I have a vast collection of shells, many of which I didn’t even have to look for; they simply washed up at my feet, poking at my ankles, nudging my attention. Those that tend to just appear are always varying degrees of flawed. Their color will have smudged, they’ll be cracked down the middle, have pointy edges, or sometimes even disintegrate upon touch. These always end up being my favorite ones. The people who have floated into my life are so much like these favorite shells. They’ve been battered by the waves, split through their core, faded, missing pieces of themselves. Yet, they still manage to find their way to the shore, reaching for the warmth of the sun, offering up their hearts again and again. We find ourselves when we find those whose shells match our own.