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.
My mission is to create space for honesty, growth, and meaningful connection—through words, leadership, and lived experience.
I write and lead for the women (and men) navigating transitions: career pivots, shifting friendships, changing identities, and the quiet reckoning that comes when what once fit no longer does. I believe in choosing depth over optics, integrity over titles, and alignment over applause.
Through storytelling, reflection, and practical wisdom drawn from law, governance, leadership, and life, I aim to remind others that they are not broken for feeling deeply, pausing often, or choosing a different path. Growth does not have to be loud to be powerful—and healing does not require perfection.
This space exists to explore what it means to lead with clarity and heart, to honour values over validation, and to build lives that feel as good on the inside as they look on paper.
If you leave here feeling seen, steadied, or a little more at home with yourself—then I’ve done what I came to do.
One of the biggest lessons the past three years has taught me is this: sometimes relationships don’t end because of betrayal, conflict, or cruelty — they end because value systems quietly drift apart.
I’ve watched credible, strong, experienced people — people I love or deeply respect — make choices that took them down a values path different from mine. Choices made in pursuit of what they saw as the goal: a job title, a role, a partner, a version of success that looks impressive on paper.
And while I understand ambition, survival, and the very human need for validation, it’s been painful to witness those choices come at the cost of alignment — and, in some cases, at the cost of friendship.
That loss hurt. Not because I don’t wish people well — I do — but because it forced me to confront a hard truth: what looks good is not always what matters. And pain is still pain, no matter how beautifully it’s dressed.
Acceptance Is Not Settling
In a recent therapy session, my therapist asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks:
“Have you ever loved or cared about someone you wished would change — but couldn’t?”
At first, I wasn’t sure I had. But the truth is… we all have.
I’d been throwing around language like “settling”, as though acceptance meant compromising myself. She challenged me instead to consider acceptance — not as resignation, but as emotional maturity.
Over the course of 2025, I’ve done a lot of work on myself — and I’ve been incredibly lucky to have the space to do it. I’ve learned what it truly means to have a voice. To take up space. To stop shrinking or performing for approval.
But the most important lesson has been learning that two truths can coexist:
I can be sad and grateful
Disappointed and accepting
At peace with an ending and appreciative of what once was
Acceptance isn’t weakness. It’s clarity.
When Performing Stops Working
If TikTok is to be believed, “2025 wrecked us all.” While it wasn’t my worst year — let’s call that 2024 — it was a hard one.
Hard because it forced me to sit with why I no longer needed to perform. Why I didn’t need to tick boxes someone else had decided were “the measure.”
I’ve smiled through crippling pain before. I vividly remember a board meeting where I’d excuse myself to cry in the bathroom — then walk back in, composed, articulate, “fine.” All while outwardly living what looked like a once-in-a-lifetime professional experience.
It’s astonishing what shifts when you stop caring whether people think you’re smiling or frowning. When they don’t know your next move — but the people who matter do.
Choosing Quiet Over Noise
These days, my life is filled with routine and quality. The loudest noise is me shouting at George (who is now a little hard of hearing), Isabella (who inherited my stubbornness), or my husband — who once told me that when I argue, he sees sheep jumping up and down.
Honestly? Not bad at all.
Don’t misunderstand me — the road to self-confidence isn’t a steady upward trek. It hasn’t been miraculous or neat. There has been real pain. Fear. Tears. Trauma responses. Situations handled “so as not to cause trouble” or “not to look bad.” Gratitude offered even after being hurt.
And I’m no saint. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people I care about. I’ve acted irrationally. I’ve been selfish. That’s part of being human.
What matters is what we do with the lessons.
What Matters vs. What Looks Like It Matters
Life will always set you a higher measure to prove your worth. Some of those measures may be necessary on paper — especially in careers — but they are not who you are.
Are there people who think they’ve “won” some mysterious war against me? I’m sure there are. Does it affect me now? Not really.
One of the most fundamental lessons of 2025 is this: people can’t turn up for you if they can’t turn up for themselves.
That doesn’t excuse bad behaviour — people can still be deeply disappointing — but it does explain a lot.
So I’ve leaned into turning up for myself. And for the people who truly see and feel this version of me, I’m profoundly grateful. In choosing quality over quantity, I know the connections I have are genuine — not competitive, not transactional.
I recently listened to a podcast that spoke about being intentional with who we label friend and who we place in that friendship bucket. Not everyone is rooting for you — sometimes because they haven’t done their own work, sometimes because… well… they’re just not great people.
Either way, that part isn’t our business.
What is our business is recognising that we become who we associate with.
So this January, the focus is knowing ourselves — so we can recognise those around us.
In Other News… Life Updates
Since this is, after all, Life in Chapters:
I’m attempting Dry January to reset my wildly indulgent Christmas ways. On January 1st, 2025, I started 75 Medium — committing to a minimum of 10K steps daily alongside physical, mental, and spiritual challenges — all in time to unveil a hotty (hotty for me) body at Jamaica Carnival with my bestie. And I am happy to report I smashed it- and kept up my daily steps ( sometimes doubling it) and exercise routine for the entire year- with the odd rest and travel day for balance.
This year? Dry January comes with a 30 Soft twist — because February travel means some days the only steps I’ll get are to the cooler… to top up my prosecco.
Grace, after all, is growth too.
And now I’m wondering — should I do a chapter on Dry January, discipline, and carnival body prep?
We’ll see what the next blog brings.
About the Author
Sarala Rambachan is a corporate attorney, governance advisor, mentor, and writer exploring leadership, healing, ambition, and authenticity through lived experience. Life in Chapters is her space to reflect honestly — without performance — on the seasons that shape us.
Clue of the Week
Acceptance doesn’t mean you approve of what happened — it means you stop fighting reality.
There was a time when, if I could pour a glass for my younger self, it would have been filled with warnings.
Don’t trust so quickly (though I still did). Don’t give so much (oh, boy, well did I over-give). Don’t work yourself to the bone thinking rest is something you earn later (worked through muscle and bone). Don’t confuse urgency with importance (well, I’ve lived through 3 million seasons of everything is urgent).
Today, if I poured that glass again, it wouldn’t come with advice at all.
It would come with permission.
I wouldn’t tell her to move faster. I wouldn’t tell her to hustle harder. I wouldn’t tell her to prove anything to anyone.
I would tell her this instead: You are allowed to slow down before life forces you to.
For a long time, urgency felt like success. Quick decisions. Full calendars. Being needed. Being relied on. Being the one who could handle it. In my professional life, urgency became a badge of honour — the deal that had to close, the crisis that needed managing, the role that required everything I had and then some. I thought that pace meant purpose.
But urgency is loud. And loud doesn’t always mean aligned.
At some point — quietly, without ceremony — I began choosing intentionality instead.
Intentionality in the work I say yes to. Intentionality in the leadership roles I take on. Intentionality in how much of myself I pour into rooms that were never meant to hold me.
This shift didn’t happen overnight. It came after years of building, achieving, carrying responsibility with grace even when it was heavy. It came after realising that success without space to breathe becomes another form of survival mode.
In my career pivot — stepping away from the certainty of a defined corporate path and into a season of recalibration — I learned something deeply uncomfortable and deeply freeing: Not every decision needs to be rushed to be right.
Some need to be felt.
Intentionality looks like choosing work that aligns with your values, not just your CV. It looks like redefining leadership beyond titles — toward impact, integrity, and how people feel after working with you. It looks like understanding that stepping back is not stepping down.
And personally? It looks like trusting myself enough not to explain every choice. It looks like no longer measuring my worth by productivity or proximity to power. It looks like allowing softness to coexist with strength.
If I could pour that glass again, I wouldn’t warn my younger self about heartbreak, disappointment, or uncertainty. She was always capable of surviving those.
I would simply sit with her and say: You don’t need to rush to become who you already are.
Some seasons are about momentum. Others are about meaning.
This one — for me — is about intention.
And if no one has told you today: You are allowed to choose peace without apology. You are allowed to evolve without explanation. You are allowed to take your time.
Pour the glass slowly. 🍷 You’ve earned that much.
About the Author
Shalini S. Rambachan is a corporate commercial attorney, governance advisor, and reflective writer exploring leadership, growth, and the quiet seasons in between. Through Life in Chapters and Canines & Cabernet, she writes about building a life — and a career — with intention, integrity, and heart.
Clue of the Week
I’m learning that urgency often comes from fear — and intentionality comes from trust.
Reflections on healing, voice, and choosing a life you’re awake inside of
2025 did not arrive gently.
It arrived on baited breath—tight-chested and heavy—with crisis, pain, shame, and fear sitting far too close to the surface. A career pivot I didn’t fully recognise myself inside of. Quiet questions about approaching 40, about a decade of marriage, about being childless and whether my partner and I were still growing together—or slowly apart. Grief over friendships that revealed themselves not as friendships at all, but transactions. Others who needed to walk away to chase their own goals, even if that meant leaving us behind.
I remember feeling like I was treading water in a pool of despair with no visible edge. No ladder. Just the exhausting effort of staying afloat.
And yet—here I am.
2026 arrived not with fireworks, but with wind. Gentle at first. Then steady. The kind that clears your lungs and reminds you that breathing doesn’t have to hurt.
I am calmer now. More confident. More rooted in myself. Therapy helped—immensely—but so did a burning decision to put my voice, my body, my wants, my life back at the centre. To stop living in anticipation of the next pay cheque, the next qualification, the next perfectly curated LinkedIn or Instagram moment that might finally signal, I’ve made it.
Healing, it turns out, is deeply unglamorous—and utterly magnificent.
Two days ago, my husband and I sat outside debating whether a visiting bird on the power line was pooping seeds or spitting them out. A real, earnest discussion. Meanwhile, my dogs were in a joyful tizzy, getting mental stimulation and exercise, and I wasn’t hiding from the sun for fear of getting darker. This moment followed morning movement, a comforting lunch, and a Yeti filled with leftover champagne—yes, leftover champagne, I know, blasphemy—but it’s been an indulgent season and I’m letting it be.
And that’s the truth of it: So many things can coexist.
I still think about career pivots. About what’s next. About the shape my work will take. But it no longer consumes me. It’s a piece of the whole now—not the price of admission to feeling worthy. My life has quality again. The best it’s had in a long while.
These last two weeks of Christmas and New Year were wonderfully indulgent. A re-imagined circle of friends. Activities that spoke to my soul, not my social media profile. There is power in that kind of quiet. In fear faced gently. In finding your voice.
There’s a shift that happens when the little girl inside you no longer needs to protect you—because you can protect yourself now. That shift is everything. It’s perspective. It’s power.
I’m grateful for the lessons. Even the painful ones. Especially the painful ones. I’m carrying them into this year with a peaceful mind, fun things to look forward to, and responsibilities I no longer resent. I’ve always believed there’s room for everyone at the table—but standing firmly in myself, I know now that no one gets to keep their seat at the cost of my sanity.
Titles are not worth friendships. Jobs are not worth your self-respect. Friend circles that aren’t for you will slowly dim your light.
And it is more than okay to say no—to re-imagine your life daily if needed.
There is no prize for living a life that looks right but feels wrong.
Fill your time with people who hold you—and whom you can hold in return. Don’t worry if that life doesn’t look the way you once imagined. If you’re willing to do the work, on yourself and for yourself, a year can change everything. You can choose to stay in the life you have—but this time, with your eyes wide open.
Lessons I’m Carrying Into 2026
Healing doesn’t erase ambition—it reorders it.
Anger, grief, joy, and gratitude can coexist without cancelling each other out.
Not everyone is meant to come with you, and that’s not a failure.
Rest is productive. Quiet is powerful.
Your voice gets clearer when you stop apologising for using it.
You don’t need permission to choose peace.
Clue of the Week
I’m learning to enjoy moments without narrating them—to myself or to the world.
About the Author
Shalini S. Rambachan is a corporate commercial attorney, governance advisor, and reflective writer navigating life, leadership, and reinvention with honesty and heart. Through her blog, she explores growth, healing, purpose, and the courage it takes to build a life that feels as good as it looks.
If no one has told you yet this year: you’re allowed to change. You’re allowed to choose yourself. And you’re allowed to enjoy the life you’re living—right now.
Cheers to Life- All Life and All Lessons, Blessings and Experiences
This year has been one of deep self-discovery, re-alignment, and empowerment — a journey of learning to stop chasing the next qualification, project, or title, and instead choosing purpose, presence, and meaning.
I’ve had the privilege of stepping outside my comfort zone — from leading high-stakes projects to speaking in rooms I once only imagined. It was an honor to deliver a keynote on leadership, women in governance, and allyship as the only Caribbean female lawyer in the room — and to do so in Toronto, representing a voice and a region I’m proud of.
But it wasn’t all polished moments. It was also:
Proposals written and rejected (or thrashed!)
Agreements drafted from the sofa, snack in hand
Fear — real, raw, and at times, overwhelming
Still, there is nothing more grounding than looking into the mirror and seeing your own power, voice, and self-security staring back.
One phrase I’ve said again and again this year: “We’ve all survived our worst days. It’s what we do with the experience that matters now.”
The version of me that’s walking out of 2025 is shaped by:
Experience, mistakes, and hard lessons
Successes, laughter, and deep appreciation
A new mindset that values quality over quantity, and truth over noise
To my fellow lawyers and professionals: We are service providers first. Don’t let the chaos define you — let the music you make speak for itself.
Thank you to every connection I’ve made, and those I’ve fortified — personally and professionally. Here’s to creating lives that reflect what we truly need — and choosing to thrive.
There was a time when I felt the need to explain everything.
Why I made certain career choices. Why I stepped back from rooms I once fought to be in. Why some friendships no longer fit. Why rest mattered. Why I had changed.
Not because I owed anyone an explanation—but because I was still seeking permission.
Somewhere along the way, that shifted.
Not suddenly. Not dramatically. But slowly, in the way most real transformations happen. One boundary at a time. One unreturned justification. One moment where I realised that clarity doesn’t always need commentary.
This season of my life has been marked by a quieter kind of confidence—the kind that doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t defend its existence, and doesn’t shrink in the presence of misunderstanding.
And perhaps the most freeing realisation of all: this version of me is not for everyone—and that is not a failure. It’s the point.
Outgrowing the Need to Be Understood
There is a particular discomfort that comes with growth—the moment you realise that people who once knew you well no longer recognise you.
Not because you’ve become unkind. Not because you’ve lost your values. But because you’ve stopped performing them.
You no longer explain why your boundaries are non-negotiable. You no longer soften your truth to keep others comfortable. You no longer apologise for choosing alignment over approval.
And that can feel unsettling—to them.
What no one prepares you for is that growth often looks like withdrawal from spaces where over-explaining was once your currency. Where being palatable mattered more than being whole. Where you were praised for how much you carried, not how well you protected yourself.
Letting go of the need to be understood by everyone is not indifference. It is discernment.
When Confidence Gets Mistaken for Distance
I’ve noticed that when you stop explaining yourself, people sometimes assume you’ve become distant.
Colder. Less accessible. Less accommodating.
The truth is far simpler—and far braver.
You’ve learned that access is earned. That your energy is not a public resource. That you can be warm without being available to everyone.
Quiet confidence doesn’t shout. It doesn’t persuade. It doesn’t chase validation or reassurance. It stands still and lets misunderstanding pass without pursuit.
And yes, that will cost you some relationships.
Not all distance is a loss. Some distance is protection.
Choosing Peace Over Performance
There was a version of me who believed that being liked was a measure of success.
She worked hard. She showed up. She over-delivered. She explained herself beautifully.
She also carried exhaustion like a badge of honour.
What I know now is this: peace requires less explanation than performance ever did.
When you stop narrating your life for others, you begin living it more fully for yourself. You make decisions based on resonance rather than reaction. You trust your internal compass more than external applause.
And the rooms that fall silent when you stop explaining? They were never meant to be permanent.
This Version of Me Is Intentional
I am not less open. I am more intentional.
I am not closed off. I am more discerning.
I am not distant. I am at peace.
This version of me knows that not every chapter needs an audience, not every decision needs validation, and not every evolution needs to be explained in footnotes.
Some people will miss the version of you that bent more. Let them.
Growth is not about being understood—it’s about being aligned.
And alignment, I’ve learned, speaks for itself.
A Quiet Reminder
If you find yourself explaining less these days, trust that it’s not because you have nothing to say—but because you finally know who you are.
Wherever you are in your becoming—there is nothing wrong with you.
About the Author
Shalini S. Rambachan is a Caribbean-based corporate commercial attorney, strategic advisor, and writer exploring leadership, growth, and life in its many chapters. With over a decade of experience across governance, strategy, and complex transactions, her work blends professional insight with deeply human reflection. Through her writing, she examines reinvention, boundaries, and the quiet confidence that comes from choosing alignment over approval—both in boardrooms and in life.
Clue of the Week
This week’s clue: I am learning that silence can be an answer—and not everything needs my explanation to be valid.
There is a quieter side to my blog. Less boardrooms, fewer pivots, softer edges. It smells faintly of dog shampoo, red wine, and whatever candle I forgot was burning while overthinking life on the sofa.
This is that side.
My love affair with dogs started long before curated Instagram breeds and matching harnesses. I grew up with what we call Caribbean shepherds—what Trinis lovingly call pothounds. Mixed-breed, medium to large dogs with personalities bigger than their paws. Loyal. Scrappy. Protective. Dogs who didn’t need papers to prove their worth.
I had big dogs my whole life… until George.
George arrived as an unexpected gift from my then-fiancé at a time when I needed comfort more than I could articulate. A pug. A tiny dog. A bean. I had absolutely no idea what to do with something so small. While George sought comfort from me, he was—without question—my husband’s boy.
What still makes me laugh is the absolute hypocrisy of it all. “I will never have an inside dog.” “I will never have a dog on the bed.”
Reader—he was the one who first put George on the bed. “He’s cold,” he declared. He was, after all, just a little bean.
And then came Isabella.
Mid-pandemic. Lockdowns. Major projects. Emotional fatigue we were all pretending wasn’t there.
My husband—deemed an essential worker—came home one day having decided he must rescue this miniature pinscher he saw at a pet store. Covered in faeces. Ticks everywhere. Terrified. Anxious. Clearly taken from her mother far too young. Vaccine records that didn’t add up.
I knew nothing about the breed, other than a story he’d told me years ago about a min-pin jumping on him at a vet and him “falling in love.”
Let me tell you—love had a learning curve.
We didn’t know if she would make it. Immediate vet visits. Medication. And then the news: she had to be kept completely separate from George for at least six to eight weeks—possibly longer—for both their protection.
So while my husband went out to work, I stayed home. Crashing through year-end deadlines. Potty-training a stubborn dog who refused to listen. Comforting a now-senior pug who looked at me daily with an expression that clearly said, “What the actual eff is this?”
For six months, Isabella wouldn’t bond. She wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t trust. Everything was separate—feeding, care, routines. I tried to rehome her with my whole heart. Truly. But the breed isn’t well known, and min-pins require stimulation, exercise, patience—not for the faint-hearted.
One evening, I stood at my kitchen island, exhausted, quietly lamenting my life choices.
And Isabella did something unexpected.
She turned her neck into the crook of my shoulder and looked at me.
That was it.
That moment changed everything.
For days afterward, I wondered why then? Why not earlier? Why not when I needed it most?
But now I know—connection happens when it’s ready. Not when we demand it.
Since then, my life would not be the same without her.
Through career pivots, breakdowns, growth spurts, self-doubt, mistakes, and those days where the question was simply “How will I make it through today?”—my doggies stood with me as family.
They woke with me. Good morning. They slept with me. Good night. They hugged me. Slept in with me. Listened while I vented.
They gave me purpose—especially when my husband was out working and life was… well, lifing.
There is something euphoric about squeezing your dogs, looking them in the eyes, and knowing—without words—you are home to someone.
Also: the joy I get from forcing outfits onto them? Epic. Unmatched. Therapeutic.
Pets teach you about life in ways self-help books never will.
They teach patience—especially when you’re at the vet again because they can’t speak, while you yourself would be on the verge of death before even considering a doctor’s visit.
They teach humility. Isabella taught me I am absolutely ready for a two-legged baby—after crying on a bathroom floor over potty training, swollen lungs, GI hospital stays, allergies to stitches, and every possible scare in between.
And yet—worth it. Every time.
Even now, as I’m squeezed into the corner of my own bed, half falling off the edge, with both dogs sleeping on me while my husband enjoys the luxury of space—there is nowhere else I’d rather be.
Christmas, Champagne & Choosing the Present
This Christmas, I decided to embrace my Champagne essence.
I am unapologetically looking forward to nights in with Veuve Clicquot—pouring an ice-cold glass and watching the bubbles rise. Yes, it’s a privilege. And yes, abundance begins with an abundant mindset.
I look at the beautiful bottles I’ve hidden at the back of the pantry, waiting for a special occasion, and I’ve realized something:
What is the special occasion, if not now?
Gratitude for being here. For surviving. For becoming.
I’ll be indulging in my B&G reds. If you follow my Benable list, you already know my love for a good Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I cannot wait to crack one open, over-stuffed on Christmas night, curled up on the sofa.
Day-drinking list? Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc is back, and yes—Caesar and white absolutely counts as balance. Watch me sneak a salad into Christmas.
And let’s be clear: I firmly subscribe to the ethos that calories do not count from 4pm on Christmas Eve until January 1st. It’s going to be a merry time.
Lessons I Learned This Year (Often With a Dog on My Chest & a Glass in My Hand)
As I look back on the last quarter of blogging—and honestly, the year—it’s clear:
2025 was a year of down-downs and up-ups.
But one of the greatest joys has been learning to stop giving my power away—to situations and people who were never meant to hold it. Not everyone who triggers you deserves access to you.
Here’s what this year taught me, somewhere between fur, wine, and becoming:
Connection cannot be forced. Whether with people or pets, real bonds form when safety, time, and presence align.
Care is not weakness. Loving deeply—dogs, people, yourself—is not naïve. It’s brave.
You don’t need a crisis to deserve rest or joy. Celebration doesn’t need permission.
Consistency matters more than intensity. Showing up every day, even imperfectly, is what builds trust—with others and with yourself.
You are allowed to choose peace over performance. Not every situation deserves your explanation, your energy, or your emotional labor.
The present moment is the occasion. Drink the champagne. Light the candle. Cuddle the dogs.
So here I am—on the eve of the eve of Christmas week—grateful. Softer. Wiser. Still learning.
Next week? We’ll see.
But for now, I’ll be right here. With fur on my clothes. A glass in my hand. And a heart that knows it’s exactly where it’s meant to be.
Here’s to soft evenings, loyal hearts, good wine, and learning—slowly—that becoming is just as sacred as arriving.
🖋️ About the Author (Canines & Cabernet Edition)
Shalini S. Rambachan is a Caribbean-based corporate attorney, governance advisor, and writer navigating life between boardrooms and becoming. When she’s not advising on strategy, law, or leadership, she’s on the sofa with her dogs, a glass of something thoughtfully chosen, and a deep appreciation for the quieter lessons life teaches. Canines & Cabernet is her reminder that success can be soft, joy can be intentional, and love often has four legs.
🕯️Clue of the Week
My dogs have taught me more about patience, presence, and unconditional love than any leadership course ever could…so pour the Champagne and create that moment.
🕊️ Call to Action
What’s something in your life you’ve been saving for “someday”? Maybe this season is your permission slip.
There are friendships that enter like a hurricane — loud, sweeping, all-consuming. And then, years later, when you’ve weathered storms and lost pieces of yourself you once held tightly, along comes another kind — gentle, familiar, like stepping through your own front door after a long day.
The coming-home kind.
I met my window friends later in life — at a stage where I had already learned that loss does not always come from death, but from distance, growth and misalignment. Where I had watched friendships from my twenties and thirties change shape — some fading into silhouettes, some bursting like firecrackers then disappearing into smoke. I had loved deeply and lost deeply. I had held on longer than I should have, and I had let go with trembling hands.
But then, unexpectedly, new friendships arrived — not to replace what was gone, but to remind me what healthy feels like.
My window friends. The ones who see me clearly through the glass without demanding I always wipe it spotless. The ones I could disagree with and still love afterwards. The ones who could say, “You hurt me,” without ending us. The ones who encouraged me to show up as I am — unfiltered, unpolished, sometimes tired, sometimes stubborn, but always me.
With them, I learned that coffee and conversation can feel like therapy. That laughter at midnight can heal what the world wounded at midday. That comfort does not have to be loud — it can be a soft chair, a shared look, a quiet “I get it.”
No, I never imagined my best friends would look like this — different ages, careers, backgrounds, histories nothing like mine. And yet, maybe that’s the beauty. They widened my world beyond what I knew. They reminded me that true support rarely mirrors you perfectly — it reflects what you need.
Talking to them feels like fresh December air, when the house smells of cinnamon, lights flicker softly, and your heart finally rests. Maybe that’s why I think of friendships most around Christmas — the season of gathering, giving, remembering. The season where old wounds throb just a little but new joy also sparkles if you let it.
Some friendships are for seasons. Some are for growth. Some are for lessons. And some — precious few — are for home.
Lessons I carry now like ornaments stored carefully in my memory:
✨ Quality over quantity — always. A room full of people who half-know your heart will never feel as safe as two who hold it gently.
✨ Nurture what nurtures you. Friendships, like gardens, bloom when watered and wilt when ignored. But watering doesn’t mean overpouring — balance is love.
✨ Space is not distance. We are all carrying silent battles. Sometimes love is saying, “I’ll be here when you come up for air.”
✨ You can disagree and still love each other. Maturity is not about avoiding conflict — it’s about surviving it with care, honesty, and respect.
✨ Wait for the friendships that feel easy in your spirit. The ones where you don’t rehearse your words before speaking. Where you are not performing, but simply being.
✨ Authentic women build each other quietly and powerfully. We are not always taught how to make friends as adults — so when it happens, honour it.
These women reminded me not to shrink to fit. They taught me that I don’t need to apologise for being soft or strong — I can be both, and still loved. They showed me what a friendship rooted in maturity feels like: gentle accountability, respectful honesty, deep care.
A Note to Any Woman Still Waiting
And if you are waiting for your window friends — the ones who feel like a warm home on a cold December morning — hold on. Good friendships don’t demand perfection; they allow room for humanity. Life has a beautiful way of sending the right people when you are ready to receive them — when you’re wiser, softer, and more rooted in yourself. When you are ready not just to receive love, but to give it gently.
When you find them, you will know. Not because of fireworks — but because your soul exhales, “I’m safe here.”
🌿 If you’re still searching for this kind of friendship — you deserve it. Don’t settle. The right people always arrive on time.
About the Author
Shalini Sarala Rambachan is a corporate commercial attorney, governance advisor, writer and storyteller who believes in leading — and living — with heart. With over a decade of legal and strategic experience across the Caribbean, she is equally passionate about people, personal growth, and the unspoken spaces where stories shape us. Her writing explores transition, womanhood, healing, and the chapters we rarely talk about, blending truth, tenderness, and the courage to evolve. When she’s not drafting board papers or negotiating deals, she can be found with a glass of wine, two dogs at her feet, and words waiting to become something honest.
Clue of the Week: I’ve learned that sometimes, waiting is a form of love — especially when it comes to the right people.
What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?
This year, something quietly powerful shifted in my life. Not in a loud, confetti-filled kind of way—but in a deep, grounding way that redefined everything I thought I valued.
For years, I chased titles, promotions, the “next step,” thinking that each achievement would finally make me feel whole. But somewhere between the checklists and expectations, I started asking harder questions. What actually matters? What if the value isn’t in the role, but in me?
And that changed everything.
I’ve slowly, intentionally redefined my worth—not by what I do, but by who I am. I’ve learnt to trust my instincts again. To honour my own voice. I stopped giving weight to opinions from people who aren’t invested in me as a friend, mentor, or supporter. That detachment has brought a kind of peace I didn’t know I needed.
I’ve stepped out of the mental race—no longer chasing titles for validation, but pursuing goals that genuinely spark joy. Now, if it doesn’t align with my truth, it doesn’t get my energy.
The most positive thing this year? Wholeness. I’ve found a version of myself that’s real, grounded, and deeply aware of her own value. And from that place, I show up differently—for myself and for others.
The waves don’t rush, and still, they shape the shore. I’m learning to do the same.
Success looks different when peace enters the chat.
There’s something oddly comforting about sitting in a room of accomplished women — CFOs, VPs, Directors, Founders — and realizing that so many of us walked a similar path and quietly survived the same storms.
At the Women’s Leadership Forum in Toronto this past October, I was honoured to be a keynote speaker. Yet what stayed with me long after the applause faded wasn’t my speech — it was the countless women who came up to me and whispered versions of their truth: “I left corporate after 10, 12, 15 years.” “I couldn’t breathe anymore.” “I had the title, the team, the car, the salary…but I had nothing left of myself.”
For a moment, I genuinely thought my experiences were somehow special — the traumas, the pressure, the internal conflict of wanting the career but losing yourself along the way. Spoiler: I am not that special. We’re all fighting the same silent battles.
And this was fitting to me in my journey; I was in the middle of my own 12-month journey of stepping out of the corporate machine and into semi-consultancy; the irony in the “semi” being the morning of my presentation I received a rejection email from a Company I had been waiting to hear back from for months. Talk about redirection!
The Pursuit that Costs More Than It Pays I have watched what the chase for boardroom seats, titles, and validation does to people — women and men. I have seen insecurity wrapped in a job description. I have seen brilliant leaders crumble under the need to “be chosen.” I have seen good values evaporate under the fluorescent lights of ambition. And if I’m being honest? I’ve been there too.
I’ve been the one working through holidays, skipping rest, missing quality time, being hyper-available to people who wouldn’t blink for me. All in the name of “proving myself.”
But here’s the reality: no one takes care of you the way you must take care of yourself. Your job won’t. Your title won’t. Your emails certainly won’t. Corporate can consume you — and if you’re not mindful, you will hand over parts of yourself that no salary can buy back.
Worthiness, Love, and the Value of Being Seen I have been in relationships (personal and professional) where I diminished myself so others could feel comfortable. Where being seen with me came at a cost they weren’t willing to pay. And because I believed that attention meant value, I accepted crumbs. But clarity is a gift. And boundaries are its ribbon.
Now I know my worth. I finally understand that not everyone is for me — and that’s a blessing. Shifting your standards upward is not arrogance; it is survival.
I read something recently that said, “I’m okay not being everyone’s cup of tea because I’m champagne.” And honestly? If you know me, that is my entire personality in one sentence.
The Moment on the Beach That Changed Everything Recently, my husband had a week of leave, so we took a simple, beautiful vacation. And there I was — sitting in my gorgeous little bikini on a white-sand beach, sipping prosecco and looking at impossible aquamarine water — feeling guilty. Guilty for not being in a “traditional full-time job.” Guilty for the freedom. Guilty for the luxury. Guilty for choosing rest. Can you imagine the pre-conditioned shame? But then something shifted. Because in that moment, I was enough. I was doing enough. I had worked for the ability to be present. And the real privilege wasn’t the beach — it was being beside my husband, uninterrupted, without the tyranny of a mobile phone I chose to leave in the room. That peace was worth more than any guaranteed salary. The prosecco suddenly tasted like freedom — crisp, cold, and earned.
Yes, There Is Privilege — But There Is Also Perspective I am acutely aware that many people are struggling. Food insecurity is real. Life is expensive. Vacations are a luxury. I carry that awareness carefully. But this part of my story is about my healing. My unlearning. My recalibration of value. I am no longer dependent on titles, friendships, relationships, or proximity to power for my sense of worth.
When Loyalty Is Misread Once, someone told me straight to my face that people said “my loyalty was bought.” Imagine — years of hard work, track record, integrity, dedication… reduced to a cheap accusation. In the moment, I was stunned. Now? I see it for what it was: a narcissist’s attempt to belittle me. How sad for them. Because now, on top of the years of factual performance and credibility, I also have a new worldview — one that isn’t determined by the insecure opinions of others.
The Journey No One Warns You About Leaving corporate (fully or partially) is not for the faint of heart. There are days of loneliness, fear, and doubt. There are events you stop being invited to. There are people who fall away. And you know what? It hurts. But it also reveals. The true people in my life remain. And here’s the humbling part — some of them were never even in my periphery before. Life is intentional like that.
The Lesson in All of This To be human is to change. And change, by nature, requires loss. Loss of old identities. Loss of old relationships. Loss of old metrics of success. But it also creates space — for joy, alignment, authenticity, and self-respect. The goal is not perfection. The goal is to keep learning. Especially from your own mistakes. Because the moment you stop learning, you stop being fully human.
Some nights I still question whether I made the right choice. Not loudly — but in the quiet between thoughts, where the old identity still knocks. I’m still open to a phenomenal, aligned, “this speaks to my soul” opportunity — but for the first time, I’m not chasing a job. I’m choosing myself.
What I would tell the corporate version of me:
You are not a role. You are a woman.
Rest is not indulgence — it is fuel.
Don’t trade respect for belonging.
If you must shrink to fit, you don’t belong there.
Your value is not on a business card.
Choose yourself unapologetically.
Closing Reflection If you are on your own journey — leaving corporate, redefining your value, healing from people or places that tried to shrink you — know this: Your worth has never lived in your title. Your peace is not a luxury; it is a necessity. And it is okay — more than okay — to choose yourself. You’re not a cup of tea. You’re champagne. Start acting like it.
Where in your life are you holding onto the version of you that no longer aligns with your peace? Write it down. Name it. Release it.
Clue of the week: I’m learning peace tastes like prosecco at noon with my phone on airplane mode.
About the Author
Sarala Rambachan is a corporate commercial attorney turned governance strategist, keynote speaker, and woman redefining success on her own terms. She writes about leadership with heart, healing after hurt, and the champagne moments we overlook. When she’s not advising companies or hosting panels, she’s likely in a bikini by turquoise water, reading, sipping prosecco and choosing peace.
Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage 