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.
Well, I wouldn’t claim to be a Michelin-star chef, but I am a certified ‘pizza is life’ philosopher. I believe in the sacred art of a crispy crust, the balance of melty cheese, and the power of a perfectly placed topping. Pizza is my love language, my coping mechanism, and my celebratory meal—sometimes all at once. I don’t just eat pizza—I reflect on it, celebrate it, and occasionally judge people based on their topping choices. So yes, my speciality? Existential pizza appreciation. Pizza has seen me through the best and worst.
And if you really want to win my heart or comfort stress- we are looking for pineapple, mushroom, onion, green peppers and cheese 🤷♀️
Ps: I also love a brownie and vanilla ice cream 🫢
Pps: it seems pineapple on pizza is not a favorite in Rome
What’s the biggest risk you’d like to take — but haven’t been able to?
The biggest risk I’d like to take but haven’t yet is betting entirely on myself — stepping away from stability and structure to fully pursue a vision or venture that’s mine alone. Whether it’s launching something creative, entrepreneurial, or personal, it’s the fear of losing security that holds me back, not the lack of passion or ideas. But I know the biggest growth often lives on the other side of discomfort — and I’m working on building the courage to take that leap.
Coming off a beautiful vacation and walking straight into Diwali season, I’ve been reflecting on just how far I’ve come. This year, I realised something quietly powerful — I am living one of my own prayers.
And that hit me. To wake up each day in a space that once existed only in my hopes — that’s something I don’t take for granted. I am deeply, genuinely grateful.
But gratitude doesn’t make the reality of a “back to normal” morning disappear.
A New Kind of Routine
This morning looked different. No rush to meetings, no quick dash to prepare for a call, no corporate chaos. Instead — my “new normal.”
I started my day reading the Daily Mail (yes, it’s still a vice), scanning job sites to see what’s out there in the legal landscape, browsing upskilling courses so I don’t feel like I’m stagnant or “doing nothing,” preparing some material for an existing client, deciding what to make for lunch, planning my workout, and taking the dogs for a walk before shaping an evening on my own while my spouse travels for work.
It’s slower. Quieter. Re-imagined.
And while I’m happy — truly happy — there’s also fear. The fear of financial independence. The fear of “what next.”
I’ve been working since I was eighteen, fighting to earn, to stand on my own, to create a life and lifestyle I’m proud of. I’m grateful to have a partner and a support system, but that deep-rooted desire to pull my own weight is still there. It’s not about pride — it’s about identity.
Sitting with Fear
On this healing journey, I’m learning to sit with fear instead of trying to out-run it. To acknowledge that it’s not a weakness — it’s simply part of being human.
The fixer in me still wants to find solutions, to plan, to do something. But my faith reminds me: things unfold when they’re meant to. Lessons arrive when you’re ready to receive them.
Still, it’s hard not to be afraid of the unknown — especially when the responsibilities are real.
I’ve been here before. Years ago, I found myself questioning everything — career, motherhood, purpose. I remember coming off social media because I had fallen into the trap of comparison. Everyone else seemed to be moving forward while I stood still. Their highlight reels made my quiet reality feel smaller.
We talk so often about “balance,” but where do we really find it? Where’s the balance between trust and reality?
Life in Chapters
Life, for me, has always been a book of chapters. And lately, so many pages have turned.
In my quieter moments, I’ve reflected on my communities too — the circles that change, the people who stay, the ones who fade. During my birthday and Diwali this year, I noticed who reached out… and who didn’t.
That quiet question we all ask sometimes: “If I don’t reach out first, will you?”
Some friendships have fallen away like autumn leaves. Maybe because there’s nothing left for them to gain. Maybe because they were imagined — created in moments of convenience or need. Perhaps they were never really friendships at all.
It hurts to admit, but it’s also freeing. Because it reminds me to cherish the souls who do stand — the ones who see you even when you’re not shining.
Healing, Not Healed
I’m not healed — I’m healing.
Still navigating family dynamics, a career pivot, imposter syndrome, self-doubt, fear, and faith. I’ve learned that growth and grief often coexist — even when challenges resolve, consequences remain.
I used to joke, “adulting is hard,” but now I see it differently. It’s hard because we’re the ones making the informed decisions — the good, the bad, and the in-between. There’s no manual. We’re learning as we go, trying to stay kind to that younger version of ourselves who just wanted reassurance and safety.
I’ve learned there will always be a moment of pain or fear waiting to test your peace. Last year, I had two huge challenges running in parallel. Both have since resolved — but even resolution has its weight.
So now, I pray, plan, and yes, still fear the consequences.
Because even when the light returns, you remember the dark that taught you how to see.
Little Sparks of Hope
Through it all, I hold onto small joys — those little anchors that remind me I’m still growing. Lately, that’s come in the form of an idea:
A podcast.
Yes — me. The girl who’s shy about making a TikTok but somehow loves to talk. Some of my heaviest days have been lightened by podcasts that made me laugh or feel seen. And maybe that’s something I want to give back — to talk about healing, fear, faith, work, womanhood, and all the things that sit between “thanks” and “reality.”
I’m off to consult Dr. Google about how to start one from home — after I finish this post.
What’s Next
I haven’t decided what the next story on SaralaLife will be — it’s a toss-up between “The Friends I’ve Lost” series and the beginning of my “Wine Chapter.”
Because honestly — it’s almost Christmas. And healing, like wine, is best when shared. 🍷
Gentle Reminder
It’s okay to be both grateful and afraid. Faith doesn’t mean we won’t feel fear — it means we keep walking anyway.
💭 If this chapter resonated with you, pour/make yourself a glass/cup of something comforting, light a candle, and remember: you’re not behind — you’re just in becoming.
Lately, when people ask me what I’ve been working on, the answer is simple — myself. Not in the neatly packaged way that sounds like a self-help headline, but in the messy, honest, heart-heavy way that real transformation demands.
I’ve been learning to release anger I held onto for too long, and fear that disguised itself as control. I’ve been letting go of ideologies that were never really mine — beliefs about what success should look like, how life should unfold, who I should be by now. It’s uncomfortable, humbling work to unlearn.
There’s been pain — the kind that comes with loss, both expected and unfair. I’ve sat in the thick of uncertainty, staring at plans that didn’t pan out and paths I had to abandon. I’ve faced the quiet shame of mistakes that echoed louder than they should, and learned to stop replaying them like a punishment.
But I’m still here. And I’m trusting — slowly — that what’s meant for me is already finding its way. I’m speaking more gently to myself, reminding myself that self-doubt may visit, but it doesn’t get to stay. That healing doesn’t have to be loud or visible. And that sometimes, the best work you’ll ever do is the quiet, unseen kind — the kind that rebuilds you from within.
I was raised as the daughter of a Hindu pundit — in a home where divinity had a rhythm. Thursdays meant temple, Sundays meant satsangh, and the year was punctuated by yagnas, pujas, and festival after festival. Faith wasn’t something you sought; it was something that lived in the walls, the incense, the rituals.
And yet, somewhere along the way, my connection to God grew quieter — more personal. I may not attend every service now, but I speak to God every day. Sometimes in gratitude, sometimes in exhaustion. My worship isn’t always wrapped in sandalwood and flowers; it’s often silent, in between emails, or on a walk with my dogs. But it is constant. It grounds me.
When I lived in the UK, Divali looked different. The grand processions and temple bells were replaced by the hum of a London flat. The weeks of fasting, prayer, and community took a softer, more solitary shape. I didn’t observe every festival, but Divali — Divali was non-negotiable.
It became my anchor. The one day I cleaned the house like my mother did. The one day the prayer felt most sincere. I made my own prasad, lit tea lights in quiet corners, and prayed alone — but never felt lonely. The glow of the deyas reminded me that light doesn’t need a crowd to matter.
Over the years, my celebrations have evolved. From filling deyas with oil to switching to wax and tea lights. From smudging my ceiling with smoke after an over-zealous havan (note to self: never again near the kitchen island) to learning how to keep the fire and faith alive — safely. From celebrating with a large family to sharing the rituals with my husband, who now fasts and joins me for our 6 p.m. havan, and to dressing up our dogs in their festive bandanas because joy deserves to be shared.
Each Divali feels different — but somehow, always the same. The same warmth, the same gratitude, the same chance to begin again. Some promises I’ve kept, some I’ve missed. But every year, I find myself whispering the same prayer: that I never lose sight of the light, even in my quietest seasons.
Divali, to me, isn’t just about religion — it’s about renewal. It’s about making space for meaning in the middle of modern life. In corporate boardrooms and client calls, in leadership and in love — Divali reminds me that faith looks different for everyone, and that’s okay. Just as we bring our individual strengths to work, we bring our own ways of connecting to the divine. What matters is the sincerity, not the form.
So this year, I’ll light my wax deyas and LEDs, offer my prayer, and give thanks — for work that fulfills me differently, for a home that feels like peace, and for the lessons learned in both reverence and laughter.
And when the night settles in, I’ll eat my ladoo, enjoy my roti, and smile at the soft glow of my tea lights. Because even after all these years, Divali still reminds me of this truth: No matter how life changes — the light always finds us.
“I no longer chase perfection in my prayers — I just light my lamps, whisper my gratitude, and trust the light to find me where I am.”
I carry shame like a badge of honour — with more power over me than it should have. For years, I thought holding onto it made me accountable, even disciplined. I told myself it was how I stayed grounded, how I avoided repeating mistakes.
But the truth is, shame doesn’t keep you humble; it keeps you small. It makes you apologise for simply being human. I’m learning to unlearn that — to trade shame for self-awareness, accountability for compassion, and guilt for growth.
It’s still a work in progress. Some days I wear it more lightly; other days, it clings. But I’m learning that healing isn’t about erasing the past — it’s about refusing to let it define your worth.
Do lazy days make you feel rested or unproductive?
For a long time my body and mind did not know how to process a day without work, a deadline, a project or task or even some high intensity exercise …a ‘lazy’ day.
My body was caught in burn out and survival mode which in itself meant I had to keep going, to be able to keep going.
It took many months to re-condition myself to see ‘rest’ days as a routine part of life – not a reward or some strange alien concept and to re learn how to just sit with myself, read, watch a movie or do whatever (or nothing) I deemed self care that day.
I’m not quite at feeling rested yet but I see the benefit of days softly spent now- ‘rot days’ in my body, mind and on my family. You can 100% be productive in a rest day as long as it is something that brings you overall joy and nourishes you instead of depleting you.
It’s sad that we have to work towards understanding ‘rest’ today but I now believe that no one will re-charge you, hold you, re-fuel you and give you grace, like yourself.
Lazy days are productive whatever it looks like for you. For me, it may be Pilates, an everything shower, a glass of wine and a book or moving from my bed to the sofa with a day of movies and tea and doggy snuggles.
When you think of the word “successful,” who’s the first person that comes to mind and why?
I think of me- not because of ego but I wake up each day, now, learning the lessons that need to be learnt, living with purpose rather than being in a constant race for another goal, validating my feelings on successes and failures and I keep moving ahead.
For a long time I was living to achieve the next goal as determined by society as normal and appropriate- I am learning to pivot and re-imagine what my future could look like; one where I thrive.
Success isn’t measured for me in money in the bank or titles but the peace I have within myself.
I launched this blog as a love letter to new beginnings — to the beauty of becoming, even when it means breaking first.
Here, you’ll find reflections from the in-between spaces of life: career pivots and quiet resets, laughter and loss, canines and cabernet. It’s about the courage to rewrite your story when the old version no longer fits, and to honour every chapter — even the ones that hurt.
My first post, “Resetting at 40: Rejection, Redirection, and the Gift of Beginning Again,” is where this next season begins. It’s raw and real — a reminder that rejection can be redirection, grief can become growth, and that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is start over.
So, pour a glass or make a cuppa, pull up a chair, and settle in. Here’s to life in chapters — imperfect, heartfelt, and deeply human.
Turning 40 wasn’t about arriving. It was about resetting. I was determined to embrace 40 with curiosity, an abundant mindset and with welcome gusto…because honestly I ran from so many parts of 30 in shame, sadness and fear despite my many wins.
For years, I measured my life by milestones — the next role, the next achievement, the next version of “enough.” But somewhere between chasing and arriving, I lost the quiet clarity of asking myself: What do I actually want now?
This new decade feels different. It’s less about striving and more about becoming. It’s about coming home — to myself, my truth, and the lessons life insisted I learn the hard way.
🌿 On Rejection and Redirection
If my thirties taught me anything, it’s that rejection isn’t always a loss — it’s often redirection dressed in disguise. But this lesson took a while because it was easier to lean into my conditioning that “I wasn’t enough” or that “something was wrong with me”; that I was “unlovable” rather than to realize that I simply should not be sitting in a place that isn’t for me.
The job I didn’t get, the friendship that faded, the plan that unraveled — each felt like a collapse at the time. But looking back, I see how each “no” gently nudged me closer to what was meant for me. And I hope to share on each of these chapters further as we start this journey together. The truth is I am messy but sometimes messy things happen to us too…how do we validate our pain, give it grace and find a way forward more whole than the part we have lost.
I used to resist the closed doors, standing at them too long, hoping they’d open again. Now, I’ve learned to whisper thank you and walk away; and sometimes the “take 2” on the hello and goodbye may be a little louder when I walk back to the closed door to try again because progress isn’t always linear. Sometimes the universe removes what we can’t release ourselves…and when we fight it not only does it take longer but the challenge and lesson grows harder and heavier.
Rejection has become my recalibration. It’s how I’ve learned to trust that what is meant for me won’t miss me — even if it takes a different form than I imagined. And this is the biggest and hardest lesson I am still coming to terms with- sometimes what is best for you is in a form that you never imagined or re-imagined.
🕊️ On People and Seasons
It’s taken me four decades to accept that not everyone is meant to stay. People are seasonal, and so are we. If you didn’t stay, it was because I am unlovable and not enough… and these devious thoughts have in fact found some validity when I have been my most vulnerable and someone has walked away…but the lesson is, in that moment it may not be about you.
Some enter to remind us of joy. Some challenge us to grow. Some break our hearts open so we can heal properly this time- I am still in the break our hearts open era for some relationships if I’m honest and I could do a whole series on the pain of losing female friendships.
And some — the rare ones — stay long enough to see all our seasons and love us through each one…For me, I haven’t had that many rare ones and in fact I recently asked my therapist how many friends one person could actually lose. But the rare ones that remain see my light and are equally happy to give me truth when I need to be humbled. So at 40, quality over quantity is a new truth.
I used to cling tightly, afraid of endings. Now I see that letting go is not failure; it’s wisdom. Not everyone can walk with you to your next chapter — and that’s okay. Some goodbyes are sacred acts of self-preservation.
🔥 On Grief, Anger, and the Fire That Refines
There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t announce itself — the grief of dreams that die quietly, the grief of outgrowing versions of yourself that once fit perfectly.
I’ve learned that grief isn’t just about loss; it’s about transformation. It softens you in some places and hardens you in others. It reminds you of what matters, and strips away what doesn’t.
And anger — I’ve stopped pretending it doesn’t belong. Anger has its place. It’s fuel, if you know how to use it. For far too long I was afraid of feeling angry, because it was “something bad”, it meant I was causing an issue and it was unproductive. But that meant shutting off so many parts of myself on a quest to “push forward”… pushing forward into spaces not for me and shrinking myself to be in places I thought I needed to be. I’m learning to let it sharpen my clarity, not cloud my judgment. To let it power change, not pettiness- although let me tell you, sometimes a little petty feels SO good- yes, yes, this is a safe space of becoming, we don’t need to be there yet. To let it remind me that I care deeply — and that caring is never weakness.
🌺 On the Art of the Reset
Forty is not a finish line. It’s a threshold.
It’s the decade of refinement — where I stop seeking permission and start granting it to myself. Where I choose peace over pace, purpose over perfection, and connection over comparison.
This reset isn’t about reinventing who I am — it’s about remembering her. The woman who loves deeply, leads with courage, and keeps learning to begin again, even when it hurts.
✨ Here’s to What’s Next
If there’s one thing I know now, it’s this: life doesn’t move in straight lines. It circles back, pauses, surprises, and stretches us until we see what we’re made of.
So here’s to new beginnings at 40. To rejection that reroutes us. To anger that ignites purpose. To grief that grows grace. To people who stay — and to those who don’t. And to the quiet courage it takes to start over, one chapter, one glass, one breath at a time.
At 40, I am truly restarting my whole life’s purpose and strategy, but I am working from a place of all the experience I have had before- definitely a “net positive” position. That said, it does not mean it isn’t hard and I don’t wonder about how far behind I may be falling. One true lesson I have learnt in the year of 39 into 40…for every day I did not know how I would survive, I have had two where I have thrived and I am here to tell the tale.
Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage 