I Worried I’d Do This Mexican Tradition “Wrong” — But It Made Me Feel So Much More at Home

When I was growing up, my parents made it their top priority to instill our Mexican culture into my brother and me. Spanish was our first language, and the only one allowed in our household unless we had guests over. We spent summers with our abuelita in Mexico, where we’d sit in on summer classes. We celebrated each Christmas there, too, and still do today. Some years we were forced to miss out on the fun of Halloween, traveling south to partake in Día de los Muertos festivities instead. 

Many people would set up ofrendas (altars) — a tradition I found morbid as a kid, but can now acknowledge as a manifestation of love, life, and beauty. We’d clean the graves of deceased relatives and cover them with cempasúchil flowers (Mexican marigolds), candles, and offerings. As is custom at the start of November, we’d spend a few hours in the cemetery welcoming back the souls of the dead by commemorating them, socializing, feasting, and playing music. 

As an adult, I appreciate these moments so much more than I did as a begrudging child and teenager. I look back on those days of marigolds and sugar skulls, and wish I had more of them to cherish. It’s been nearly two decades since I’ve spent a Day of the Dead in Mexico. For a long time, this day of remembrance didn’t even cross my mind. Like many Mexican traditions I lost along the way, I’ve reconnected with Día de los Muertos now that I’m older. 

I welcomed the celebration back into my life two years ago, after losing one of my closest friends. For months, I had struggled with the loss. We weren’t on speaking terms when she passed, and my sorrow was amplified by the guilt of all the words that would forever remain unsaid. Setting up a Día de los Muertos ofrenda was the only way I knew to mourn her, honor her, celebrate her, and tell her everything I wasn’t able to when she was still here. 

Creating my first ofrenda was an incredibly sacred act, and just as daunting for that very reason. I was worried I’d do it wrong, and disrespect those I wished to honor in the process. The idea that maybe I was being selfish by doing it to soothe my pain was also at the forefront of my mind. And then there was the thought that perhaps I wasn’t “Mexican enough” or that I was “too Americanized” to make an ofrenda. After all, I had gone many years without acknowledging the tradition. 

What if I forgot an important element? What if my version wasn’t traditional enough? What if the spirits of my ancestors judged me? What if I wasn’t worthy of carrying on this tradition? Did I even know where to start? The avalanche of self-doubt almost stopped me. Despite the intimidation, I carried on, telling myself the only mistake I could make was feeling compelled to honor my dear friend and departed loved ones, and not do anything at all. Keeping the dates of the rituals in mind, I tried my best to assemble an altar and quiet my anxiety. 

I remembered the basics: marigolds, candles, salt, water, papel picado, photographs of loved ones, their favorite drinks and foods, and I decorated the altar with a few ceramic calaveras (skulls) I’d collected over the years. I included my abuelitos’ favorite beers and the wine my friend and I drank during our college years. Then came the more meaningful items: a blankie my paternal grandpa gave me as a baby, a portrait my abuelito dedicated to my abuelita, a necklace my friend gifted me, and a children’s tea set that belonged to an aunt I never knew. 

Honoring my idols, I included a postcard of Frida Kahlo’s Fulang Chang and I and a collage of Selena Quintanilla. On the actual Día de los Muertos I set out pan dulce, tamales, Whataburger for my friend, and tacos de chicharrón for my abuelito. Lighting the candles on that last night, I felt the presence of those I missed and the ancestors I never knew.

My first ofrenda wasn’t the most gorgeous of creations, but it taught me what home was. It transformed my fear into a wonderful sense of belonging and identity that I’d been chasing all my life. I never felt like I was from anywhere — something perfectly encapsulated by the Spanish saying “ni de aquí, ni de allá,” which translates to “not from here, nor from there.” Many in the Latinx diaspora use it to describe the complicated and nuanced experience of living in between two cultures and having to defend your cultural authenticity to one and your assimilation to the other. 

Setting up an ofrenda evolved my definition of home and belonging. No longer confined to a location on a map or a physical space, it expanded to include heritage, to family, to my ancestors, to those I loved who had passed, and to those who lived far away. 

My first ofrenda not only helped me process my grief, but it also connected me to my roots and pushed me to embrace my culture. Celebrating Día de los Muertos brought my beloved Mexico into my home. It taught me that I don’t have to travel there to feel its warmth and surround myself with its beauty. It reminded me that the people you love never leave you, and neither does home.

This will be the third year I celebrate Día de los Muertos as an adult. I no longer feel anxious about how I build my altar. I know that there’s no wrong way to honor the dead, as long as I’m remembering them with love. Setting up an ofrenda isn’t about being elaborate or achieving perfection — it’s about connection, to the past and present, to the living and departed, to where I come from and to who I am. 

It turns out, my parents passed down an extraordinarily special thing to me — something that will keep them home with me when they’re no longer here.