Hi, I’m Sarala — Caribbean corporate strategist/executive woman writing honestly about power, identity, leadership, reinvention and emotional truth.
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.
If you had asked me a few years ago what moment in my life felt like it came straight out of a movie, I might have chosen something glamorous.
A trip.
An achievement.
A celebration.
Instead, the moment that comes to mind is much quieter.
It was the moment I realised the ladder I had spent years climbing was no longer there.
For more than a decade, I had built a successful corporate career. I had worked on complex transactions, advised executives and boards, led regional initiatives, and accumulated the experience and credibility that many professionals spend years pursuing.
I knew who I was.
Or at least, I thought I did.
Then life handed me one of those plot twists that no one sees coming.
Not a dramatic explosion. Not a single catastrophic event.
Just a growing awareness that the path I had carefully planned and faithfully followed was no longer available to me in the way I had imagined.
I remember sitting with the discomfort of that realisation.
The uncertainty.
The fear.
The endless questions.
What now?
Who am I without the title?
What happens when the thing you’ve worked so hard to build is no longer the thing carrying you forward?
In the movies, this is usually the point where the music swells and the audience knows exactly what comes next.
Real life is less generous.
There was no soundtrack.
No certainty.
No montage showing how everything would work out.
Just one small decision after another.
One conversation.
One application.
One client.
One opportunity.
One brave step forward while quietly wondering whether I was completely losing my mind.
Looking back, that was the movie moment.
Not because it was dramatic.
But because it was transformational.
It was the moment the story changed.
The moment I stopped asking how to climb the ladder and started asking whether I wanted a ladder at all.
The moment I realised that success could be something I defined for myself.
Today, I still don’t have all the answers.
But I am grateful for that chapter.
Because sometimes the most important moments in our lives are not the ones where everything goes according to plan.
They are the moments where the plan falls apart and we discover we are capable of building something new.
If this were a movie, that would probably be the scene where the camera pulls back and the audience realises the story was never about the ladder.
It was about the person learning she could build her own way forward all along.
If someone asked me what I have been doing lately, the easy answer would be that I have been building a business.
But that wouldn’t be entirely true.
What I have really been doing is building a life.
A life that includes meaningful work, yes. But also speaking opportunities, community, writing, learning, friendship, quiet moments, difficult conversations, and the courage to imagine a future that looks different from the one I spent years carefully constructing.
For a long time, my focus was on building a career. The next role. The next opportunity. The next challenge. The next achievement that would prove I was moving forward.
These days, I find myself asking a different question.
Not just, What am I building?
But, What kind of life am I building around it?
It sounds inspiring when written down.
Some days it even feels inspiring.
Other days, it looks like standing in yet another queue.
Submitting yet another form.
Providing yet another document.
Explaining something that should be straightforward.
Trying to open a business bank account while navigating requirements that seem to multiply every time you think you have reached the finish line. At one point, I found myself searching for yet another version of my marriage certificate and wondering whether I was opening a bank account or applying for citizenship on another planet.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Building a business requires strategy, planning, expertise and vision.
Yet some days the biggest challenge seems to be proving that I exist.
No one really talks about that part.
We celebrate entrepreneurship, reinvention, courage and purpose. We post the launch announcements, the speaking engagements, the client wins and the exciting opportunities.
What we don’t often share are the hours spent following up on follow-ups, navigating bureaucracy, waiting on approvals, deciphering requirements, and wondering why something that should take a week now appears to have entered a witness protection programme.
There is a particular kind of frustration that comes from doing everything right and still feeling as though progress is moving through wet concrete.
And yet, beneath the frustration, I have realised something.
The paperwork is not the point.
The delays are not the point.
The runarounds are not the point.
The point is what sits on the other side of them.
Because the truth is that no one is coming.
No one is coming to hand us permission to start.
No one is coming to tell us we are qualified enough, experienced enough, brave enough or ready enough.
No one is coming to build the business, write the book, launch the idea, heal the wound, make the change or create the life we keep imagining.
And strangely, I find that thought incredibly freeing.
Because if no one is coming, then perhaps we are freer than we think.
Free to stop waiting.
Free to stop explaining every decision.
Free to stop measuring ourselves only by titles, employers, salaries or expectations.
Free to trust that we can build something meaningful, even when we do not have every answer.
The investment, I am learning, is not only financial.
Although trust me, when the invoices start arriving for branding, travel, speaking opportunities, promotional materials, business expenses and all the other things that come with betting on yourself, you certainly notice those.
The bigger investment is emotional.
It is deciding, over and over again, that you are worth the effort.
Worth the uncertainty.
Worth the possibility of getting it wrong.
Worth the risk.
Worth the belief.
Perhaps that is what this season is teaching me.
That building a life is rarely glamorous.
Sometimes it looks like purpose.
Sometimes it looks like paperwork.
Sometimes it looks like courage.
Sometimes it looks like persistence.
Most days, it looks like all four.
So this week, I leave you with the question I have been asking myself:
What are you building that requires you to keep showing up, even when it feels harder than it should?
A business?
A relationship?
A healthier version of yourself?
A dream you have quietly carried for years?
Whatever it is, I hope you do not mistake the paperwork, delays, setbacks and frustrations for a sign that you should stop.
Sometimes they are simply evidence that you are in the process of building something real.
And perhaps that makes it worth the paperwork after all.
It’s been a while since I sat down to write here. Not because I had nothing to say—but because life, in its usual unapologetic fashion, has been lifing.
And honestly? Sometimes when life is lifing, the words stay in your head longer than they make it to the page.
So, here we are. A proper catch-up.
First things first: I survived the flu from hell. You know the kind—the one that has you questioning every life choice, every immune-boosting vitamin you forgot to take, and whether breathing has always required this much effort. Recovery felt less like “bouncing back” and more like a slow, reluctant crawl back to humanity.
But in brighter news… I started golf lessons.
Yes. Golf.
If you had told me a year ago I’d be voluntarily standing in the sun, trying to perfect a swing while muttering at tiny white balls, I may have laughed. And yet here we are.
And I am absolutely loving it.
There is something unexpectedly therapeutic about it. The focus. The frustration. The tiny wins. The reminder that you cannot muscle your way through everything—sometimes you need rhythm, patience, posture, breath.
Honestly? Feels like a metaphor for life.
Speaking of life metaphors…
I am deep in preparation mode for the Fearless Women’s Summit in St Lucia at the end of June, and let me tell you—being brave is expensive.
This is my first time doing a swag bag for an event.
A thing I decided to do entirely on my own because I want to promote my business, create something meaningful, and maybe—if I’m being fully transparent—prove to myself that I belong in these spaces.
Cue me spiralling between “quality matters” and “dear God, why does branded anything cost THIS much?”
Entrepreneurship has a very particular flavour of fear, doesn’t it?
Corporate courage looked different. There were budgets. Approval processes. Expense lines.
This version? This is looking at your own bank account while whispering, we’re doing this, right?
Terrifying.
Also deeply affirming.
Because somewhere between the quote comparisons, logo proofs, and internal negotiations, I’ve had to confront something important:
I have credibility that exists independently of a company title.
Not theoretically.
Actually.
A few client recommendations recently reminded me of that.
That people see the value.
That my work mattered.
That my experience is mine.
That worth does not evaporate because the business card changed.
Apparently growth looks like crying over Canva mockups and then having an identity breakthrough.
Who knew?
And because life believes in emotional multitasking, therapy decided this was also an excellent time to hand me a particularly difficult truth.
That some of the hurtful things my mother says to me…
…have nothing to do with me.
Read that again.
Nothing.
To.
Do.
With.
Me.
That doesn’t mean they don’t hurt.
It doesn’t mean I suddenly float above them in enlightened peace.
It simply means that love and hurt can co-exist in complicated relationships.
That someone can love you and still wound you.
That “mother” does not automatically equal emotionally safe.
That boundaries are not betrayals.
Whew.
That one was… deep.
On a wildly less profound but equally real note—I am also hosting a house party.
Which apparently means I have become Operations Director of Pool Deck Restoration, Plant Rehabilitation, Glassware Logistics, and Domestic Crisis Management because my darling husband has absolutely no interest in cleaning the pool deck or repotting the plants.
Marriage is beautiful.
And sometimes marriage is looking at a neglected hibiscus and choosing peace.
Also on my heart lately: George.
I’m increasingly convinced my sweet boy may be losing his hearing.
Not the selective “I heard you but respectfully decline” kind.
The real kind.
The calling-him-and-getting-nothing kind.
And if you’re a dog parent, you already understand how these quiet observations settle somewhere tender in your chest.
We’re watching.
Adjusting.
Loving him loudly anyway.
In happier doggie news, over the past six months we’ve become those pet parents.
The ones introducing fresh human-grade bone broth, chicken, spinach wet food, and thoughtful supplements to support hips, joints, coats, and general canine fabulousness.
And honestly? The dogs are thriving.
The unexpected joy in all this has been discovering and supporting a local Trinidadian business doing something genuinely needed.
Kaja Pet Food.
Woman-owned. Smart. Fresh. Filling a gap.
And perhaps because of where I am in life right now, supporting her business feels bigger than pet food.
It feels like alignment.
Because let’s be honest—the cost of living right now is offensive.
Consumerism is exhausting.
Everything costs more.
Everyone is selling something.
And yet.
There is something deeply meaningful about intentionally choosing where your dollars go.
Especially when they go toward another woman building something brave.
Because I understand those scary spends now.
I understand the hope attached to every order.
The self-doubt.
The courage.
The “please let this work.”
And perhaps that’s made me softer.
Or stronger.
Maybe both.
Which brings me to my newest mantra:
No compare. No compete. No gossip.
Simple.
Not easy.
Because if I’m honest, competitive thoughts still creep in.
Comparison still taps me on the shoulder.
The old reflex still whispers.
But now I notice it.
I pause.
I self-check.
And I choose differently.
That’s growth too.
The humbling kind.
The kind where you realise peace is less about eliminating human thoughts and more about deciding which ones get to stay.
And there is something incredibly freeing about becoming deeply committed to your own path.
There was a time when I might have answered this with something polished. A good glass of wine. A favourite book. Travel. A quiet evening.
And while all of those things do bring me joy, yesterday reminded me that some of life’s simplest pleasures are actually far less about things and far more about presence.
Yesterday, I tried something just for me: golf.
Now, let me be clear—I am absolutely not declaring myself a golfer after one outing. But there was something unexpectedly joyful about trying something new simply because I wanted to. No productivity metric attached. No strategic objective. No pressure to be excellent immediately. Just curiosity, laughter, and the slightly humbling experience of discovering muscles I clearly haven’t been using.
The rest of the day was gloriously ordinary in the best way.
Client meetings. Errands. The usual juggling act of adult life.
And yet somehow, tucked in between responsibility, there was space for movement, for sunshine, for a few blissful hours in the pool with my husband and two dear friends, while my doggies did what happy doggies do best—running around as if joy itself had paws.
And I found myself thinking: this is it.
Not the grand milestones. Not the big announcements. Not the glossy moments we think we should be chasing.
This.
A full day. A grateful heart. People you love. A body that lets you move. Trying something new. Water. Laughter. Dogs. Connection.
Simple pleasures, I’m learning, are often just moments where life feels wonderfully, deeply enough.
And honestly? A day rooted in gratitude may be one of the greatest simple pleasures of all.
Not because it’s a perfect film (we can debate that over wine), but because the first time you watch it, it feels like a permission slip.
Permission to unravel. Permission to ask harder questions. Permission to admit that the life that looks “fine” on paper may not be the life your soul can breathe in.
Some movies entertain you. Some quietly hold up a mirror.
Eat Pray Love would be that one for me—not for the romance, though Javier Bardem certainly didn’t hurt—but for the reminder that reinvention is not failure. That choosing yourself can be both terrifying and necessary. That healing is messy, nonlinear, occasionally carb-filled, and sometimes requires crossing oceans… or at least crossing the uncomfortable distance between who you’ve been and who you’re becoming.
I think I’d want to watch it again for the first time because this version of me would understand it so differently.
And honestly? Any movie that says healing may involve pasta, prayer, perspective, and a handsome man in Bali deserves a rewatch.
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. 🥂
There was a point where I stopped asking, “What’s the safest move?” and started asking, “What’s the most honest one?”
That shift was a risk.
I took a risk on me—on stepping away from what looked stable and successful on the outside, but didn’t feel aligned on the inside. I took a risk on my marriage—choosing to show up more truthfully, not perfectly, and trusting that honesty would build something stronger than silence ever could. I took a risk on a re-imagined life—one that didn’t come with a clear map, a guaranteed outcome, or the comfort of external validation.
And perhaps the hardest risk of all—I took a risk on feeling.
On naming the shame I had neatly tucked away behind achievement and resilience. On admitting that strength doesn’t mean untouched, and that healing isn’t linear or pretty. On allowing myself to sit with discomfort instead of rushing to fix or perform my way out of it.
I’ve made mistakes along the way. I’ve second-guessed myself. I’ve had moments where the old version of me—the one who preferred certainty over truth—felt safer.
But I don’t regret it.
Because in taking those risks, I met a version of myself I hadn’t fully allowed to exist before—one that is softer, but not weaker; more honest, but still discerning; still ambitious, but no longer at the cost of my peace.
It turns out the real risk wasn’t leaving what I knew.
The real risk would have been staying there, and never meeting her at all.
Learning to sit with myself, without rushing to become someone else.
Lately, it’s not the big things that make me nervous.
Not the rooms I walk into alone. Not the titles I no longer carry. Not even the uncertainty of building something of my own.
It’s the quieter things.
The email that feels slightly loaded. The question that isn’t really a question. The shift in tone that my body reads before my mind catches up.
Because when you’ve lived in high-functioning survival mode for a long time—especially in corporate spaces where performance and politics often sit too close together—your nervous system learns patterns that don’t just disappear when you leave.
They follow you.
So now, in this season of transition—where I am softer, freer, more aligned—I am also… relearning.
Relearning that not everything is a threat. Relearning that not every delay is rejection. Relearning that I don’t have to brace myself before I respond.
And if I’m honest, that’s what makes me nervous.
Not the work. I know how to work. Not the strategy. I’ve built that muscle over years.
It’s trusting myself to respond from who I am now… and not who I had to be to survive.
Because trauma response mode is efficient. It’s sharp. It’s protective.
But it is also exhausting.
And stepping out of it means sitting in moments where I don’t immediately react. Where I pause. Where I choose a response that isn’t driven by fear, urgency, or the need to prove.
It means allowing things to be unclear without rushing to control them. It means letting people show me who they are without pre-emptively defending myself. It means answering queries without over-explaining, over-delivering, or overcompensating.
That’s new territory.
And new territory—even when it’s better—can feel unfamiliar enough to make you nervous.
But here’s what I’m learning:
Nervous doesn’t always mean “not safe.” Sometimes it means “not used to this yet.”
So when I feel it now, I don’t rush to fix it.
I sit with it. I breathe through it. I remind myself—
I am no longer in that environment. I am no longer that version of me.
There’s something quietly honest about the first thing that comes to your mind. No filters. No polish. Just truth—raw, unedited, and usually far more telling than the versions we dress up later.
So here’s mine:
This is a life I’m learning to live, not control.
It came to me somewhere between a structured morning of ALTA tutor training—brain switched on, pen moving, absorbing frameworks and ideas—and an entirely unstructured afternoon that followed absolutely none of those rules.
Because after discipline came spontaneity.
A random G&T afternoon. The kind that wasn’t planned, but somehow was exactly what the day needed. Conversations that didn’t try too hard. Laughter that didn’t ask permission. The kind of pause that reminds you life isn’t a checklist—it’s a rhythm.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I skipped my workout.
Old me would have spiralled a little there. Negotiated with guilt. Tried to “make up” for it in some performative way. But today? Today I just… didn’t.
Because balance is not built in a single decision. It’s built in the permission to choose differently without punishing yourself for it.
Pizza happened too. Not as a reward. Not as a rebellion. Just as part of the day. Warm, easy, uncomplicated—like the mood I’m trying to hold onto more often.
And now, here I am, chilling on a quiet Sunday that feels full in a way that has nothing to do with productivity metrics.
Not everything was “perfect.” Not everything was “optimal.” But everything was mine.
That first thought still lingers.
This is a life I’m learning to live, not control.
Maybe that’s what these days are teaching me—that growth doesn’t always look like discipline and structure. Sometimes it looks like loosening your grip. Letting the day unfold. Trusting that who you are becoming doesn’t disappear just because you paused, pivoted, or chose joy.
A day well spent isn’t always the one you planned.
I’ve been thinking about this, and the honest answer is… there isn’t a place in the world I never want to visit.
But there is a place I refuse to return to.
It’s the version of me that shrinks to fit. The rooms where I question my worth before I even speak. The spaces where I let others take up so much air that I forget I’m allowed to breathe too.
I’ve visited that place before — more than once, if I’m honest. It’s where fear dresses up as politeness. Where self-doubt whispers louder than truth. Where shame and guilt convince you to stay small, stay quiet, stay agreeable.
And the thing about that place? It looks familiar. Sometimes even comfortable. But it costs too much.
Because every time I go there, I abandon parts of myself to make others feel secure. I negotiate my voice. I dilute my presence. I accept less — not because that’s what I deserve, but because it feels safer than taking up space.
So no, there isn’t a country or city I’d rule out completely. But I am deeply intentional about the internal spaces I revisit.
I don’t go where I have to shrink. I don’t stay where I feel “not enough.” And I don’t entertain environments — or people — that make me live in fear, self-doubt, shame, guilt, or uncertainty.
These days, I choose places — and spaces — that expand me. That meet me where I am, not where I’ve outgrown.
So the answer isn’t a pin on a map. It’s a boundary.
There are many places in this world I may still explore. But that version of me?
Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage 