from perfect to practical: learning to let go on the water

I am a perfectionist. In recovery, more or less.

It used to be a badge of honor - that is, until I moved onto a boat.

Today, while doing a deep clean and checking off some of the “smaller” boat projects from our never-ending list, I let my mind wander. It struck me that something as simple as vacuuming the cockpit would have taken me twice as long just a few years ago. Back then, I had to get every single speck of dust - even the one stuck under the teak grate that neither my fingers nor the vacuum could reach. Nobody else knew it was there. But I did.

I have a love-hate relationship with perfectionism. It’s got its place in the world, but boat life isn’t one of them.

There’s a fine line between doing something well, doing something well enough, and doing something perfectly. Perfectionism has taken me far - it helped me gain early success in my career. It gave me a sense of control when life felt out of control. I remember scrubbing a bathroom mirror until it was spotless, and in that single pane of glass, I could almost pretend that everything else wasn’t falling apart.

The dopamine hit from a job well done? From looking back at something and admiring the exactness of it? From receiving a compliment on the quality of your work? Chef’s kiss! It’s satisfying, addictive even. And when you’re living with anxiety or depression, sometimes those tiny doses of accomplishment are the only things that keep you going.

But then one day, you do something imperfectly… and it’s fine.

WEIRD!

The world doesn’t fall apart. Your friends and family don’t stop loving you. Your boat still floats. It still sails. Maybe there are a few specks of dirt where you wish there weren’t. Maybe there’s a smear of sealant on the fairlead you repaired. But it’s done. It works. You move on.

Perfection is a construct anyway. An ever-moving bar we invent in our minds. One that’s propped up by social media, hustle culture, and the pressure to always present our most polished selves.

So where does my perfectionism come from?

There were unspoken pressures when I was growing up. I remember hearing people I trusted make cutting comments about others - things that stuck with me. I learned to avoid becoming the subject of those judgments at all costs. My codependent, controlling brain took over. I became skilled at navigating life, managing narratives, shaping how others saw me. I prioritized the image over the experience. I cared about seeming happy more than being happy.

Boat life has a way of stripping all that down - and replacing it with something else entirely: perplexity.

We’ve spent a good amount of time scratching our heads at things the previous owners of our boat did. Perplexing choices. Odd wiring. Mysterious sealant blobs in places they have no business being. And now, I have to laugh, because we’re adding our own layer of logic - our version of “good enough” - and someday, someone else might find it just as baffling.

Perfection is a moving target. Perplexity is practically guaranteed.

Working in the startup world, I’ve come to understand that perfection is often the enemy of progress. Sometimes, you just have to get your work out there to keep things moving. Imperfection becomes a game of calculated risk. Sometimes it means naming what’s not quite right so others are in the loop. Other times, it means simply acknowledging it to yourself—and moving on, because no one else will even notice or it won’t change the outcome. Either way, knowing where the imperfections are helps you anticipate downstream impact. It helps you decide where to address it - and where to let it go.

As I now venture into the world of global sailing racing, I feel my perfectionism creep back in. With each training, I put pressure on myself to be the best crew member. To be a peer leader. To make no mistakes on the crew assessment. To be liked by everyone on board. And I’ve got to check myself when I feel that creeping in.

There’s so much waste in perfection! If everybody likes me all the time I’ve wasted energy caring what others think. If I make a mistake I can’t waste time ruminating on what I should have said or should have done. The truth is, nobody else is lying awake thinking about my mistakes made throughout the day. Just me.

Through my Clipper Round the World training, I’ve learned:

If you see something, do something. If you do something, do it safely.

At no point (thank goodness) are we taught to do it perfectly. A perfect score on crew assessment during training doesn’t make a good crew member. And there’s no learning in perfection. Not only do we benefit from making mistakes ourselves, but also we have the benefit of learning from the mistakes of others. How cool is that?!

Some of my favorite moments on the water have come at the end of the day, talking through what went wrong. We reflect on mistakes, uncover blind spots, and explore different ways of approaching a challenge. There’s a deep sense of connection in that kind of honest debrief - shared growth, mutual understanding, and trust built through vulnerability. It’s in those conversations, not the quiet rumination, that fresh perspective takes root.

We’re all just figuring it out, one moment at a time. Doing the best we can in the moment. And that doesn’t always mean doing our absolute best - it just means showing up with what we have, today.

Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes it has to be.

So these days, I’m learning to trade perfection for presence. To find satisfaction in “done” instead of “flawless.” To trust that good enough can, in fact, be good.

That shift shows up everywhere - especially on our floating home. When something breaks (and something always does), perfection can’t be the goal. The goal is safe, functional, and done well enough to get us to the next anchorage. We do the best we can with what we’ve got: the tools on board, the weather window we’re working with, and the energy we have that day. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it’s a patch job. But it keeps us afloat. It gets us there.

That same mindset carries into who I strive to be as Clipper crew. I still catch myself wanting to be the most competent, the most helpful, the one who never messes up. But sailing - especially offshore, especially with a team - doesn’t reward perfection. It rewards adaptability. Self-awareness. Humility. And trust.

A good crew member doesn’t aim for flawless - they aim for safe, calm, reliable. They learn from their mistakes, support the people around them, and keep moving forward. That’s true whether you're in the middle of the Pacific or just trying to seal a leaking through hull without losing your sanity.

And maybe, over time, that becomes the mark of real growth: not how perfectly we perform, but how gracefully we recover - and how often we’re willing to try again.