When I first arrived in Mexico, Día de Muertos was something I had only seen in movies or read about in books. I thought it was just a holiday with costumes and colorful skulls. But my first real encounter showed me it was so much more, a celebration that blends memory, love, and life in a way I had never experienced before.
When I first heard about Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead), my first reaction was skepticism, maybe even a little fear. Where I come from, death is something we often avoid talking about. It’s surrounded by silence, sadness, but rarely celebration.
So, the idea of honoring death with color, music, and feasts felt almost impossible to imagine.
In other parts of the world, there are similar traditions.
For example, Catholic cultures celebrate All Saints’ Day, while more secular countries might honor their loved ones with quieter gestures.
The origins of Día de Muertos trace back thousands of years to pre-Hispanic civilizations such as the Mexica, Maya, and Purépecha, who believed death was just another stage of existence. When the Spanish arrived with Catholic traditions, the indigenous rituals merged with All Saints’ and All Souls’ Day, giving birth to what we now know as this vibrant celebration of life and memory.
The marigold flower of the dead. This golden-orange bloom thrives in the central regions of Mexico, where the climate is perfect for its cultivation.
Its fragrance and color are unmistakable.
So meaningful is the cempasúchil that it has become not only a spiritual symbol to guide souls back home but also part of Mexican gastronomy in infusions, desserts, and even craft beers. For me, it feels like the emblem of the tradition, bright, warm, and full of life.
Beyond the flowers, what touched me deeply was the philosophy behind the tradition. Instead of seeing death as only a painful end, Mexicans view it as a reunion, a moment to share.
This perspective was completely new to me. In many cultures, death is hushed, hidden, and avoided. But here, it is awaited with anticipation, almost with happiness. It changed the way I see everything.
I embraced the tradition wholeheartedly.
Building my first altar felt like reconnecting with our loved ones. I placed their favorite food, their favorite drink, small objects that once brought them joy. And yes, I admit, I also enjoy tasting a little of the feast myself. It feels like a banquet for everyone, the living and the departed.
From mole, a rich, complex dish made of chiles and chocolate, to hot chocolate prepared from mexican cacao, to the iconic sugar skulls (calaveritas) decorated in dazzling colors, every bite carries memory and meaning.
Photos of loved ones remind us exactly who we are honoring. Pan de muerto and other favorite foods are placed so they can enjoy the flavors they once loved, and sometimes you’ll even see a glass of water to quench their thirst after the long journey.
Other details also tell a story: copal (incense) purifies the space, sugar elements represent the sweetness of life, and personal mementos bring back memories of hobbies, music, or anything that made each person unique.
These elements, along with candles, papel picado (cut paper), make up the symbols of the altar, each one representing a connection between worlds.
Even my friends and family have asked me to include details for their loved ones, pets, or anyone they want to remember with affection. It’s not just my life that changed; it’s the lives of those around me too.
Years later, I carry the lessons of Día de Muertos with me. It’s a reminder that life and death are not opposites, but part of the same cycle.
Those traditions, no matter where they come from, can transform the way we see the world. And that Mexico, with all its colors and voices, offers an experience unlike anywhere else in the world.
Now is an Inspiration for me:
NOVEMBER 1st and NOVEMBER 2nd
You can witness candlelit cemeteries in Michoacán, marvel at the monumental altars in Mexico City, or walk through villages where the streets themselves turn into rivers of marigolds.
Every region has its own unique way of celebrating, and every corner offers a chance to understand the tradition more deeply.
Día de Muertos is not one thing, it is many things. It is a parade in Mexico City, an altar in Mixcoac, a candlelit procession in Mérida, a festival in Xcaret, and a community gathering in Cozumel. Each version shows a different shade of the same truth: that remembering our loved ones keeps them alive, not just in memory, but in spirit.
Standing on Paseo de la Reforma in Mexico City, I watched the Día de Muertos parade pass by giant alebrijes, dancers in feathered headdresses, floats filled with marigolds, and music that seemed to pulse through the ground itself. It felt like the entire city came alive, honoring those who had passed while filling the streets with joy and color.
Later, I found myself in Mixquic, one of the oldest neighborhoods in the capital. Here, Día de Muertos looked different. It was intimate: families setting up ofrendas with candles, bread of the dead, and photos of loved ones. Neighbors walked from house to house, admiring altars, sharing tamales, telling stories. It was in Mixquic that I first felt the quiet power of memory, how each photo on an altar carried a story that would never be forgotten.
In Mérida, the experience took on another shade. The “Paseo de las Ánimas” filled the streets with candlelight, as thousands walked in procession dressed in traditional huipiles and guayaberas, faces painted like skulls, honoring their ancestors. It was beautiful, a river of light and devotion. I understood then that Día de Muertos changes from region to region, always the same in spirit but infinitely diverse in expression.
Visiting Xcaret during Día de Muertos was like stepping into a living museum. The festival brought together dances, music, rituals, and food from every corner of Mexico. I wandered through stalls tasting pan de muerto, listened to marimbas echoing in the night, and saw performances that felt both theatrical and deeply mexican. Xcaret was my crash course in the sheer variety of ways Mexico celebrates this tradition.
When I thought I had already seen the best of Día de Muertos, Cozumel showed me something different. Here, it feels more personal, more rooted in the island’s rhythm. Families decorate their homes, schools set up colorful ofrendas, and the main plaza fills with altars, dances, and music. You can stroll through, candle in hand, and feel the warmth of a community that remembers with joy.
Walk among the altars, taste the pan de muerto, light a candle, and feel the energy that only this tradition can bring. And if you’re looking for a place where the celebration feels both intimate and magical, Cozumel is waiting for you.
If you’d like to learn more about places to visit in Mexico during this time, or simply about the tradition itself, we’d be delighted to share our experiences.
Tell us: how do you celebrate remembrance in your culture?
Write to us at info@karencozumelrealtor.com we’d love to hear your story.
