Hi, I’m Sarala — Caribbean corporate strategist/executive woman writing honestly about power, identity, leadership, reinvention and emotional truth- and what it costs.
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.
“I wouldn’t relive a single chapter, because every scar, stumble, and spark shaped the woman I am — proud, wiser, and still becoming.”
“Is there an age I’d relive?” There are so many pockets I could choose — moments where I made a decision, or didn’t… paths taken or left behind. But truthfully, every experience — the beautiful and the brutal — shaped me into the woman I am today. And in this moment, I can say I’m proud of who I’ve become, both personally and professionally.
We’re always starting (and restarting) from a place of net positive, because our experiences are already in the bank. Sure, there are so many ‘do-overs’ I could wish for — but without them, I wouldn’t have gained the lessons I now hold close.
Even the most meaningful moments—those I treasure deeply—sometimes feel better preserved in memory. Because no do-over can ever bring back the magic of ‘the first time.’ The wonder, the spontaneity, the rawness of living it without knowing the outcome… that’s what makes it unforgettable. So even the best parts, I wouldn’t want to relive—only revisit through reflection, with gratitude.
On my worst days, when I didn’t know what was next or how I’d make it through — I did. Whether it was faith, fate, God, or just choice — I did. And I’m wiser for the pain and grief, and I bloom brighter for every laugh that followed.
“Some tears were lessons, some were release — but every drop helped me grow.”“And still, I bloomed — louder, lighter, wiser. Joy always found its way back.”
If you have to put on a show to fit in — especially at the cost of the people who genuinely care for you — it isn’t worth it.
We are all enough. Not less than. Not better than. Just enough.
The moment you start performing to feel secure or to appear like you “fit in,” you start drifting away from yourself. Authenticity isn’t about perfection; it’s about peace — being able to show up as you are without needing to shrink or shine unnaturally to be accepted.
The truth is, you don’t lose people when you stop performing. You lose the audience that was never meant to stay — and you find your people, the ones who love you for who you really are.
Learning to love the body that’s been carrying me all along.
At 40, with a thyroid that needs daily care and a body that doesn’t always cooperate, I’m learning that self-image is not a straight path. This post isn’t about diets or confidence hacks — it’s about the uncomfortable work of looking in the mirror, unpacking old words, and finding peace in the reflection that looks back.
Lately, I’ve been struggling — again — with my “hormone tummy.” That stubborn bloat that makes me feel less than.
As a newly minted 40-year-old with an underactive thyroid (hello, daily meds) and a picky-eater vegetarian diet, I know my body is dealing with more than just food choices. But still — it’s hard.
So I decided to do the brave, uncomfortable thing: take it to therapy.
Now, I consider myself articulate. I can talk about grief, burnout, even trauma — but this? Saying the words, “I want to talk about feeling unattractive or down about how I look,” felt raw. Almost shameful.
The “Ascribed List”
In that session, we unpacked conditioning — who told me (or didn’t tell me) that I was pretty, who compared me, who praised or ignored. We spoke about this invisible “ascribed list” — the list of what I think I should be to feel attractive.
And honestly, I couldn’t pinpoint a time when someone told me I wasn’t pretty. But I also couldn’t recall much positive reinforcement either. That silence leaves its own kind of echo.
Then came my “aha” moment: my picky eating. My therapist shared that, in some cases, children develop picky eating habits as a way to control something when everything else feels uncontrollable.
That clicked for me. My childhood pickiness wasn’t “bad behavior.” It was my way of having agency when life felt uncertain. The relief I felt in that realization was enormous — to know there was a reason, not just “something wrong with me.”
Now the real work is asking: why do I still live this way as an adult, when no one is taking away my autonomy anymore?
The Weight We Carry
This isn’t the same as imposter syndrome — though they both live in the same emotional neighborhood. For many women, our relationship with ourselves is layered: hormones, diet, stress, self-perception. Our bodies speak the stories our minds don’t always say out loud.
Take my little dog, Isabella. She’s been unwell lately — pancreatitis. The vet gently said that stress could be a trigger. And it struck me: she gets sick after long boarding stays, when she’s been unsettled. Stress lingers. It manifests.
We’re not that different. We are living, breathing ecosystems — carrying emotions in our bodies, processing change in our skin, our stomachs, our sleep.
The Words That Linger
Years ago, in a toxic relationship, an ex told me he wasn’t attracted to me anymore because I “looked like a pumpkin.”
Those words stuck — like cobwebs in the far corner of the ceiling that you only notice when the light hits just right. They live there quietly, until a bad body-image day turns the light on again.
We carry so much weight that isn’t ours — trying to control what we can so we “achieve” what we think we should. We hide our shame and call it discipline. We silence our pain and call it strength.
But all that pretending — it’s exhausting. And isolating.
What Really Matters
When I hit a career pivot, I felt completely lost. For so long, my identity was tied to my job — and when that changed, I questioned my worth. Some “friends” faded. Others judged quietly.
And yet, as I built this softer, more intentional life — focusing on health, healing, and balance — I thought this would be my glow-up era. So what does it say about me if my tummy is puffy?
Maybe it says I’m human. That my body — this body — has carried me through everything.
The stress. The grief. The laughter. The love.
Maybe that’s what the glow-up actually is: the grace to love ourselves in the in-between.
The Mirror and the Light
Life is short. Precious. Unpredictable.
We will feel “less than.” We will struggle. We will stare in the mirror and wonder where our confidence went. And that’s okay.
We can hold space for both gratitude and grief, confidence and doubt. Healing and humanity can coexist.
So today, I’m reminding myself — and you — that the light we shine doesn’t come after the dark. It comes through it.
And maybe, just maybe, that little hormone tummy isn’t my enemy. It’s my reminder that I’m still here. Living. Learning. Becoming.
✨ If a genie ever showed up mid-latte, here’s what I’d wish for:
A wardrobe that edits itself — pieces that know when I need confidence, comfort, or a little drama.
A cup that refills to match my mood — cappuccino for clarity, wine for wonder, and something bold when life calls for courage.
The ability to talk to animals — imagine morning pep talks with your dog, gossiping parrots, or life advice from a wise old sea turtle.
Maybe wishes aren’t about magic lamps after all — maybe they’re about giving ourselves permission to want ease, joy, and a little everyday enchantment. ✨
Some Sundays are simply meant to refill your soul — the kind that start with a spin-sculpt class, sneak in a three-mile jog, a lingering lunch with your favorite human, and end with the kitchen looking like a pasta crime scene.
Yesterday was one of those days.
After meal-prep mayhem, we found ourselves stretched out by the pool, sun-kissed and relaxed, ending the evening with The Reluctant Traveler — Eugene Levy’s beautiful awkwardness was the perfect soundtrack to a day that reminded me how lovely ordinary moments can be.
Today, I woke up recharged — grateful for my little household and the rhythm of a Sunday that had movement, mess, laughter, and love in equal measure.
🐶 The Canine Chronicles
Let’s talk about the real rulers of the household: George and Isabella.
George, our distinguished 11-year-old pug, is a gentleman through and through — calm, loyal, expressive, and just vocal enough to remind you who’s boss. He came into our lives as an engagement gift from my husband — my first “small breed” dog and, truthfully, my first real lesson in unconditional love packed into a snorting, snoring, four-legged bundle.
Then came Isabella, my spirited little miniature pinscher who arrived in our lives in less-than-ideal circumstances — timid, tick-covered, living in filth, and barely strong enough to stand. We “rescued” her (read: paid for her freedom) from a pet shop, and she promptly taught me the meaning of chaos, resilience, and devotion.
That first week, I sat on the bathroom floor and cried in frustration — she’d walk half a centimeter off the pee pad, pee, then step back on it to watch me clean up. The audacity! Pure, unfiltered Min Pin energy.
They say pets mirror their owners, and I’m convinced Isabella is me in dog form: feisty, stubborn, small but mighty, and occasionally impossible.
George, though, is balance personified — steady, loving, protective, and probably plotting his next shrimp heist (he once projectile vomited after stealing one; we’ve since learned our lesson). Together, they’ve carried me through some of my brightest days and darkest nights.
They are my family. My constants. My teachers in patience, empathy, and what it means to be fully present.
🍷 The Cabernet (Well, Beaujolais) Chapter
The irony isn’t lost on me that my blog is named Canines and Cabernet when Cabernet actually gives me acid reflux. But we pivot!
Yesterday called for a softer red — a Beaujolais-Villages Gamay — smooth, round, and delightfully easy to sip. There’s something comforting about wine that doesn’t demand attention — it simply complements the moment.
I’d describe it as the liquid equivalent of a salted caramel sourdough brownie (don’t ask me why — it just fits- knock knock, The Culture Co.?). My husband, who doesn’t share my wine obsession, opted for a Vodka and Perrier, and somehow, that combination — wine, laughter, music, and a slightly tipsy pasta chef — made for the perfect Sunday pairing.
For my hesitant wine drinkers: Gamay is your friend. It’s the approachable cousin of the heavier reds — smooth without the bitter aftertaste, easy enough for a casual afternoon, yet classy enough for any table.
🍝 Pasta, Parenthood & Presence
Between simmering pesto, chopping veggies, and trying not to brutalize song lyrics, I realized — this is the good stuff. The mundane, messy, music-filled moments that we often overlook while chasing the next big thing.
My dogs watching us cook. My husband’s laugh as I got lyrics wrong and my pesto exploded on my counter. My glass of wine, half-finished, resting next to a pile of dishes ( are you a wash as you go personality?).
In those moments, life felt full. It wasn’t always so; and that’s for another chapter.
I don’t know if George and Isabella will always be my only babies or if I’ll ever be blessed with a two-legged one — but right now, this is my little universe, and I’m so grateful for it. They remind me daily that love doesn’t need to be loud to be real. Sometimes it’s snoring beside you or staring up at you with complete trust at 2 a.m. after a questionable floor-licking episode.
🎃 A Toast to the Good Days
So here’s to Sundays that blend health and indulgence, laughter and laziness, fur and family. To Beaujolais instead of Cabernet. To pasta, patience, and pug snores. To gratitude in the small, silly things.
It’s spooky season — Halloween, I see you — but for now, I’m just thankful for the ordinary magic that made this Sunday feel like a blessing.
If I had to describe a family member, the one that resonates deeply in my being is my maternal grandfather… He was a breath of fresh air, my joy and anchor as a child. From tasting whiskey after he dipped his pinky finger in his glass, to running away for Chinese food on an afternoon- jumping into his white Mazda we could conquer the world. A gentleman of principle- I never heard him raise his voice, but not because he was weak- he commanded respect and attention with his compassion and understanding. He truly saw me- even then- the wild child with the bold voice who would not conform. It’s such a privilege to look back on someone and only be filled with warmth of their presence. In what was an otherwise rigid childhood he was my pocket of joy.
Ironically, I was rewatching old episodes of Bones while jogging yesterday — the episode featured an astronaut fighting to regain his health just to return to space, and a “squint” (lab rat) who actually bought a ticket to go. Cue Savage Garden’s “I’ll fly you to the moon and back…”
But truthfully? There are some mysteries of life that should remain just that — mysteries. If I ever had the means to go to outer space, I’d like to think that I’d leave that adventure to the professionals. I’d rather spend that money on things that bring me real joy and meaning: supporting no-kill shelters, helping those in need, nurturing my passions, and yes — enjoying more of this incredible planet we already have.
Why chase the moon when there’s still so much of Earth I haven’t seen, understood, or even allowed myself to experience? In this chapter of my life, I’m more interested in deep connection, authentic joy, and leaving performative living behind. Not everything that’s possible is necessary — and not everything that’s extraordinary is worth escaping gravity for.
🌿 Chapter One: When the Friendship Was Only Real in My Mind “The hardest heartbreaks don’t always come from romance — sometimes they come from the friends we thought would stay forever.”
Who hasn’t felt the quiet ache of a friendship lost? It’s a pain like no other — sharp yet shapeless, familiar yet bewildering. The heartbreak of friendship can trigger its own kind of grief. It’s not the romantic kind that society gives you permission to wail about; it’s the quiet unraveling of something that once felt safe, nourishing, and true — until you realize maybe it only existed in your mind. This is the story of one of my first heartbreaks in the chapter of my thirties. Not the deepest wound, but one that left a lasting mark. One that, now through therapy and healing, I can finally look at with more clarity— and with enough distance to see my own reflection in the story too.
The Friendship I Thought I Had For years, I believed I’d found a true friend. To some around us, this person was known for being controlling, even a bully. But to me, they were warm and welcoming. I chose to see that side — because the unhealed version of me needed love and validation, even if it came dressed in dominance. I showed up for this friend. Never went empty-handed to their home. Left mine to help with theirs. Advocated for them, supported them, thought we had something mutual — something family-like. And then one day, came the text: “We need to talk. In person.” No context, no hint. Just an invitation to what would become one of the most painful evenings of my adult life.
The Backyard Conversation I remember being led through the side gate into the backyard — so as not to disturb the household. I sat, unsuspecting, until the “charges” began to unfold like a list rehearsed in advance: • I had never invited them to my (then tiny) home. • I didn’t share my personal problems with them. • They made vegetarian food and shared their best wines, yet I hadn’t reciprocated enough. • They’d heard updates about my life from others, not from me. Each statement landed like a stone. I sat in disbelief — shocked, hurt, confused. My instinct wasn’t to defend, but to flee. The little girl in me — the one who’d always tried to make herself small and agreeable — wanted to hide. Driving home through tears, I called another friend who quietly helped me get back safely to my husband- who would later try to balance his own fury at the situation with comforting me. I was shattered, questioning everything: my worth, my instincts, my boundaries.
Seeing My Own Part With time — I’ve come to see that while the delivery was cruel, some of what was said wasn’t entirely wrong. I was guarded. I did keep my private life close. I often tried to earn connection through doing. And I expected them to know that I cared. That doesn’t justify how it ended, but it does remind me that in every relationship, even the painful ones, there’s a mirror somewhere. And healing means being brave enough to look into it.
The Real Lessons Beneath the Pain That conversation taught me lessons I couldn’t name back then — but healing has a way of illuminating the dark corners.
People show you who they are. Believe them the first time. I ignored the red flags others saw because I wanted to believe my experience was special. It wasn’t.
How someone treats others is how they will eventually treat you. Charm and control can share the same room — but only one builds real friendship.
Boundaries are love — not walls. If someone tells you that a friendship requires you to overshare your private life, that’s not closeness; that’s control.
You can only show up in the way you’re able. If your effort isn’t enough for someone else, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed.
Grace is strength. My friend was clearly hurt too. But not every hurt must be healed together. Sometimes, release is the only respectful answer.
Healing and Reframing Friendship It took years before I could be around that person again without the sting of sadness. And when I finally could, I realized something vital: Two people can live the same friendship and walk away with entirely different stories — and that’s okay. Today, my friendships look different…and not by design…but by fate after many other losses and lessons; and in one or two pockets of pure magic and connection. They’re not mirrors reflecting what I want to see. They’re windows — open, honest, sometimes messy, but safe. I have friends who’ve seen me at my worst — black-out crying, ugly tears, regret-drunk grief — and they love me still.
Those friendships aren’t about constant contact or shared secrets. They’re about respect, empathy, and space to just be — without performance or expectation. And as we journey perhaps I will share about some who have seen me at my worst and… no longer love me.
What I Know Now Looking back, I can hold both truths: There was love in that old friendship, and there was pain. There was laughter, and there were lessons. It wasn’t all false — but it wasn’t all healthy either. And now, when I meet new people, I try to lead with the healed parts of me. I remind myself that being private isn’t being cold. That being discerning isn’t being distant. And that the friendships worth keeping will never ask you to shrink to fit inside them. Sometimes, losing what you thought was real is how you finally make space for what truly is.
Closing Thought: “Not every loss is a wound. Some are gentle releases — the soul’s way of making room for lighter love.”
✨ About SaralaLife A Caribbean woman learning, unlearning, and becoming — one chapter at a time. Writing about careers, courage, canines, cabernet, and the quiet moments that change us.
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.
