A Mexican Perspective on Love, Memory, and the Beauty of Día de Muertos in San Miguel de Allende
The first time someone asked me why Mexicans celebrate death, I remember being genuinely surprised.
I was working for a multinational company, in one of my first international roles, when a foreign colleague asked me a seemingly simple question:
“Why do you Mexicans celebrate death?”
It caught me off guard. Not because the question was inappropriate, but because I had never thought about Día de Muertos that way.
I was born and raised in Mexico. My family has been Mexican for generations, and Day of the Dead has always been part of our lives. It was such a natural, familiar tradition that I had never considered how someone from another culture might interpret it.
And suddenly, I realized something I had never needed to explain before.
For me, Day of the Dead has never been about celebrating death. It has always been about celebrating life.
It All Begins with Memories
When I think about Día de Muertos, my earliest memories aren’t of sadness, cemeteries, or saying goodbye.
They’re of my grandmother.
I remember going with her to the markets toward the end of October, gathering everything we needed to prepare our family’s ofrenda, the traditional altar dedicated to loved ones who have passed away.
Colorful papel picado, vibrant marigolds, fresh fruit, sugar and chocolate skulls, delicate tissue paper, and, of course, pan de muerto, the traditional sweet bread prepared for the occasion.
There was something wonderful about those preparations. The markets were full of color, familiar scents, and the excitement that comes with getting ready for a family celebration.
Back at home, we would decide whom to honor that year. In our family, we didn’t necessarily include every relative who had passed away. Instead, we chose a few loved ones, often those we had lost more recently, and created a space especially for them.
We placed their photographs alongside the things that made them unique.
Their favorite foods. Something they loved doing. Perhaps a musical instrument, a handmade object, or a small personal treasure that immediately brought them to mind.
Every detail had a purpose.
The ofrenda wasn’t simply a beautifully decorated altar. It was a portrait of someone’s life, lovingly assembled through the things that had once brought them happiness.
And the most beautiful part was that we created it together.
A Family Tradition, Much Like Decorating a Christmas Tree
One of the things I’ve always found interesting is how much preparing an ofrenda reminds me of decorating a Christmas tree.
Of course, the traditions have entirely different meanings. But the feeling of bringing the family together to prepare something beautiful is remarkably similar.
Everyone participates. We gather the decorations, arrange the flowers, prepare special dishes, and share stories as we put everything together.
There’s excitement in choosing every detail, and a certain happiness in seeing it all come to life.
The difference is that instead of decorating a tree for Christmas, we’re creating a special place to welcome back, symbolically, the people we’ve loved and lost.
And as we place their photographs, prepare their favorite foods, and remember the little things that made them unique, something wonderful happens: the conversation naturally turns to the happiest memories we shared with them.
There’s laughter, affection, and sometimes a little nostalgia. But above all, there’s love.
For me, preparing an ofrenda has always been one of those beautiful family traditions that brings generations together.
It’s something we look forward to, not something we approach with sadness.
Of course, as a little girl, there was one particular aspect of the tradition that tested my patience.
The food.
Some of the most delicious dishes would be placed on the ofrenda, right in front of me, and I wasn’t allowed to eat them.
I found this terribly frustrating.
My grandmother would explain that we had to leave the food untouched because, according to our tradition, the souls of our loved ones would return during those special days to enjoy the essence and flavors of the dishes they had loved in life.
So we had to wait.
Today, that childhood impatience makes me smile.
Because behind that small ritual was something much more meaningful: even after someone is gone, we continue making room for the things they loved.
A Family Picnic at the Cemetery
There’s another part of Día de Muertos that can seem particularly surprising to people experiencing it for the first time.
Visiting the cemetery.
In many cultures, cemeteries are places associated almost exclusively with silence, grief, and solemn reflection.
But in Mexico, during Day of the Dead, they can also become places of family gatherings.
I remember bringing some of the food we had prepared and sitting together beside the graves of our loved ones.
We would eat, talk, and share stories.
Someone would remember a funny moment. Someone else would tell a story that perhaps the younger members of the family had never heard.
We laughed. We reminisced. Sometimes, naturally, there was a little sadness.
In many ways, it felt like a family picnic, except that one of the most important guests was no longer physically sitting beside us.
And yet, that person was present in every conversation.
What I remember most is that we didn’t spend our time talking about how someone had died.
We talked about how they had lived.
Their personality. Their sense of humor. The things they loved. The moments we shared and the countless ways they had shaped our lives.
Looking back, I realize those gatherings were also a way of preserving our family history.
A way of passing memories from one generation to the next, keeping alive the stories of people whom some of the younger family members may never have had the chance to meet.
Editorial illustration inspired by an actual photograph of Casa Mariposa, a property currently listed for sale by Zona San Miguel Real Estate in San Miguel de Allende. The Día de Muertos decorations, family gathering, and festive atmosphere have been digitally created for illustrative purposes.
San Miguel de Allende: Beyond the Colors
Perhaps that’s why Día de Muertos in San Miguel de Allende feels so special to me.
Every year, the city becomes a beautiful expression of this deeply rooted Mexican tradition.
Marigolds, colorful decorations, elaborate ofrendas, and the extraordinary atmosphere of the historic streets create something truly memorable.
For someone visiting San Miguel for the first time, the celebration can feel almost theatrical.
And I understand why.
Mexico has a remarkable ability to express its culture through art, food, flowers, music, and color.
But beyond all that beauty lies something far more intimate.
Every photograph on an altar represents a life.
Every favorite dish carries a memory.
Every flower is part of a gesture of love.
And every family celebrates in its own way, influenced by generations of personal stories and traditions.
That’s what I find particularly meaningful about Día de Muertos.
It isn’t a tradition created to be observed. It’s a tradition meant to be lived.
And when visitors look beyond its extraordinary visual beauty, they begin to discover something profoundly human about the way we Mexicans remember the people we love.
For those who have chosen to make San Miguel de Allende their home, understanding traditions like this offers something particularly valuable: a deeper connection to the culture, the families, and the memories that give this extraordinary city its identity.
Because San Miguel’s beauty has never been limited to its architecture, its cobblestone streets, or its remarkable artistic heritage.
So much of its character lives in the traditions that continue to bring people together, generation after generation.
Remembering How They Lived, Not How They Died
Over the years, I’ve often thought back to that conversation with my foreign colleague.
Today, I understand why he asked that question.
From the outside, a celebration dedicated to those who have passed away may seem contradictory.
How can there be flowers, food, music, laughter, and joy surrounding something as painful as death?
But from my perspective, having grown up in Mexico, there has never been a contradiction.
Because Día de Muertos doesn’t pretend that losing someone isn’t painful. It doesn’t erase grief or diminish the sadness of their absence.
Instead, it reminds us that our connection to the people we love doesn’t necessarily end when their lives do.
It continues in the stories we tell.
In the recipes we still prepare.
In the songs that remind us of them.
In the traditions we repeat, sometimes without even realizing that someone, many years ago, was the person who taught them to us.
It continues in the laughter that follows a familiar family story we’ve heard a hundred times before.
And it continues in the small, everyday ways the people we’ve loved remain part of who we are.
So when someone asks me today why Mexicans celebrate death, my answer is simple.
We don’t celebrate death. We celebrate the lives of those who were part of ours.
We celebrate the beautiful moments we shared, the memories we created, and the ways those people changed our lives.
Most of all, we celebrate the privilege of having shared a part of our own lives with theirs.
Because perhaps the most beautiful way to remember someone who is no longer with us is to continue celebrating everything that made their life extraordinary.
And to me, that is what Día de Muertos has always been about.
Evelyn Jiménez, Co-Founder, Zona San Miguel Real Estate
Day of the Dead: We Don’t Celebrate Death. We Celebrate Life.