain.

    If I am a beetle, then I’ll take the full symbolism of it.

    A small creature perhaps.

    But one that keeps pushing forward, carrying transformation with it wherever it goes.

  • The Curious Case of the Quiet Weekend That Wasn’t (and a Tuesday Down the Islands)

    Screenshot

    For those who know me well, some would say I give extrovert energy.

    And perhaps I do.

    Not because I thrive endlessly in crowds or social calendars that resemble military logistics… but because I love fully, enthusiastically, and with intention. I bring joy to the people I care about.

    Work joy is one thing.
    Friend joy is another.

    But here’s the quiet truth: people who give a lot of energy also need to recharge a lot of energy.

    My idea of restoration is simple.

    A book.
    Ginger tea.
    My pool and a bevvy.

    And the only tolerated soundtrack is birds chirping… and Isabella barking at the birds chirping.

    So after a particularly busy weekend a couple weeks ago, I planned what I called a vegetative and restorative weekend.

    Key word: planned.

    Life had other ideas.

    The weekend began with the lingering remnants of food poisoning, which meant that by Saturday I was so exhausted I could barely move from the sofa. Not a chosen rest. A body-enforced shutdown.

    So naturally I thought: Sunday will be the day.

    Sunday morning began with mild irritation.

    I had asked my husband to take charge of morning doggy duty so I could sleep in.

    He agreed.

    However… he never set his alarm.

    So there I was—grumbling my way through feeding, walking, and clean-up, reminding myself that deep breathing is indeed a life skill.

    Determined to salvage the day, I decided a soft Pilates class would help realign my mood and spine.

    And just as I was getting ready… the phone rang.

    An invitation to attend a Women’s Day Tea.

    Now let me be clear. I had absolutely no plans to dress up, engage, and smile politely at people on what was supposed to be my sacred lazy Sunday.

    But in what I will generously call the spirit of women’s empowerment (and what may also have involved a touch of guilt), I ultimately agreed to go.

    Yes. I own the decision.

    So I grumbled through Pilates.

    I grumbled through Sunday meal prep.

    Which is normally one of my favourite rituals — cooking with a gin & tonic in hand, chatting with my husband in the kitchen.

    But not this Sunday.

    Because I had to get dressed.

    For the event.

    And just as I was rushing around the kitchen… another call came in.

    An invitation from a dear friend of my husband’s to come relax in their backyard and watch the sunset.

    Lovely invitation.

    Wrong timing.

    My husband, of course, immediately accepted.

    And kindly informed them that I would join after the event.

    Rest where exactly?

    But here is the thing.

    The Women’s Day Tea turned out to be… delightful.

    I had forgotten how much women in Trinidad love a good reason to dress up.

    I looked lovely.
    I people-watched.
    I saw many familiar faces.

    Some full of genuine smiles.

    And some with jealousy so ripe it looked like mango smoothie forming right before my eyes.

    I spent lovely time with my mother-in-law, who is always good fun, nibbling chocolate cake while admiring artwork and catching up.

    And immediately after the event, I was whisked away to our friend’s house.

    Where a cold glass of champagne, genuine laughter, and warm company awaited.

    And truly — there are far worse ways to spend a Sunday evening.

    We laughed.

    We dipped into the pool at 6:45pm.

    We met new furry friends.

    And I spent time with my newly forming “Coco Crew.”

    (Yes. There is absolutely a story behind that name.)

    I am forming new friendships in this season of my life, and if I’m honest, that requires something that can feel surprisingly difficult:

    Trust.

    Trust that not everyone is mean.

    Not everyone is a user.

    Not everyone is two-faced.

    Learning to open that door again while still protecting your peace is delicate work.

    But Sunday reminded me that sometimes the very human interactions we dread can end up being exactly what fills us back up.

    And then came Tuesday.

    A random invitation to spend a few hours down the islands.

    Normally I might hesitate — close quarters, new people, unknown dynamics.

    But lately I’ve noticed something.

    The moments that push me slightly outside my comfort zone have often turned out to be the most joyful.

    So off I went.

    Hummus and cheese puffs.

    Prosecco.

    Easy conversation.

    New acquaintances.

    A turtle sighting.

    Sand underfoot.

    And rain on the boat ride back to shore.

    Truthfully… a glorious Tuesday afternoon.

    Which reminded me of something.

    Gratitude and appreciation may not fill bank accounts.

    But they fill hearts.

    They fill spirits.

    They fill lives.

    And much like corporate culture — something I wrote about last week — the most meaningful parts of life are often the things that cannot be neatly packaged into KPIs or performance metrics.

    Connection.

    Laughter.

    Trust.

    Unexpected joy.

    Those things matter more than we often admit.

    So that was the curious case of the quiet weekend that wasn’t quiet… and the random Tuesday that turned out to be rather perfect.

    A reminder that sometimes it’s worth saying yes.

    To new things.

    To new people.

    To moments you didn’t plan.

    And to giving yourself the grace to redefine what rest, joy, and community actually look like.

    Now if you’ll excuse me…

    I am very much looking forward to the coming weekend.

    Because frankly, at this point…

    who knows what I might get up to.

  • The Curious Case of Allyship, Facial Expressions, and Weekend Fatigue

    Serious Faces, Silent Advocacy, and Other Curious Leadership Lessons

    A conversation this week took me somewhere unexpected.

    Someone told me they had recently experienced insecurity from another woman in leadership — and they said it quietly, almost apologetically, as though this kind of behaviour must surely be an anomaly.

    It stopped me.

    Not because it surprised me.
    But because it reminded me how many of us still think these dynamics are isolated incidents rather than patterns.

    Right now there’s a lot of conversation about ally leadership — particularly encouraging men to sponsor women, advocate for them in rooms they are not in, and move beyond passive mentorship.

    And that is important.

    But there is also a quieter, more uncomfortable truth we do not always talk about:
    sometimes the resistance comes from other women.

    Not always. Not even most of the time. But often enough to matter.

    Women who refuse to advocate for other women because:

    • they dislike you
    • they see you as competition
    • you trigger something unhealed in them
    • or they simply cannot control you

    I once had someone tell me — six months after the fact — that they could not advocate for me in a leadership conversation because my facial expression was serious during a serious meeting.

    Apparently they “couldn’t tell what I was feeling.”

    Six months.

    Six months of silence.
    Six months of withheld advocacy.
    All because my face looked… serious.

    In a serious meeting.

    I wish I could say this story was unusual.

    But as more millennials begin re-evaluating their relationship with work — and Gen Z enters the workplace with radically different expectations — these conversations are happening more openly.

    People are asking questions like:

    • What does leadership actually look like?
    • Who is advocating for whom?
    • And why does culture stay broken even when the people change?

    Someone said something to me recently that has stayed with me:

    “Culture doesn’t change just because people do. It lives in the bones of an organisation.”

    And unless someone consciously chooses to rip out the bad and replace it with something healthier, people simply cycle through and adopt what already exists.

    The problem is that culture change rarely shows up neatly in a KPI.

    You cannot easily measure:

    • psychological safety
    • quiet advocacy
    • or the courage to support someone who might outshine you

    So the conversations stay theoretical while the behaviour stays the same.

    Meanwhile… in the very human chapter of this week

    This was a harder week for me.

    I was achy.
    Not sleeping well.
    Fatigued in that annoying way where your body feels like it is negotiating with gravity.

    I came down with an acute case of food poisoning that left me questioning the need for sanity.

    Still — life continued.

    Workouts happened.
    Meetings happened.
    Life happened.

    And somewhere in the middle of it all, I realised something very simple:

    I miss my best friend.

    She’s off living an incredible adventure right now, and for the first few months it almost felt normal — schedules get busy, weeks pass, you don’t see each other.

    But in the second rotation of time, you feel it differently.

    You suddenly realise that you cannot send a random message saying:

    “Drinks tonight?”

    And actually make it happen.

    So naturally, I informed my husband that he needed to start doing “cutesy things” with me instead.

    Bless him — he asked what exactly that meant.

    We are still working through the definition.

    The Mentorship Question

    This week I also had a call with a mentee.

    She showed up with an honesty and strength that honestly blew me away.

    Later my husband asked me something that made me pause:

    “How do you show up like that for people when you’re not feeling your best?”

    It is a fair question.

    The truth is, I am no longer a big advocate for the old autopilot push-through culture that defined so many of our careers.

    But there are still moments when you show up because the responsibility matters.

    The key difference now is this:

    You do not sacrifice authenticity to do it.

    You show up honestly.
    Presently.
    Without pretending everything is perfect.

    Because ironically, the thing we all say we dislike — the “what looks good” culture — is often the thing we continue performing.

    But what if something looks good…
    and nobody has anything genuinely good to say about it?

    That’s when living more honestly becomes the better metric.

    The Big Question

    Of course we cannot all abandon corporate life tomorrow and run off into private ventures (although some days that does sound appealing).

    But something is shifting.

    People are asking harder questions about:

    • culture
    • leadership
    • self-worth
    • and the cost of staying in environments that ask too much of your spirit

    Sometimes the biggest change is not leaving.

    Sometimes it is simply deciding:

    “I will make the choices that are right for me before I am forced to.”

    And now… the weekend.

    As I write this, Isabella is sitting in the corner arguing with me for reasons known only to herself.

    Last weekend was very social, so this one will be slower.

    My ambitious plans include:

    • pajamas
    • watching My Lottery Dream Home (a personal weekend ritual if I’m honest)
    • a soft workout
    • Pilates and a walk
    • and the most exhausting task of the weekend

    Washing my hair.

    So wherever you are in your own chapter this weekend — thriving, surviving, questioning, resting — I hope it unfolds exactly as you need it to.

    Preferably in a way that carries you gently into Monday…

    with absolutely no Monday scaries.

    About the Author

    Sarala writes about leadership, life transitions, corporate culture, and the messy human realities that sit behind professional success. When she isn’t advising organisations on governance and strategy, she is usually walking her dogs, reflecting on life’s chapters, or searching for the perfect glass of wine.

  • The Silence, The Season, and The Self-Belief No One Hands You

    There is a particular kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come from an enemy.

    It comes from a friend.

    From someone you rallied for. Defended. Prayed for. Sat with. Someone whose sharp edges you understood long before they understood them themselves. And yet — when the moment came — their instinct to protect themselves required hurting you.

    And perhaps what hurt the most wasn’t even the action.

    It was the inability to have a real conversation about it.

    When someone is deeply committed to their own victimhood, accountability feels like attack. Reflection feels like betrayal. And silence becomes safer than truth.

    So the silence grows.

    And you’re not surprised.

    Disappointed? Yes.
    But surprised? No.

    Because when you step back, you see the pattern. You see how easy it was for them to wound you, even as you would have moved mountains to shield them. You see how some people can only process pain from the lens of what was done to them, never what they have done through others.

    And that realization is sobering.

    The Season of Transition (Where There Is No Script)

    This season I am in is raw.

    There is no corporate title to introduce myself with. No daily barrage of meetings to validate my usefulness. No one assigning me tasks except… me.

    And that is both liberating and terrifying.

    There are mornings when getting out of bed requires negotiation. Not because my life is tragic. Not because I am ungrateful. But because transition is exhausting. The nervous system doesn’t love uncertainty. The ego certainly doesn’t.

    Some days I want to hide.

    To not see anyone. To not have to speak optimism into rooms when internally I am quaking. To not answer the “So what’s next?” questions with polished confidence when the honest answer is: I am building it. Brick by brick. And sometimes I am just resting between bricks.

    There’s also that strange lull of fatigue that creeps in. The kind that makes you wonder: is this emotional exhaustion? Early whispers of perimenopause? Burnout residue? Or simply the body processing change?

    No one prepares you for how disorienting growth can feel.

    The Financial Reality No One Romanticizes

    Let’s be honest.

    Living a life that makes you happier does not always immediately produce the financial gains you were accustomed to.

    And that’s confronting.

    There’s a tension between trusting the process and refreshing your banking app. Between believing in your long-term strategy and remembering how comforting a steady corporate pay cheque was.

    You wonder:
    Am I losing my sharpness by not applying it every day?
    Is my skillset dulling while I explore these other parts of me?

    But then you notice something else.

    The skills you are using now.

    Discernment. Creativity. Emotional intelligence. Boundaries. Writing. Speaking. Resting without guilt (still learning). Courage without applause.

    Those are skills too.

    Just not the ones that get bonuses attached to them.

    The Myth of “One Break”

    Sometimes I catch myself thinking:

    “If I just get one big break, I’ll be back on track.”

    But back on which track?

    The one where I was applauded but quietly misaligned?
    The one where validation came externally and disappeared just as quickly?
    The one where corporate systems crown golden children — until they don’t?

    The corporate world is exceptional at handing out titles.

    It is less skilled at handing out self-belief.

    And when you step away from the machinery that feeds your identity daily, you realize how much of your confidence was externally sourced.

    No one hands out intrinsic self-worth like they hand out promotions.

    You have to build that yourself.

    And that — my friends — is the hardest work I have ever done.

    On Hurt and Self-Respect

    Back to the friend.

    Part of growth is recognizing that you can love someone and still choose distance.

    You can understand why they acted from fear and still acknowledge that it hurt.

    You can release the need for them to “get it.”

    And perhaps the real grief isn’t losing the person.

    It’s losing the version of the friendship you believed in.

    But here is what I know:

    I would rather be the person who rallies for others and occasionally gets burned
    than the person who protects themselves by burning others first.

    That is not weakness.

    That is alignment.

    The Quiet Truth

    Not every day is a good day.

    And that’s okay.

    Not every day is a bad day either.

    And that’s even better.

    Some days are simply neutral.
    Some days are heavy.
    Some days are hopeful.
    Some days are both.

    I am lucky. I have a supportive husband. Friends who show up. Therapy. Work I can shape. A body that still carries me forward even when my mind is tired.

    And I am doing the work.

    Even when no one is clapping.

    Especially then.

    Because self-belief built in silence is sturdier than confidence built on applause.

    If you are in a transition season — if you’ve been hurt by someone you loved, if you are building without a blueprint, if you are cheering yourself on because no one else is — I see you.

    You are not behind.

    You are becoming.

    And becoming sometimes looks like breaking first.

    A Gentle Practice for Transition Seasons

    When self-belief feels shaky, create evidence.

    Not big evidence. Not public wins.

    Small, private proof.

    • Send the email you’ve been avoiding.
    • Finish the paragraph.
    • Make the therapy appointment.
    • Go for the walk.
    • Invoice for your work without apology.

    Confidence rarely precedes action.
    It follows it.

    And in seasons where no one is validating you externally, self-trust grows from keeping small promises to yourself.

    ✍🏽 About the Author

    Sarala Maharaj is a corporate commercial attorney turned fractional general counsel and strategic advisor, navigating a bold season of transition with intention. With over a decade of cross-Caribbean experience in governance, M&A and leadership, she now writes about identity beyond titles, people-centric power, healing in high performance spaces, and building a life that feels aligned — not just impressive.

    When she’s not advising boards or reimagining professional power, she’s usually by a pool, on a verandah listening to birds, or being outnumbered by two very opinionated dogs.

  • George, Isabella, and the Radical Act of Having a Life

    George has decided that my primary purpose in life is to open doors for him.

    Not metaphorical doors. Literal doors. Bathroom doors. Pool doors. Pantry doors. Doors that were closed for a reason.

    He will sit. He will stare. He will sigh heavily, as though burdened by the incompetence of his staff.

    Isabella, on the other hand, has accepted that she is royalty. She does not ask. She positions herself. Preferably in a sunbeam. Preferably on something that was not meant for dogs. Preferably after stepping on George, who accepts this as his lot in life.

    They do not rush.

    They do not check emails.

    They do not wonder if they should be doing something more productive with their time.

    They simply exist—with alarming confidence.

    This weekend, I am attempting the same.

    I am reconnecting with a girlfriend who knew me in crazy overdrive mode and who I’m lucky continues to get to know me in this new season. I am having what I have decided will be a sexie breakfast with a fun aunt—by which I mean good coffee, a cute dress- because diva I am, and conversations that drift into inappropriate laughter. I am also celebrating my mother-in-law’s birthday with family, where food will be both excessive and mandatory.

    And somewhere in between, I will sit in the sun.

    I will waddle in a pool without trying to optimize the experience.

    I will read a new book without turning it into research.

    I will allow time to pass without negotiating with it.

    George will likely supervise.

    Isabella will judge.

    And both of them will remind me that joy does not require permission.

    We have been taught that a good life is a productive life. But I am starting to suspect that a good life is simply a present one.

    Unrushed.

    Unimpressive.

    Unapologetically yours.

    Tell me—what is one small, slightly indulgent thing you are doing this weekend that your younger self would approve of?

  • The Discipline of Choosing

    Daily writing prompt
    What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?
    View all responses

    The biggest challenge I will face in the next six months is choosing—deliberately and without apology.

    Not choosing out of fear. Not choosing out of habit. Not choosing based on what looks impressive on paper or what makes other people comfortable.

    Choosing what is aligned.

    This season of my life is full of possibility. New work, new directions, new ways of defining success that are less about titles and more about meaning. For a long time, my path was structured—clear ladders, defined expectations, measurable milestones. Now, the path is mine to design. And with that freedom comes a quieter, more confronting responsibility: discernment.

    Opportunity is no longer the challenge. Discernment is.

    The challenge will be resisting the urge to say yes to everything simply because I can. To trust that the right work will not require me to shrink myself, over-prove, or abandon the parts of my life that matter. To build something sustainable, not just impressive.

    It will also mean tolerating uncertainty—the space between what was and what will be. That space can feel uncomfortable. It asks for patience. It asks for faith in your own judgment. It asks you to believe that walking away from what no longer fits is not loss, but authorship.

    Six months from now, I don’t know exactly what my professional life will look like. But I know how I want it to feel: grounded, purposeful, and honest.

    And perhaps that is the real challenge—not building a life that others recognise, but building one I recognise as my own.