I’m Sherry Dryja, a neurodiverse writer, creator, vegan baker, and theologian living in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood.
All in Personal Growth
Our trip to Mexico City started with walking tours, tacos, and ambition. It ended with a cold, a curtain, and a surprising lesson in letting go.
When I showed up for a flamenco dinner in Seville, I wasn’t expecting a life-altering moment. I was just trying not to cry into my tapas. But then she appeared—in the corner of a tiny bar, under twinkle lights and a “no moving during the show” rule—and reminded me, with every stomp and sweep of her arm, that I still had a body. And a choice.
A solo trip to Spain wasn’t the plan. But when my travel partner disappeared into work and I found myself wandering the Alhambra with only sun, stone, and disinterested cats for company, I learned something surprising about presence, perspective—and how a well-timed feline blink can feel like emotional support.
Sometimes I think we overcomplicate what it means to be human. We chase meaning, dig for purpose, try to transcend. But maybe the sacred isn’t buried. Maybe it’s already here.
I live in a high-rise soap opera with a rotating cast of eccentrics—and somehow, I’ve become the neighborhood’s unofficial archivist. Not with spreadsheets, but with felt.
Maybe I wasn’t Jesus. Maybe no one is. Or maybe we all are—not as saviors, but as hands and feet, as hearts capable of kindness, as people who, in whatever small ways we can, bring light into the world.
