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.
That’s the only game worth mastering.
Outgrowing the game was the win.
Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage 
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