Perfectly Imperfect: A Lesson from the Shoreline

For the past three months, I’ve been walking the beautiful beaches of the Dominican Republic. There’s something about this place—the rhythm of the ever-changing waves, the towering palm trees swaying in the breeze, the richness of the culture—that has slowed me down in a way I did not know how to do before nor did I realize how much I needed to slow down.

And as I walk, I reflect.

I bring my thoughts, reflections, questions,  my disappointments, hurts, pain,, and my hopes, dreams, and desires. … and I lay them before Jesus.
Or at least, I try to.

Because if I’m honest - full surrender doesn’t come easily to me.

————

Somewhere along the way, my beach walks became more than just walks.

They became a search for seashells,  sea glass, sea life. For something beautiful hidden along the shoreline. This has  become one of my favorite parts of the day.

It slows me down and pulls me into the present moment—away from the ache of the past and the quiet anxiety about the future. As I scan the sand and the crashing waves, I find myself more fully in the moment, something I realize I am not familiar with - just being.

Sometimes there is a fleeting race with the crashing waves—Can I grab that shell before the next wave crashes in? Most of the time… it’s just a rock and I get soaked for no reason.

But still—I search.

———-

If I’m really honest, I’m not just searching for any shell. I’m searching for the perfect one. And when I find a beautiful shell, I hold it for a moment…but then I keep looking.

Maybe there’s a bigger one. A better one. A more perfect one.

One day, I found it. The largest shell I had seen yet on this beach.

But it was broken. Not shattered. Not ruined. Just… imperfect.

And my first instinct?

To toss it back.

———-

But something made me stop. I turned it over in my hand. Looked at it from another angle.

And I realized… this shell had a story.

How many waves had it been tossed in? How many times had it been turned, pressed, shaped, and refined before it landed at my feet? Was i the first person to hold this shell? How was it formed? How old was it? Where had it all travelled in the vast ocean floor?

It wasn’t perfect. But it was beautiful. And suddenly, it didn’t feel like I was holding a broken shell.

It felt like I was holding a reflection of life.

———

How often do we do this? We look at our lives…our stories…our past…

And we label the imperfect parts as failures. We wait for everything to come together—to feel whole, healed, “put together”—before we allow ourselves to truly live. Before we allow ourselves to feel joy. Peace. Contentment.

But what if life was never meant to be perfect?

What if the beauty is actually found in the places that feel worn down… stretched… and reshaped?

———

I’ve spent so much of my life striving. Striving to be the perfect woman who loves Jesus. The perfect mom. The perfect wife. The perfect friend. The perfect coach. The perfect counsellor. The perfect everything.

The result - sheer exhaustion and depletion.  Over and over again, I’ve found myself sitting in the weight of shame, asking:

Why can’t I get this right? Why can’t I be… better? Perfect?

And maybe the answer is this: Maybe I was never meant to be.

——-

God has been gently teaching me something these past few months.

Surrender.

Not the kind we say with our words…but the kind we live out with open hands. The kind that releases control of outcomes. The kind that lets go of needing everything to make sense.
The kind that trusts Him—even when life feels uncertain, unfair, or unfinished. The kind that hands it all back to Jesus. 

And it’s hard.

It’s really hard.

But as I’ve begun to surrender more, I’ve noticed something shifting deep within me. A peace. A quiet, steady peace that doesn’t come from circumstances finally lining up…from life suddenly becoming perfect. 

But from letting go.

“A peace that passes all understanding.”

———

I held that imperfect shell a little longer. Turned it over again. And this time… I didn’t see what was missing. I saw what remained.

Strength.
Texture.
Character.
Story.

Beauty.

I tucked it into my hand and kept walking. Not to throw it back…But to take it home. Because suddenly, it wasn’t less valuable. It was more.

———

That shell now sits in my collection. And it stands out more than the others. Not because it’s flawless…But because it isn’t.

It reminds me that life will toss us around. That we will have moments where we feel broken, worn down, or cast aside.

But that doesn’t mean we’ve lost our beauty. It might actually mean we’re being shaped. Refined. Made into something deeper than perfection could ever produce.

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What if we stopped striving for perfection…And started embracing the beauty in imperfection?

What if we allowed ourselves to live now—not when everything feels “fixed,” but right in the middle of the mess?

Because maybe…It’s in the messy, imperfect places that we find the deepest peace.
The truest surrender. The most unexpected beauty.

As I walk the shoreline now, I still search. But something has shifted. I’m not just looking for the perfect shell anymore.I’m learning to recognize the beauty in the ones that have been tossed and turned through the waves.

And maybe…

That’s where real life begins.