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

It’s been a while.

April 24th, apparently. Which feels both like yesterday and three lifetimes ago.

Turns out imposter syndrome has excellent tailoring.

Life happened.

A trip to New York for a legal conference that, if I am being honest, came with far more internal dialogue than anyone looking at my outfits would have guessed. There is something deeply exposing about showing up in a room where you know no one, in a city that isn’t yours, surrounded by accomplished professionals, while your brain—despite all available evidence—whispers, What exactly are you doing here?

As if I am not, in fact, one of those professionals.

As if my seat required explaining.

As if the years, the experience, the work, the expertise somehow became less valid because I arrived alone.

And layered into that? The very real arithmetic of independent life.

Because when you step out of corporate and into something you are building yourself, there is freedom—but there is also math.

Conference tickets.
Flights.
Hotels.
Meals.
Bills waiting at home.
The quiet awareness that every dollar spent on yourself is a dollar not attached to guaranteed paying work.

That balance can be confronting.

The tension between investing in your future and protecting your present.

Between ambition and anxiety.

Between living… and surviving.

And yet, while I was in New York, in all my imposter-syndrome-fuelled glory, conversations happened. Connections happened. Opportunity happened. Someone reached out about a possible role.

Because that is the thing fear never tells you.

Movement creates possibility.

Investing in yourself occasionally looks like overpriced city food and a side of existential questioning.

Staying home in certainty rarely does.

Then life, because life likes a plot twist, handed me a truly offensive flu.

Not the elegant kind where you still look vaguely charming in matching pyjamas. No.

The kind where you question your immune system, your life choices, and whether breathing has always been this dramatic.

Somewhere in all of this, I was chatting with my mother, updating her on the conference, the experience, how genuinely happy I am in this season—even with its uncertainty.

And her response?

“As long as what makes you happy pays.”

Pause.

Now listen—I understand the sentiment.

I am a grown woman. Financially independent since I was 20. I understand responsibility. I understand bills. I understand that joy does not call the bank on your behalf.

But it did make me pause.

Because why is money so often the first lens through which happiness gets assessed?

Why are we so uncomfortable with someone choosing a life that looks different, even when they are visibly more alive in it?

Perhaps that is a bigger therapy conversation for another day.

Because yes—of course I worry.

I am not floating through life on vibes and Veuve alone.

I care deeply about stability. About work. About ensuring I can sustain the life I want.

But I also refuse to believe the only valid life is one where security comes at the cost of joy.

This weekend was my anniversary.

Luxury? Leftovers, Netflix, and duty-free bubbles.

I gave my husband very clear instructions that champagne from duty free was a non-negotiable act of love.

And despite surviving the tail end of this infernal flu, we had the loveliest kind of weekend.

A cheeky couple of glasses of white wine and mozzarella sticks at lunch.

Champagne at home while watching an old Netflix movie.

Dinner built entirely around leftovers.

Random G&Ts.

Laughter with friends.

Red wine under a beautiful night sky.

No grand performance. No curated luxury.

Just life.

Good life.

Proof that healing occasionally looks like hydration. Just not always with water.

And now here I am, on a Sunday, finishing the last rebellious glass of champagne from the bottle (yes, I know), eating leftover hummus, contemplating whether exercise returns to the menu or whether wellness today looks suspiciously like doing absolutely nothing.

And maybe that is the point.

Two things can be true at the same time.

Life can be uncertain and deeply good.

You can worry about paying your bills and be profoundly grateful.

You can feel fear and still board the plane.

You can miss corporate certainty and never want your old life back.

Ambition has not left me.

It is stitched too deeply into who I am.

Whatever I do, I will bring diligence. Excellence. Commitment. Heart.

But fear?

Fear is an energy vampire with terrible ideas.

It steals joy and offers absolutely no practical solutions in return.

And unless we let it, it does not get to drive.

So if this Sunday finds you somewhere between uncertainty and possibility, between spreadsheets and champagne, between questioning and becoming—

keep moving.

Life changes in a second.

Sometimes beautifully.

And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is continue anyway.

I survived the fear. I am still here. And I’m laughing. 🥂Cheers to that. 🥂