Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage – Page 3 – A life well-poured: work, wine, and everything in between.

The Healing, After Them — Chapter Three: The One That Left Me Angry

December 1, 2025

Some wounds don’t bleed — they burn.
And sometimes the fire is just anger finally asking to be heard.

In earlier chapters I spoke about regret and lessons, but anger — this one was harder. Regret is retrospective. Lessons can be reasoned. But anger? Anger requires honesty without explanation.

I have always understood sadness. Regret. Disappointment.
But anger?
Anger was the emotion I kept chained in the basement.

In therapy, we traced that back to a childhood where anger was disobedience, in marriage where anger made you a nag, and in workplaces where anger was “unprofessional.” Anger was always the thing that made me the problem.

So I never learned to sit with it.
I learned to silence it.

Until this friendship.
Until this ending.
Until the anger finally had a name.

Once Upon Three — The Musketeers

There were three of us.
I joined last — older, steadier, the one who mothered the group because love, to me, meant service.
If I poured enough validation into others, maybe I would finally feel worthy of receiving it.

Friend Two — the middle musketeer — was layered, colourful, chaotic and meaningful.
She was there in career highs, gone in the lows.
A bridesmaid holding my dress as I peed (friendship rite of passage), then later a ghost.
She sat at my table, lived in my home on weekends, loved my dogs, cooked in my kitchen like family.

But when the original trio cracked — when Friend One and I collapsed — the truth spilled like broken glass. There were years of comments, whispers, pity disguised as friendship, stories told about me that I was never even present for passing between the original two.

And instead of seeing it then, I clung harder.
Because grief can make even betrayal look like love.

The Year My Life Split at the Seams

I was in a private storm — marriage questions, fertility fears, thyroid meds, career pressure, success with no space to collapse. I was the strong one until I wasn’t. I cracked under unanswered calls and messages, and shared more of myself than I was ready to.

And Friend Two — the one I let into my home, into my dogs, into my circle, into my wounds, then — simply disappeared.

And she re-appeared back beside the friend she once cried over.
Back in a circle I was no longer welcome in.

And I was left with silence that screamed louder than any goodbye.

Sadness Festered — Until Therapy Named It Properly

I didn’t have language for what I felt. I had tears. I had silence. I had years of replaying conversations in my head like evidence in a trial I could never win — because I was trial, witness and judge all at once.

Years later, in one quiet therapeutic moment, my therapist said five words that landed like thunder:

“You aren’t sad. You’re angry.”

And suddenly everything aligned.

I wasn’t grieving a friend —
I was furious at how she left.
Furious that she walked away without accountability or closure.
Furious that someone entrusted with my depth dropped me when I finally needed something in return.

And then — here’s where growth humbles you —
I had to admit my part.

This Is Not the Story of the Perfect Friend

I have hurt people too.
I have made thoughtless choices and held grudges and failed to communicate.

I am not telling this story to paint myself clean.
Only honest.

Maybe she could not give me what I needed.
Maybe our friendship was seasonal.
Maybe I never rooted myself deep enough in her for her to hold me when I fell.

Or maybe she was just a selfish bitch.
Truthfully?
Not my job to diagnose anymore.

Because accountability is not self-blame —
it’s self-respect.

And Self-Respect Changes Your Circle

Losing these friendships cleared space for the right ones.

I now have new women in my life who are thunder and steel —
who teach me how to command, decide, act.
And I have the not-so-new ones who are windows, not mirrors —
who give space instead of reflection, acceptance instead of performance.

Quality over quantity.
Depth over proximity.
Presence over history.

2024 was the Christmas of endings —
empty chairs, hollow lights, losses I couldn’t swallow.

2025 is abundance.
A Christmas filled with proof of how life rebuilds in the space left behind.

This chapter is not about bitterness.
It’s about finally naming the emotion I swallowed for years:

Anger.
Valid, cleansing, overdue anger.

And if you’re reading this in a season where everyone expects joy but you only have fragments —
you don’t owe anyone festive spirit.

The Grinch stole Christmas, and we still adore him.

So be angry if you need to be.
Be quiet.
Be healing.
Be honest.

What you lose in volume, you gain in quality.
What leaves was never rooted.
And what remains —
is real.

May you honour anger without shame.
May you treat endings as beginnings.
May you choose quality over noise — especially in friendship, and especially in December.

Not every friendship ends loudly. Some slip away in silence — and the only word left behind is anger. And for once, that is enough.

This chapter held anger, but the heartbreak with Friend One was a tragedy — and one day, I’ll write it.

Next week, we talk not about who left — but who stayed.
And the kind of friendship that feels like coming home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarala Rambachan is a Caribbean corporate commercial attorney, governance advisor, and writer who believes in building a life with truth at its spine. Her work sits at the intersection of leadership, humanity, and healing — exploring friendship, grief, anger, growth, and the many versions of womanhood we evolve through. When she isn’t drafting legal frameworks or speaking on ethical AI, she is writing chapters of her own becoming: reflective pieces on love, friendship, self-worth, and the courage to unravel and rebuild. She lives for authenticity, dogs, good wine, and turning personal lessons into collective light.

SECRET LESSON ABOUT ME — THIS WEEK

I am no longer willing to mother friendships.
I no longer earn love through effort, over-giving, or proximity.
I choose relationships where capacity is mutual, where care is not currency, where love is offered without begging for it.

The secret is — I finally believe I deserve that.

A Christmas of abundance isn’t about gifts or glitter.
It’s about the quality of the people at your table.
Sometimes the greatest growth is realizing you can set one fewer place, and still feel full.
The dress, the earrings and the journey in between

November 30, 2025

What are your two favorite things to wear?

Style has always been personal to me. Not just in the way of “what’s trending” or what fits into a certain aesthetic — but in the way something makes me feel. Clothes, for me, have never been just fabric. They’ve been armor. Celebration. Softness. Reclamation. And for me, throughout phases in life I’ve never not had more than at least three varying sizes of outfits in my closet to fit my mood, my weight, my confidence, my bloat… and the list goes on.

Clothes and jewelry have always been more than fabric and metal to me — they are my armor. Whether I’m walking into a boardroom, stepping out at sunset on vacation, or curling up alone with coffee in my living room, what I wear helps me carry myself. A well-cut dress or a bold pair of earrings isn’t just aesthetic; it’s intention. It’s how I say, ‘I know who I am today.’ Fashion, at its core, is not about impressing—it’s about expressing. Powerfully, softly, or joyfully. As women, we show up in many roles, but how we choose to show up starts with how we feel. And that begins the moment we get dressed.

One of my favorite things to wear is a statement dress. Always has been. It could be a vibrant local design piece that swishes as I walk, or something sleek and minimal that quietly owns the room- off rack – no problem, Amazon- even better. I remember wearing a deep red pleated dress to a bubbles brunch — the sun was out, the vibes were light, and I felt… seen. Not because of the dress itself, but because it felt like me. Free, confident, joyful. That dress didn’t just fit — it understood the assignment.

The second thing? Earrings. Sounds simple, but I grew up around women who understood the power of detail. My grandmother wouldn’t leave the house without a proper pair. My mother always said, “Put on a little something by your ears — it wakes the whole face up.” And it’s true. I can be in a plain tee and jeans, but throw on the right pair of earrings and suddenly I’m put together. Elevated.

There’s a kind of quiet boldness in picking pieces that reflect your mood and spirit. For me, clothes have become bookmarks for memories. I remember what I wore when I felt my most heartbroken. And I remember what I wore when I felt like a phoenix rising. Fashion doesn’t just reflect your style — it reflects your story.

At the end of the day, what I really love to wear is confidence and comfort. Confidence that took years to build. Comfort that doesn’t mean lazy — it means aligned. And if that looks like a loud dress and bold earrings, so be it. I dress to reflect the woman I’ve become — layered, evolving, imperfect and proud.

And that, to me, is style.
When Rejection Feels Like Ruin (Until It Becomes Redirection)

November 19, 2025

On doubt, despondence, survival, and the quiet work of becoming.

Disclaimer: This post touches on themes of grief, trauma, mental health and suicide. If any part of this piece feels heavy for you, please pause, take a breath, and return only if and when you feel ready. None of this is meant as advice—only as a reflection of my lived experience, written with care and honesty.

There’s a quote we all love to repeat:
“Rejection is redirection.”

Lovely on paper. Hard in real life.
And almost impossible to believe when your world is shifting beneath you.

We rarely talk about the messy middle—the space between the rejection and the redirection. The stretch of time where you doubt everything, including yourself. The waiting. The sadness. The moments when your body whispers, “Enough.”

Because sometimes redirection doesn’t feel divine.
Sometimes it feels like loss. Like despondence, not just sadness.

And yes, I learned recently there’s a difference.

Sadness ebbs.
Despondence hollows.
It sits with you long after the moment has passed, long after the trauma has subsided, long after everyone assumes you’re “fine.”

How Much Rejection Can One Heart Hold?

Friendships that fade.
Relationships that break.
Career pivots that don’t land.
Jobs that disappoint.
Family wounds that reopen themselves every few months like clockwork.

It adds up.
And there comes a point where one day—one year—one chapter—your body simply says, “No more.”

You withdraw.
You retreat into the comfort of your sofa.
You choose silence over company, solitude over socialising.
And you wonder why you no longer recognise the version of yourself you’ve always been.

But change, even the good kind, comes with fear.
We are creatures of habit—tied to our titles, our lifestyles, our neighbourhoods, our routines, the quiet nods of recognition when someone asks, “You live here?”

Losing that stability—voluntarily or otherwise—can shake a person to their core.

And yet… there’s another side to this story.

Some chase “more” so hard they lose themselves entirely.
Others become “richer” in the world’s eyes but emptier on the inside.
And some of us… some of us simply sit with ourselves and learn to be okay with the quiet.

The Privilege of Loss

I’ve lost family, friends, colleagues—sometimes in the same chapter.
I call it a privilege now, though it never felt like one.

Because it forced me to sit with a truth I spent years outrunning:
There were-and are- seasons where my phone didn’t ring for weeks.
No one checked in.
No one asked if I was okay.

It put “sitting with myself” into perspective.

A few months ago someone told me, “You hide pain well.”
Was it a compliment? A warning? A mirror?
I still don’t know.

Another person once told me I was a bad friend because I didn’t share my problems—a red flag wrapped in a backhanded hug.

But here’s what I know now:
We all cope differently.
And what we need is not permission to struggle—but healthier ways to navigate the struggle.

Grief, Joy & Co-Existence

Earlier this year, a dear friend of mine died by suicide.
He wrote his own eulogy—carefully, methodically, heartbreakingly.
Phrases like “I’m tired,” “I’ve lived a full life,” and “This brings me peace” echo inside me still.

Grief sits with you.
Silence follows you.
And life goes on around you whether you can keep up or not.

I’ve had my own moments—the 2009 Pizza Express meltdown where my heartbreak came with a free meal and a complimentary dessert.
And the 2023 version of me eating profiteroles alone in Rome, joyful and unbothered.

Same solo dining.
Two entirely different women.

Time doesn’t always heal.
But it does reframe.

A Season of Lights, A Season of Shadows

As Thanksgiving and Christmas wrap the world in soft glow, I want to say this:

It’s okay if your Christmas spirit is late.
It’s okay if joy feels complicated.
It’s okay if you smile with one hand and steady your sadness with the other.

Many feelings can coexist.
Many seasons can overlap.
Many truths can be held at once.

People who care will hold space.
People who don’t will drift away like they were always meant to.

Rejection, Redirection & Fear

Let’s not romanticise it.
When you’re worried about your next paycheck, a changing family dynamic, bills, responsibilities, survival itself—it’s hard to believe in “redirection.”

But it’s also where the quiet work begins.

Here’s what I know:
I have survived my worst days (so far).
The tear-soaked prayers, the ink-streaked journal pages, the doggies staring in confused concern—all of it.

I am still here.
A lot less friends.
Less money.
A different identity.
A changed perspective.
But here.

And when I plug in my Christmas tree, I still smile.

We find ways—if we choose to and if we’re able.
Some of us need help. Some need rest. Some need time.

Lessons & Actions (gentle, real, doable):

1. Let yourself feel the doubt.
Belief doesn’t come immediately. Redirection is something you see in hindsight.

2. Sitting with yourself is not failure.
Sometimes it’s the only way to hear what your life has been trying to tell you.

3. Not everyone is meant to stay.
Loss has a purpose. Space has a purpose. Silence has a purpose.

4. You can hold grief and joy at the same time.
There is no “right” way to feel during the holidays.

5. If no one calls your phone, message yourself.
Write your own encouragement. Speak over your own life.

6. When rejection hits, ask two questions:
What is this teaching me?
What can I do next?

Victimhood won’t serve you.
Agency will.

7. Your life can be redesigned at any age.
Start with one small thing you can control today.

Closing Reflection

Maybe 2025 felt like Mercury retrograde every single day.
Maybe 2026 will be kinder.
Maybe it won’t.

But you will carry wisdom into the new year.
You will carry truth.
You will carry resilience.
And you will carry yourself.

Rejection isn’t immediate redirection.
But it can be, with time, tenderness, work, and belief.

And sometimes that belief begins the moment you whisper to yourself:

“I’m still here.”

Before you go…
Take a moment with this:

“If you could whisper one sentence to your past self, what would it be?”

Let that answer rise gently — without judgment, without rush, without expectation. Sometimes the truth we most need to hear is the one we’ve avoided saying out loud.

✨ Closing Call to Action

If this piece found you in a moment of doubt or heaviness, I hope it reminded you that you’re not alone. Take a moment today to truly check in with yourself — what do you need, what can you release, and what small choice can support your future self? If you’re navigating your own season of rejection or redirection, feel free to share your reflections below. Your story might be the reminder someone else quietly needs.

And if you’re finding it hard to carry everything on your own, please reach out to someone you trust — a friend, a therapist, a support line, anyone who can help hold some of the weight. You don’t have to walk every chapter alone.

✨Gratitude Prompt

Take one minute today and name three things you’re grateful for — even if one of them is simply that you woke up.
The ROI of Rest: A Chapter of Stillness & Strategic Recalibration

November 17, 2025

A Strategic Pivot in my own ROI.

Last week, I stopped. Properly stopped. Not a soft pause, not a “let me just clear these last three emails,” not a pseudo-rest where I’m still hustling in the background. No. I mentally, physically, and spiritually flatlined and just… laid down.

And it was hard.

If you know me, you know rest used to feel like waste. Like failure. I didn’t know how to exist separate from work, productivity, or a trauma response that kept me on alert—waiting for the text… the call… the email that would yank me back into action regardless of time, date, or decade. I lived plugged into urgency like an IV drip.

But last week, my mind and body whispered (then yelled): lay down for a bit. And for once, I listened. I’m grateful I’m in a season of life where I could listen—but the guilt still came. Because learning to be kind to yourself is its own curriculum. (Ironically, advice given to me by someone I no longer speak to… more on that in another chapter.)

Success isn’t only built in movement. Sometimes it’s built in the quiet—no phone in hand, no book, not even Alexa playing “Meditation Sounds for Burnt-Out Women.” Rest is a skill. One I’m still learning.

We have to learn to rest with the same intensity we learn to “perform.” And it is not selfish. “Time,” like “success,” like “life,” is personal. For someone with a free afternoon, rest might look like a three-hour nap. For someone juggling a calendar, it might be fifteen minutes sitting alone in your car with a coffee and your own thoughts. Those “reflect” minutes on your Apple Watch count. That 15-minute block you put in before a long meeting for coffee and a bathroom break? Counts.

And while we’re here—can we talk about time respect? I once worked with an executive who was chronically late to the meetings they scheduled—sometimes not showing up at all. Yes, things happen. But patterns matter. It wasn’t just disrespect for others; it was self-disrespect—always living in the back-to-back chaos, never in control of time but ruled by it. I learnt this the hard way: Not every fire is yours to put out. And not every urgency belongs to you. I may be a subject matter expert in my field, but I’m also the subject matter expert in my life. So I decide the cadence, urgency, and priority—including rest—as long as I’m willing to accept the consequences.

There are no silos in life. Everything is interconnected. How you show up in one space is a reflection of how you are nourishing (or neglecting) the others.

A few years ago, I had my version of an out-of-body experience—not the woo-woo kind, but the kind where I was so entangled in one part of my life that I disappeared from myself entirely. I forgot my own rhythm, my core values, my north star. We talk about dulling pain through alcohol or sex or distraction—but we also dull it with overwork, over-scheduling, avoidance, and hyper-performance. Grounding matters. And when you’re grounded, it shows.

So last week, at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday, I lay on my sofa, stared at the ceiling… and just existed. No purpose. No productivity. Just being. And I’m proud of that.

On paper, my work productivity was minimal: one meeting, one email. But personally? I rested. I got my 10k+ steps. I exercised. I put up the Christmas tree because twinkle lights make the world better. I walked the dogs. I read in the backyard. I poured a glass of wine. I made tea in my mother’s 68-year-old teapot and set my formal Christmas table for no reason except joy. I took a drive. I walked around the pharmacy and bought nothing. I dropped my husband off at his club. I chose me.

And I woke up today grateful. Ready. Not because life is suddenly easy, but because I gave myself what I needed before I needed it.

This week will be full—three days of external meetings, two evening events, hosting somewhere in between—and I feel good. And if I don’t? I’ll pivot. Flexibility is a part of wellness too.

So this chapter is really about the ROI of rest. My EPS—my share value—is high, and it’s exclusively available to the genuine. Let’s use that corporate talk on ourselves. Measure the return on your energy, not just your output. Carve out your own KPIs: joy, peace, clarity, sleep. The things that don’t go in a report but show up in how you show up.

And if you needed a sign: it’s okay to put the laptop down.

Also… it’s almost Christmas.

👤 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarala Rambachan is a corporate commercial attorney, governance strategist and writer exploring life through the lens of growth, culture, courage and Caribbean womanhood. When she’s not rewriting legal frameworks, she’s rewriting her own — one chapter, one glass of wine, and one walk with George and Isabella at a time.

🕵🏽‍♀️ CLUE OF THE WEEK
I once judged myself for laying on the sofa at 11AM. Last week, I called it strategy. That’s the growth.
The Coolest Thing I’ve Found? My Truth.

November 13, 2025

What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever found (and kept)?

It’s easy to dim yourself to fit in. To shrink, to stay silent for peace, to hustle past purpose. It’s easy to stay somewhere just because leaving looks hard—or to hold onto shame that was never yours to begin with.

But the coolest thing I’ve ever found—and fought to keep—is my truth.

Reclaiming my voice, my power, and knowing what actually matters to me. Learning to communicate better. Letting go of guilt for changing seasons, releasing people, or stepping into something new. That’s treasure. Because the truth is: I’ve survived days I thought would break me. And if I can do that, I can survive anything.

So no, I don’t want to be everyone’s cup of tea anymore.

I’ll be the champagne.
🌱 The Chapter of Growth: Becoming at Seventeen

November 11, 2025

At seventeen, I left Trinidad with a suitcase full of dreams and a heart full of fear. London sounded like freedom — cobblestone streets, law school, independence, maybe even the life I thought I was ready for. But what looked like a dream was dotted with growth, laughter, tears, and a thousand tiny lessons in womanhood, identity, and survival.

As I share this chapter, I’ve also included a few snapshots from that season of my life —the face of a girl still figuring herself out.

Screenshot

The Beginning: London and Loneliness

When I first arrived, my parents and I stayed at a beautiful inn while searching for housing. They were adamant I shouldn’t be “alone,” so we agreed on a three-month house share. I knew instantly it wasn’t for me — sharing a bathroom? Washing my underwear in a stranger’s washer? Cooking vegetarian food while the kitchen smelled of meat? Absolutely not.

But I went along because that’s what we do when we’re seventeen and trying to make our parents proud. What seemed like small discomforts were really the first tests of who I was becoming — learning to live on my own terms, to say what I wanted (and didn’t want), to recognise that independence doesn’t come gift-wrapped, it comes with discomfort.

And yes, I cried every day.

The First “Protector” and the First Lesson

Somewhere in those first weeks, my family met a much older, charming Caribbean man who promised to “look out for me.” Spoiler: he was no gentleman. He tried to charm a naive seventeen-year-old with food and flattery for all the wrong reasons. Thankfully, the naive girl had a survival instinct stronger than she knew.

That was the first of many lessons: no one protects you better than you can protect yourself.

Finding My Footing

At school, I flourished. I was in my element — finally learning, thinking, thriving. But I was also learning that racism was real.

“You can’t be Indian and Caribbean.”
“Why do you sound like that?”
“Do you think you’re better?”

Those comments cut deep, but they also built resilience. I started to understand that identity could be questioned, but it didn’t have to be defined by others.

The First Love, and the First Mirror

Then came the man who would shape that chapter — fourteen years older, endlessly charming, and full of promises. He cooked for me, made me feel seen, gave me “community.” I thought I’d found my person. But over time, I realised I was becoming his person instead — losing pieces of myself in convenience and comfort.

It’s funny how love at that age feels like oxygen — until you realise you’ve been holding your breath the whole time.

Lessons in Love, Law, and Laundry

My parents sacrificed everything to send me to London. I will never forget the day they asked a relative to co-sign my student loan and were told “no” because that person didn’t believe they could do it — send a child to London and succeed. They did it anyway.

So, yes, I was grateful. But gratitude doesn’t make the growing easier.

I was learning to study hard, work part-time at my partner’s family law firm, pay bills, and keep house — all while pretending I knew how to clean a toilet (spoiler: I didn’t). I actually called my mother the first time, convinced bleach required an engineering degree.

And yet, these were the moments that shaped me — my first flat, my first job, my first sense of real self-reliance. I also learned that sometimes the person you love teaches you what not to accept.

Here’s what that girl learned early:

Take control of your own life — no one will do it for you.

Always save.

Be self-sufficient.

If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.

Find your own people.

Of Cinnamon Rolls and Red Flags

Those years are still etched in my memory — Red Bull and cinnamon rolls from the cafeteria as breakfast for almost three years (it’s a miracle I didn’t turn into one). Professors who inspired me, crushes that got me through accounting, a semester of criminology just because the lecturer was brilliant.

But the red flags were there too — me doing his assignments, spending my little money on “us,” dimming my own light so his could shine brighter. I didn’t see it then. Growth is slow like that.

The LPC Years: Finding My Own People

The Legal Practice Course was harder than anything before, but it came with unexpected joy. My girlfriends — my saving grace — introduced me to the life of Nando’s Fridays, long pub nights, Southern Comfort and lemonade (don’t judge), and laughter that healed.

Those were my first real friendships. People who loved me for me, not for what I did for them.

Family, Distance, and the Voice I Was Learning to Use

When my family visited, they met a different version of me each time — the grown woman they didn’t quite understand. My father’s control and my mother’s silence re-triggered the girl I thought I’d outgrown.

I’ll never forget the day my dad sent me a huge framed photo of himself to mount on my wall. When he arrived and saw it still in the corner, he exploded — said it showed my lack of respect, my lack of love. He left to stay with my partner, refusing to speak to me for the rest of the trip.

That was the moment I realised: distance isn’t always rebellion; sometimes it’s survival.

Screenshot

Life, Love, and Lessons Yet to Come

Between lectures, part-time jobs, acne breakouts, visa renewals, failed exams, resits, learning about condoms and the pill, and even the adventure of getting our first dog, Veeran (who we drove all the way to Wales to get — me paying from my cash withdrawals at multiple ATMs)… I thought that was life. That was adulthood.

We studied together, lived together, worked together, had the same friends, even “started a family” with a dog. You think those times will last forever. You think this is it.

But adulting always finds you. And you only discover what truly lasts when you’re living from your healed, authentic self — not your performative, prescriptive one.

This was just the beginning. The next chapter is about what happens after the degree, after the love story, when real life collides in real time with the dream — when the girl who left home finally starts coming home to herself.

Screenshot

💭 Life Lessons from the London Years

Independence isn’t pretty at first. It’s messy, tearful, and full of bad takeout.

Love without boundaries becomes dependence.

You can outgrow places and people — even if they helped you grow.

Money, self-respect, and sleep are non-negotiable.

You are allowed to reinvent yourself as many times as it takes.

🩵 Author’s Note

This chapter is dedicated to every woman who left home to chase a dream and discovered herself along the way — sometimes the hard way. If you’ve ever cried into your curry, studied through heartbreak, or learned to love yourself one mistake at a time, this one’s for you.

🔍 Clue of the Week

“When you clean your first toilet, buy your first pet, or pay your first bill — don’t groan. You’re not failing at life. You’re growing into it.”
The Look of Love, with Four Paws

November 10, 2025

What is good about having a pet?

Honestly, everything. My doggies bring a kind of joy that’s hard to explain but easy to feel. There’s unconditional love in the way they look at me — that soft gaze that says, “you’re my whole world.” They teach me discipline in routine, care in action, and reward me with endorphins just from a cuddle, a tail wag, or that post-meal trot to come find me instead of heading straight for a nap.

They are loyal in the purest way, quirky in the most delightful ways, and they love you without condition, ego, or expectation. Whether it’s a silent companion during a low moment, or the joyful dash to the door when you come home — it’s all heartwarming. Pets remind you to be present. They don’t care what you look like, what you achieved today, or what you’re overthinking. They just love. And that alone makes every day better.

And then there’s the sweetest part — my pug curled up on my shoulder, my MinPin tucked into the crook of my arm like clockwork, exactly 30 minutes before it’s time to wake up. It’s as if they run on an internal “mama love” schedule. Somehow, I end up squished into a corner of a king-sized bed the size of a dinner chair — but that’s love. Through it all, they’re not just pets, they’re family. They depend on me, just as I lean on them — for a good morning, a good night, and the quiet comfort of being wrapped in love when I need it most.

The audacity
In My Ears, In My Feels

November 9, 2025

What podcasts are you listening to?

Podcasts have become such an outlet for me — they’ve taken me through some rough patches, kept me company on long walks, and honestly just filled the silence in the best way. While they haven’t quite reached my level of obsession with books, they definitely hold their own.

For fun and full bad-ass energy, Life’s a Joke with Christina Kirkman is my current favorite — light, real, and unapologetically funny. The Mel Robbins Podcast has seen me through everything from career pivots to emotional treks (literally), and House of Maher can be hit or miss, but Ilona? A beast in the best way.

I also sprinkle in Call Her Daddy when I need boldness, Girls Bathroom for the sisterhood feel, and Aware & Aggravated when I’m in a take-no-prisoners mood. Coming Up for Air hit hard during my “bitch against the world” era.

My picks change with my mood — but that’s the beauty of it. There’s a podcast for every version of me. I would say much like I wait for a Nora Roberts In the Death Series to drop, currently I do look forward to my Thursday Life’s a Joke pod to take me through the afternoon.
🍷 Cabernet & Conversations: Things I Wish I Knew in My 30s

November 7, 2025

If I could pour a glass for my 30-year-old self…

I’d tell her to sit still for a second — really sit. Stop running after timelines and people who don’t have the emotional capacity to meet you where you are. Pour the wine slowly. Let it breathe. Because one day, you’ll realize that the best parts of your life weren’t in the noise or the milestones — they were in the quiet spaces you kept rushing through.

And if she’d listen (really listen), here’s what I’d tell her:

💫 You don’t need to be liked to be loved.

Being liked is a moving target — it changes with opinions, rooms, moods. Love, real love, doesn’t demand a performance. It sees you in your truth — messy, tired, resilient — and stays.

🕯 It’s okay to disappoint people.

Disappointing others is inevitable; disappointing yourself is optional. You can’t live your life trying to keep everyone comfortable — not when it costs you your peace. Let “no” be your full sentence when you need it to be.

🔥 People will anger and frustrate you — that’s on them.

Stop expecting emotional maturity from people who haven’t done their work. Their reactions are not your responsibility. Sometimes you have to walk away without explanation — silence is its own boundary.

💃 Stop focusing on being skinny to feel pretty.

Beauty was never about the inches on your waist; it was about the depth of your energy. Feed yourself — with food, with joy, with laughter. The mirror doesn’t define you; your light does.

🕰 Don’t get lost in other people’s urgency.

Everyone will have opinions about your pace, your choices, your “should-haves.” Don’t borrow their anxiety. Trust your own timing — it’s divine, even when it feels delayed.

🧠 Don’t fall for false authenticity.

Not everyone preaching vulnerability practices it. Listen for consistency, not captions. The loudest “real” people often hide the deepest masks.

💌 Trust purposefully, not automatically.

Your heart is kind — that’s beautiful. But discernment is not cynicism. Everyone deserves kindness; not everyone deserves access.

🌸 Believe you’re enough — because you always were.

You don’t have to earn worthiness. You were born with it. Stop chasing validation that dilutes your voice.

🌙 Don’t let other people’s insecurities shrink you.

Dimmed lights don’t make others shine brighter. Stand tall in your strength, your opinions, your softness. You are not too much — they’re just not ready.

⚖️ Trust that those who do wrong will be dealt with.

You don’t have to carry the burden of karma. Life has a way of balancing its own scales — you just keep your integrity intact.

🪶 Don’t carry shame like a badge of honor.

You don’t have to be the one who always “learned the hard way.” Forgive yourself for the years you tried to fix everything by over-giving. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting; it means releasing.

⏰ Make and take time for yourself.

You can’t pour from an empty glass — not even a cabernet one. Rest isn’t laziness; it’s preservation.

🗣 Communicate your needs.

The people meant for you will make space to listen. Silence isn’t strength when it suffocates you. Speak — even if your voice shakes.

😂 Laugh more.

Life isn’t a to-do list. Laugh until your stomach hurts. Laugh at the irony, the chaos, the things that didn’t go as planned.

❤️ Love yourself — without conditions.

You’ve spent years giving love away like it was a reward to be earned. Turn some of it inward. You are the longest relationship you’ll ever have.

🍰 Eat the cake.

Literally and metaphorically. Celebrate more, guilt less. Take the photo, drink the wine, book the trip. Joy isn’t indulgent — it’s essential.

If I could pour a glass for my 30-year-old self, I’d raise it high — to the woman she was, to the lessons she learned the hard way, and to the one she became: grounded, grateful, and finally at peace with not having it all figured out.

Because it turns out, she didn’t need to. She just needed to be.

#CabernetAndConversations #LessonsInBecoming #FortyAndFlourishing #SaralaLife #WineAndWisdom #AuthenticLiving #WomenWhoReflect #ChaptersCareersCaninesAndCabernet

💋 Clue of the Week (About Me):
I used to think becoming meant adding more; now I know it’s about unbecoming everything that isn’t me.

Saralalife.com celebrates the blend of chapters, careers, canines, and cabernet — the beautiful mess of living thoughtfully, courageously, and with heart.
The Subject That Spoke to My Soul: English Literature

November 7, 2025

Daily writing prompt
What was your favorite subject in school?
View all responses

My favorite subject in school was English Literature. I had the most inspiring teacher — a woman of confidence, grace, and quiet strength. She carried herself with such assurance and authenticity that you couldn’t help but admire her. She was sharp, witty, passionate, and unapologetically herself — the kind of woman who made you want to rise to your own potential.

Under her guidance, I fell completely in love with the written word. English Literature wasn’t just about analysing poetry or dissecting novels; it was about exploring humanity — emotion, resilience, heartbreak, courage. It opened my world to stories and voices far beyond my own, and taught me how words could shape thought, emotion, and even change.

It spoke to my creative side — the part of me that finds joy in expression, empathy in storytelling, and calm in reflection. I loved the rhythm of language, the beauty of interpretation, the way one line could mean something entirely different to each person in the room. To this day, being lost in a good book feels like home.

In a sea of subjects that had to be done, English Literature was the one I wanted to do. It grounded me, challenged me, and gave me a lifelong love for stories — not just those on the page, but the ones we live and tell every day.