What It’s Like to Celebrate Day of the Dead with a Local Family in Mexico
You know those holidays that hit you right in the soul? That’s Día de los Muertos—Day of the Dead—in Mexico. It's colorful, emotional, and full of life, despite being all about death.
And let me tell you, experiencing it with a local family? That’s where the real magic happens. You don’t just see it. You feel it.
I was lucky enough to be invited into a small home in Oaxaca during the celebration, and what I thought would be somber turned out to be one of the warmest, most unforgettable nights of my life.
First Things First—What Is Day of the Dead?
It’s not “Mexican Halloween.” Let’s clear that up.
Día de los Muertos is a deeply rooted tradition that dates back thousands of years to pre-Hispanic times. It’s celebrated on November 1st and 2nd, honoring loved ones who’ve passed away by welcoming them back for a short visit.
Families build colorful altars, cook their ancestors’ favorite foods, light candles, and decorate everything with marigolds. It's not sad—it's joyful. It’s about remembrance, not mourning.
Getting the Invite
I met Ana and her family through a community homestay program. When she found out I’d be in Oaxaca during the holiday, she smiled and said, “You’ll join us, sí?” I said yes faster than I could Google “pan de muerto.”
When I arrived at their home on the afternoon of November 1st, the first thing I noticed was the smell—fresh flowers, copal incense, and baked bread. The altar in their living room was already glowing with candles and packed with framed photos, favorite snacks, sugar skulls, and bright orange cempasúchil (marigolds).
Ana’s mom explained each item. “This one loved beer,” she said, pointing to a frosty bottle next to a candle. “And he always wanted tamales, so we made extra.”
Everything had a purpose. Everything was made with love.
Building the Altar
I got to help add some finishing touches. We placed tamales, sweet rolls, and even a shot of mezcal on the altar. Her brother set out small bowls of salt and water—meant to quench the spirits’ thirst after their long journey.
Then Ana gave me a marigold and said, “Come, let’s make the path.”
Together, we sprinkled petals in a line from the doorway to the altar—so the spirits could find their way home.
I won’t lie. I got chills.
The Cemetery Visit
That evening, we headed to the local cemetery. And let me tell you, it was nothing like the gloomy graveyards I grew up with.
It was glowing.
Families sat by graves lit with hundreds of candles. Some were eating, some were singing, some were laughing. There was a band playing in one corner and a grandmother telling stories in another.
We cleaned the family’s grave, lit more candles, and laid down armfuls of flowers. Ana’s uncle told a funny story about his late father getting caught stealing mangoes as a kid. Everyone laughed.
It wasn’t creepy. It was cozy.
The dead weren’t mourned—they were remembered like old friends.
The Food (Oh, the Food)
Back at the house, dinner was already underway. Her mother had been cooking for hours, and the table was overflowing: mole negro, pan de muerto (a sweet bread topped with sugar), tamales, hot chocolate, and bowls of pumpkin cooked with cinnamon and brown sugar.
Before we ate, we raised a toast: “To those who came before.”
We shared stories. They asked about my family. I told them about my grandfather who made amazing pancakes and had a laugh that shook the whole room.
Ana’s mom placed a small pancake on the altar for him.
Cue the lump in my throat.
Music, Laughter, and a Bit of Dancing
As the night went on, more relatives dropped by. Someone pulled out a guitar. The kids danced around with painted faces like sugar skulls. Someone handed me a cup of mezcal.
We stayed up late—talking, remembering, laughing. It felt like a reunion, even though half the guests weren’t physically there.
And somehow, that made it even better.
Why It Felt So Different
Here’s what struck me most: in this culture, death isn’t scary. It’s not hidden or whispered about. It’s part of life. And during Day of the Dead, that boundary between the living and the dead softens.
You’re not supposed to be sad. You’re supposed to celebrate.
To me, that shift in mindset—seeing death not as an ending but as a continuation of love—was huge. It made me think differently. It made me feel differently.
What I Learned
- Grief and joy can live side by side. You can miss someone deeply and still celebrate them. - Food is memory. Every dish on the table told a story. - Altars are love in physical form. Every photo, every flower, every favorite snack—it all said, “You still matter.” - Inviting someone into this tradition is intimate. It’s not just a holiday. It’s a family opening its heart to you.
Tips If You Ever Go
- Be respectful. This isn’t a tourist attraction—it’s sacred. - Ask questions. Most families love to share the meaning behind each tradition. - Bring a photo. Some hosts even invite guests to add a loved one to the altar. - Try the food. All of it. Even the weird-looking stuff. - Put your phone down. Just be present. You’ll remember more than any selfie can show.
Celebrating Day of the Dead with a local family in Mexico wasn’t just another travel story. It was a reset—a reminder that remembrance can be joyful, that grief can be shared, and that love, somehow, keeps crossing back to us year after year.
