I’ve known about Día de los Muertos for as long as I can remember. Growing up, it was always there—on the calendar, in the stores, in movies and at school—a colorful annual tradition with marigolds, sugar skulls, and altars filling the reading nook in the library. But only now, with time and perspective, do I really understand what it means.

My family didn’t build ofrendas or make trips to the cemetery, so for a long time, it felt like something other people did, not me.

But life has a way of changing your perspective.

Over the years, as I’ve said goodbye to family members, I’ve started to understand. I think about them often—their stories, their laughter, the quiet moments we shared. And this year in particular, I’ve come to appreciate the day not just as a tradition, but as a way of holding on to the people who shaped my life.

Now, when I see the altars at school, I don’t just see photos, flowers, and candles; I see stories. I see memories kept alive. I see love that doesn’t fade, even when people do. And even though I’ve never celebrated at home, I find myself imagining the ofrenda I’d build—the faces I’d frame, the items I’d place, the people I wish I could thank one more time, or laugh with, or just sit beside in quiet company.

I think of the family and friends we’ve lost over the years—so many stories, so many memories. Lives fully lived, lessons quietly passed down, moments that stitched us together. It’s a mosaic of life, each piece a unique journey, rich with history, love, and tradition.

And in a way, we all keep our own ofrendas. Some are formal, carefully arranged in frames or on shelves. Others are quiet, personal—tucked away in places only we know. A ring. A favorite coffee cup. A handwritten note. Little pieces of the people we’ve lost. Some we display for anyone to see. Others we keep hidden, sacred.

For those of us less connected to our Mexican roots, maybe this is our way of remembering—not with marigolds and candles, but with the quiet act of keeping a piece of them close.

But the day itself, it’s more than remembering. It’s a bold celebration of life.

Día de los Muertos isn’t just about loss. It’s about connection—that invisible thread that ties the living and the dead together. I see now that it’s not a holiday of mourning, but of remembering, of celebrating, of keeping the people we love close, even when they’re no longer here in the way they once were.

I think of the ofrendas I’ve seen all my life—tables set with photos, candles, and marigolds. Back then, they were just decorations. Now, I see them for what they are: an invitation home. The bright flowers, the favorite foods, the old trinkets—it’s all love, laid out in the open, saying: we haven’t forgotten you. Come, sit with us a while.

I think, too, of the quiet trips to the cemetery—sweeping the graves, leaving pan dulce or a soda, telling stories that made us laugh through the tears. Back then, it felt like a chore. Now, it feels like the most natural way to keep someone alive: saying their name, sharing their story, remembering the way they made you feel.

What I’ve come to realize is that Día de los Muertos isn’t really about death at all. It’s about life. About how deeply we love, how fiercely we remember, and how, even in the face of loss, we still choose joy. It’s about celebrating the beautiful, imperfect, fleeting gift of sharing this world—even for a little while—with people we love.

And so, when I light a candle, or lay out a flower, or tell a story that begins with “Do you remember when…,” I’m part of that celebration, too. Honoring not just those I’ve lost, but the parts of myself they helped shape. Thanking them for the pieces of their love that remain, steady and unshakable, long after they’re gone.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.