“Beyond the Face Paint: Reconnecting with the Spirit of Día de Muertos”

Oaxaca during Día de Muertos is chaos wrapped in color. The streets swell with tourists, parades block the avenues, and the city hums with a kind of energy that’s both beautiful and exhausting. This year, I found myself feeling more overwhelmed than enchanted. Between the endless traffic, the constant sound of bands marching past, and the new wave of painted faces, flower crowns and the new James Bond movie style parade, it seemed more about spectacle than spirit, I couldn’t help but feel that something sacred was getting lost.

I grew up with Día de Muertos as something intimate — quiet evenings spent setting up the altar, sharing stories, lighting candles for those who came before us. As a child, my altar was small, and my only beloved souls waiting to be remembered were my pets. The first was my cat, Garincha, named after the famous football player. Later came others, each one loved and missed.

I used to imagine them finding their way back home through the scent of the cempasúchil, their little paws padding softly through the night to visit us. That illusion — that they might return, even for one night — felt a lot like the magic of Santa Claus. I would go to bed filled with hope, imagining that by morning, there would be some proof they had really come. My parents, knowing how much I believed, would empty the plates and cups we left for them, so that when I woke up, I’d find signs that the visiting spirits had eaten and drunk from what we’d prepared. Those small gestures made the night feel real — as if the boundary between worlds had truly opened for us.

That’s how I grew up thinking about Día de Muertos: a special night when those we love return, invisible but near, guided by candlelight, flowers, and memory.

But this year, as my hotels filled up, friends arrived, and work piled on, I told myself I simply didn’t have time. Maybe, I thought, I’d skip the altar this year. Maybe it was okay to take a break.

Then my son looked at me and said, almost indignantly, “We can’t not do the altar.” Something about the way he said it stopped me. So we went to the market together — weaving through crowds, past piles of cempasúchil, sugar skulls, and fresh bread. We picked out the marigolds with the strongest scent, bought candles, copal, and a few of my grandparent’s favorite things. Back home, we put on music and began to set everything up.

Somewhere between arranging the flowers and lighting the first candle, the chaos outside started to fade. It all made sense again. I remembered why we do this — not for tradition’s sake alone, but for love, for memory, for the invisible thread that ties us to those who are gone and for the precious time we spend with those we set up the altar with.

Bowie at the altar

A few days earlier, I’d been interviewed by Esben Daalgard for a documentary he´s working on called “My Friend Death??” And is a discussion about whether we can or cannot become friends with death. The questions he asked made me dig deeper into my own beliefs — how personal this tradition really is, and how differently we in Mexico view death. For us, it isn’t just an ending; it’s another form of presence. Our altars aren’t shrines of sadness, but of welcome. We don’t fear the dead — we invite them home.

Now, years later, my altar has grown. I still make a space for Garincha and my other pets, like Bowie my dog, does anybody remember Bowie?— Now I also welcome my grandparents, my favorite cousin Chris, my uncle Manolo — the coolest uncle of all — and Doug, my beloved father figure from my time in California. Every November, I light the candles for them and imagine them arriving together, laughing, drinking, filling the room with stories and warmth.

When I sat in front of our finished altar that night, surrounded by the smell of cempasúchil, chocolate, and mezcal, I felt that familiar warmth that takes me back to my childhood.

Another Día de Muertos has come and gone in Oaxaca. The parades have ended, the tourists have left, and the marigolds are beginning to fade. But the essence remains — in the scent of the flowers, in the stories we tell, and in the way my son reminded me of what truly matters. No matter how much the celebration evolves or transforms, this will always be my favorite Mexican tradition — the one that brings life, love, and memory together in the most human way possible.

Maria