Lupita’s story is part of Mexico News Daily’s ongoing “My American Dream is in Mexico” series, which explores the rising movement of Mexican-Americans choosing to build their lives in the country their families once left. Through these profiles, the series examines what motivates their return, how they navigate the in-between of two cultures, and the unexpected sense of belonging they often rediscover along the way.

From the Bay Area to New York City

Lupita Ramos was born and raised in the Bay Area, the eldest daughter of Mexican immigrant parents who came to the United States in search of better opportunities. Her upbringing was firmly blue collar, shaped by early responsibility and parents who worked hard to create stability. She grew up in San Bruno, in a neighborhood where Mexican culture wasn’t something you visited — it was the everyday. “You don’t even need to speak English,” she says. “We lived in the section where all the Mexicans lived in. We had all the ties.”

That closeness to community did not mean assimilation came easily. Lupita came of age during a time when speaking Spanish at school was discouraged, even punished. She remembers being reprimanded for using Spanish and being considered for ESL placement simply because she was Mexican, despite being fluent in English. At home, Spanish was nonnegotiable. She was expected to speak it properly, alongside an upbringing steeped in music, traditions, and cultural expression. That immersion would later shape her professional path.

At 18, Lupita began working in Hispanic media, starting in radio promotions geared toward Mexican audiences. From promoting bailes and nightclubs to outreach at soccer matches like Mexico versus the U.S., her early career revolved around cultural spaces she knew intimately. “Everything I’ve ever done has been Mexican,” she says. That throughline carried into corporate media buying, where her cultural fluency became a professional asset and consistently placed her in Hispanic and Latino markets.

Lupita met her husband while attending San José State University, where she also became the first in her family to go to college. He was born and raised in Mexico City, and their connection felt immediate. The two married young, and just five months after their wedding, they moved to New York City after Lupita was accepted into graduate school.

What followed was nearly a decade defined by ambition, movement, and possibility. New York became the place where Lupita fully stepped into adulthood, both personally and professionally. She and her husband traveled often, explored the East Coast, and made their first trips to Europe. “We were living that hustle life,” she says. At the time, motherhood was not yet part of the picture, and New York offered exactly the energy she wanted in her twenties.

A new chapter begins

Turning 30 brought a subtle shift. It wasn’t urgency as much as awareness. Around her, friends and colleagues struggled to get pregnant, prompting Lupita to consider uncertainty for the first time. Despite her academic and professional confidence, motherhood felt unfamiliar. She assumed it might not come easily.

Then it did.

Lupita became pregnant while living in New York, a city she genuinely loved. But as the initial joy settled, she began to imagine what daily life would look like with a child and realized how little space the city allowed for the presence she wanted as a mother. Long commutes, rigid work schedules, and childcare costs clashed with the family life she envisioned. “It just didn’t make sense,” she recalls.

The decision wasn’t about leaving New York behind, but about recognizing that the life she had built there no longer fit what came next. California, where her parents lived, felt like one option. But it was her husband, who had spent nearly 14 years in the U.S., who suggested Mexico. His family was in Mexico City, and the idea of raising their child closer to extended family felt grounding.

Lupita had visited Mexico City before, but only briefly. “I didn’t imagine a life here,” she admits. Still, the more they talked, the more the move felt less like a leap and more like a natural progression.

She gave birth in the United States in 2018, mindful of healthcare and citizenship. Two months later, once her son received his passport, they moved to Mexico City. What began as practical conversations became a turning point. The city she once knew only as a destination became the place where their life as a family would begin.

The demands of motherhood

Motherhood, Lupita says, is not something you ease into. It arrives fully formed and immediately rearranges everything — time, energy, identity. The change isn’t inherently negative, but it is all-encompassing. Without a strong support system, the weight of that shift often lands squarely on the mother.

“You don’t get a moment to yourself,” she says. “You can’t get sick. You can’t stop. You’re the nurse, the teacher, the comfort — the everything.”

Even with a partner who helps, the balance never feels equal. There are physical realities, like nursing, and emotional ones that are harder to quantify. Lupita describes how a woman’s needs are slowly deprioritized, not by intention, but by necessity. Rest, solitude, and even basic self-care begin to feel like luxuries rather than expectations.

Motherhood also reshapes identity in quieter ways. A woman doesn’t stop being herself, but she becomes layered beneath responsibility. Lupita found herself constantly evaluating her actions, replaying moments in her head, questioning every response. “Was I too soft? Was I too harsh? Should I have cuddled more?” she asks. The mental load, she explains, never shuts off.

She points out how emotionally demanding that responsibility can be, especially when it comes to shaping how children understand the world. Mothers often carry the invisible labor of emotional regulation — teaching empathy, offering reassurance, managing feelings — while also absorbing guilt when things feel imperfect. “Our brains are constantly going,” she says. “That’s why it’s exhausting.”

For Lupita, this emotional weight was one of the clearest indicators that she couldn’t do it alone. The idea of raising children without a village felt unsustainable. In New York, that support felt out of reach. In Mexico, it was built into daily life. When she became overwhelmed, she could call her mother-in-law and ask for help without explanation. “She’s my village,” Lupita says. Sometimes, that help meant something as simple as space. “I would sit on my couch, no TV, no phone, just staring at the wall. Just decompressing.”

That kind of support, she believes, is not a luxury — it’s essential. Motherhood, in all its intensity, becomes more manageable when it is shared. Without that, it is often the mother who carries the heaviest emotional cost.

Motherhood clarified what she needed most, and it reshaped how she viewed the decision to build her life in Mexico City.

A new life in Mexico City

When Lupita moved to Mexico City in 2018, the adjustment was far from seamless. Family members questioned the decision, viewing it as a reversal of sacrifice. She had a master’s degree, a career, and a life in the U.S. Why return to Mexico to focus on motherhood?

At the time, Mexico City felt very different from the version many recognize today. English wasn’t widely spoken in neighborhoods like Condesa or Roma, and Lupita was careful not to stand out. She went from navigating New York independently to feeling constrained by logistics, language, and unfamiliar routines. With a stroller and no sense of the city yet, even simple tasks required planning. Much of her independence faded almost overnight.

Socially, the transition was just as challenging. She arrived into her husband’s world — his family, his friends, his city. Despite being Mexican-American, she was often reminded that she wasn’t Mexican in the way people expected. “People assumed I would adjust easily,” she says, “but being Mexican-American and being Mexican here are very different things.”

What anchored her through that period was her children.

Gradually, Lupita began to rethink success and stability. The American Dream, as she once understood it, no longer felt like the right reference point. In the U.S., providing a certain lifestyle would have required working more and being present less. In Mexico, life moved at a different pace. Family was prioritized. Community shaped daily life. There was room to be present.

Over time, she rebuilt her sense of self. She learned the city the way she once learned New York, slowly and intentionally. She pushed herself to make friends and to show up as more than a mother. “I had to rewire myself,” she says. “You’re more than a mom.”

Mexico City became less about adjustment and more about fit. Not perfect and not effortless, but sustainable.

Raising children with new perspectives

Raising her children in Mexico has sharpened Lupita’s awareness of what she wants them to learn beyond academics. In Mexico City, social inequality is visible in everyday life, and she sees value in her children witnessing that reality early on. It allows her to teach empathy, gratitude, and kindness — lessons she feels are harder to cultivate when life is more insulated.

She also notices a difference in how children move through the world. Compared to the U.S., where screens often dominate childhood, daily life in Mexico still emphasizes presence and social interaction. Children accompany adults on errands, greet neighbors, visit mercados, and participate in public life. Family time moves at a slower pace, with shared meals and outings that include children rather than sidelining them.

Her children don’t yet think of themselves as bicultural. To them, Mexico is simply home. They attend school here, prefer Spanish, and feel rooted in their neighborhoods. The U.S. exists more as a reference point, much like Lupita’s own childhood visits to her parents’ rancho in Guadalajara.

That grounding has reinforced her decision to stay, especially given the political and economic uncertainty in the U.S. Knowing her children are bilingual and able to move between countries if needed offers reassurance, but for now, she feels their environment supports the values she wants to pass on.

Education remains the one area where she feels conflicted. Mexico’s private school system can be insular and highly stratified, and she’s aware of the bubble it creates. While her son attends a school that works for their family, she wishes there were more diversity and broader exposure. It isn’t ideal, but it’s a compromise she’s willing to make — for now.

Looking ahead

Lupita doesn’t feel the need to define the future too rigidly. She imagines her children eventually experiencing life in the United States — high school, prom, sports, college — while remaining grounded in Mexico. What matters most to her is flexibility and the ability to respond to different seasons of life.

“Yes,” she says, “I’m definitely living the Mexican dream.”

The American Dream, as she experienced it, centered on possibility through achievement. Education, income, upward mobility. In Mexico, the focus has shifted. It’s less about accumulation and more about the kind of life being built. The pace is slower. Time feels less scarce. Family and community shape daily life.

Lupita is clear-eyed about the tradeoffs. Not everything is easier, and systems work differently. But for this chapter, the values Mexico reinforces align with what she wants for her family. After years of hustle and movement, she has chosen a life that leaves room to dream — not just about what her children might become, but about how they will live.

Rocio is a Mexican-American writer based in Mexico City. She was born and raised in a small village in Durango and moved to Chicago at age 12, a bicultural experience that shapes her lens on life in Mexico. She’s the founder of CDMX IYKYK, a newsletter for expats, digital nomads, and the Mexican diaspora, and Life of Leisure, a women’s wellness and spiritual community.

The post My American Dream is in Mexico: Lupita Ramos appeared first on Mexico News Daily

Speaking to Mexico News Daily, she shared how this mission feels more urgent than ever amid the current political climate and growing anti-immigrant sentiment in the U.S. It’s clear that, at her core, she sees her work as part of a bigger purpose: helping reshape how Mexico is understood and portrayed in the United States. 

The genesis of Mexico in My Pocket 

Luisa is a storyteller at heart, which is why she began her career in journalism, working at CNN and Fox News. She wanted to tell stories that reflected her world — stories centered on her community — but her pitches were often dismissed by editors and producers.

In 2019, after a deeply meaningful trip to visit her grandmother in Saltillo, Coahuila, she decided to tell those stories herself. She realized she’d been so focused on her career that six years had passed since she’d last been to Mexico, and she didn’t know when she’d be able to return.

So she started an Instagram page that slowly evolved into a blog. She named it Mexico in My Pocket because she wanted the memories and beauty of Mexico to live with her wherever she went. Tucked in her pocket like her phone or any of the small, essential things we carry with us. But she also wanted it to be accessible and shareable, a place where others could experience Mexico’s warmth, traditions and everyday magic right alongside her.

“I wanted to spread awareness about the beauty of our culture,” she said. “I was so sick of people portraying Mexicans in a negative way.”

Pandemic foray into entrepreneurship 

The brand grew slowly at first, and Luisa worked hard to cultivate a community of contributors. She created her own content, built relationships online, and ran her passion project alongside her full-time job in news. But when she was furloughed at the start of the pandemic, she suddenly had the time — and emotional space — to focus fully on Mexico in My Pocket.

Despite her long-standing desire to turn the project into a business, the way it actually began was completely serendipitous.

“Mexican artisans started DMing me on Instagram asking for help,” she said.

With travel at a standstill, many artisans were struggling, so Luisa began building a page with their products and their stories. The interest from her audience was immediate, but the logistics were messy: shipping costs were prohibitively high, and many potential customers didn’t feel comfortable wiring money to Mexico.

Luisa felt a deep responsibility to help. She dove into learning Shopify, began purchasing products upfront, and then started doing presales to minimize risk. The margins were terrible, but as she explains, she wasn’t doing it for profit; she was doing it because she couldn’t ignore what these artisans were going through. It was nerve-racking conducting business through WhatsApp and Instagram with makers she had never met, relying entirely on trust. But she felt energized. Working with artisans gave her a sense of purpose she hadn’t felt in years.

Thankfully, she had a community ready to support her. Her audience responded immediately, buying pieces as soon as she listed them.

Mexico in My Pocket sells authentic Mexican arts and crafts, like these silver earrings. (Mexico in My Pocket)“People wanted to contribute, people wanted to help, and the artisans needed help — and then they were inspired because our community showed up,” she said. “It was this beautiful cycle. Exhausting, yes. But inspiring. Truly beautiful.”

As her sales grew, so did the challenges. Luisa soon learned that not all advice — even from well-meaning people — was the right fit for her business. At one point, her margins became so thin that Mexico in My Pocket nearly went under.

Without a business background or affinity for numbers, she turned to other small business owners for guidance, slowly rebuilding her pricing model and confidence. Through that process, she learned to trust her instincts, seek advice intentionally, and follow the kind of counsel that aligned with her values, not just what others thought she “should” do.

Elevating Mexican arts and crafts

The relationships Luisa built with artisans during the pandemic, when many were struggling to stay afloat, have grown into thoughtful, business-savvy collaborations. One of her most popular items, the Mazahua earrings, reflects that evolution. During the early days of COVID, the artisans feared they might have to abandon their traditional techniques. Today, they work with Luisa to develop designs that honor their heritage while appealing to a wider audience.

She is deeply proud of these partnerships and of the products they have created together over the past five years. For Luisa, these collaborations are more than commerce. They preserve tradition while helping artisans not only survive but thrive.

A major part of her mission is shifting how Mexican craftsmanship is perceived.

“I think it’s our media representation that gives people this idea that Mexico is not elevated or not luxurious or elegant, and that’s not true at all,” she said.

She believes Mexican crafts belong in designer homes just as much as in humble ones, and she is determined to help people see them that way. With a big smile, she adds, “Mexico is art.”

Even the location of her physical shop aligns with her mission to elevate the perception of Mexico. Mexico in My Pocket sits in Brooklyn’s Carroll Gardens, a wealthy neighborhood where, as Luisa puts it, many residents “don’t know the Mexico I grew up visiting.”

In the early days, longtime locals were curious — even puzzled — about why a Mexican boutique had opened there. But for Luisa, that was exactly the point.

“It’s a place where we get to introduce the culture, and that’s what I’m trying to do. I want to go to places where they don’t know us,” she explained.

Today, she has become an integral part of the neighborhood, but she admits those first months were challenging. Establishing Mexico in My Pocket in that particular corner of Brooklyn required patience, persistence and trust in her vision.

Día de Muertos as medicine

The inspiration for her debut book, “Mexico’s Day of the Dead: A Celebration of Life Through Photos and Stories,” began with a desire to share Mexico’s most meaningful holiday with the world — and also to honor her cousin Lila, who passed away at just 24. Luisa was 21 at the time, and the loss devastated her. Lila had been like a sister. Although she tried therapy and church, nothing brought her true comfort until she began honoring Lila’s life and spirit during Día de Muertos. That’s when the holiday became deeply personal.

“Losing the person is already hard,” she said, “but what feels even harder is that you’re not allowed to talk about them anymore because it’s taboo. That feels like a bigger death.”

Día de Muertos gave her permission to keep Lila’s memory alive, and that tradition turned into a source of healing.

Her connection to the holiday deepened again when Mexico in My Pocket was on the brink of closing. That year, instead of creating altars for famous figures like Frida Kahlo or Diego Rivera, she built a personal altar in her store. She couldn’t afford all the materials, so she turned to her community and asked for marigolds. People showed up with armfuls of flowers from their gardens, and Luisa brought in family photos from home.

What happened next surprised her. Customers began sharing their own stories of loved ones who had passed.

“It was this serendipitous moment,” she said. “People opened up. It was cathartic. And that’s when I realized more people need this. More people need this in their life.”

Her book has become exactly that — a gentle balm for readers seeking ways to honor their dead or move through grief. The response has been overwhelming. She’s currently on a buzzy book tour, recently appeared on The Kelly Clarkson Show, and made the USA Today bestseller list.

A voice for her community

When asked how she processes the current climate in the United States, where immigrants and Latinos are still being targeted and stereotyped, Luisa paused before answering, reflecting on how heavy these times feel. Because she has built a business rooted in Mexican culture, she sees it as her responsibility to speak up.

“It’s important not to stay silent right now,” she said. “It can feel strange as a business owner to share openly, but I can’t not share. This affects our community, our people.”

She leads her business with her heart, and her work has always been centered on community.  

“We have built something grounded in Mexican culture. How could we possibly stay silent?” she said.

The current political moment feels sad, harrowing and draining, she said. She lets herself feel it. She takes time to cry, to process, to breathe. But she always returns to her purpose.

“I am drained,” she said softly, “but I am also privileged. And because of that, I feel like I need to use my voice for people who can’t.”

As for what comes next, Luisa hopes to keep expanding that purpose. She wants to write more books and eventually make a film. Above all, she hopes her work continues to amplify the truth she knows so deeply.

“Mexicans are the most helpful people. We are the most inviting, welcoming, warm culture,” she said. “And I take a lot of pride in that.”

And as long as Luisa keeps telling Mexico’s stories, more people will finally get to see the Mexico she carries in her pocket.

Rocio is a Mexican-American writer based in Mexico City. She was born and raised in a small village in Durango and moved to Chicago at age 12, a bicultural experience that shapes her lens on life in Mexico. She’s the founder of CDMX IYKYK, a newsletter for expats, digital nomads, and the Mexican diaspora, and Life of Leisure, a women’s wellness and spiritual community.

The post Mexico in My Pocket: The story of entrepreneur and author Luisa Navarro appeared first on Mexico News Daily

That shifted in my 30s. With daily news cycles already serving up endless drama, and at times trauma, I lost my appetite for bleak documentaries or heavy films. Instead, I began seeking out lighter shows. So when I saw the trailer for “Mentiras, La Serie,” I was delighted. Not only did it star my childhood icon Belinda, but it also featured a lineup of Mexican talent including Luis Gerardo Méndez, Regina Blandón, Mariana Treviño and Diana Bovio. The series premiered on Amazon Prime in June, which in today’s infinite-content reality doesn’t exactly make it “new.” But at MND, we like to highlight great Mexican movies and television shows, regardless of their release date.

A passion project 

“Mentiras, La Serie” springs from “Mentiras, el Musical,” Mexico’s most successful stage show. Since its 2009 debut, the jukebox musical built around 1980s Spanish-language pop hits has logged over 4,000 performances. Written by José Manuel López Velarde, it combines melodrama, comedy and nostalgia in a story of four women caught in a deadly love quadrangle, all played out with the era’s most beloved songs.

For “Mentiras, La Serie,” Luis Gerardo Méndez not only played Emmanuel but also served as executive producer, teaming with López Velarde and director Gabriel Ripstein on the adaptation. Ripstein described the project as both a tribute and an expansion. A chance to revisit beloved characters while widening their universe through a fresh visual style. He noted that more than 30 of the most iconic songs from the 1980s would anchor the story, brought to life by a cast and crew he called “spectacular.”

The music rights posed a major hurdle, dragging negotiations out for four years. Some iconic hits didn’t make the cut due to licensing costs. Still, Méndez held firm on what mattered most: preserving the playful, campy energy and casting talent that could carry it. He pursued actress-singer Belinda for Daniela from the start and brought back Mariana Treviño, who had originated Lupita on stage.

Méndez has also cited “Moulin Rouge,” “La La Land,” and even “Barbie” as inspirations for the show’s hyper-stylized tone. And that influence is easy to spot. The series is bold, theatrical, and not afraid to lean into excess.

Campy, colorful and surprisingly layered

The eight-episode series is a visual feast: over-the-top ’80s aesthetics, from big hair to bright costumes to exuberant musical numbers. The theatrical connection is obvious in intentionally artificial sets –cardboard trees, painted backdrops, stage-like spaces –that remind viewers this is performance first and foremost.

But beneath the camp, there’s sneaky depth. Some of the characters eventually confront the biggest lies of all. The ones they’ve been telling themselves. And while the show thrives on melodrama, it also exposes the assumptions society projects onto women – assumptions that in 1980s Mexico, with its deep traditionalism, weighed even more heavily. That combination of playful excess with undercurrents of critique is what makes “Mentiras, La Serie” more than just a glossy adaptation.

Why the musical struck such a chord

“Mentiras, el Musical” endures not only because of nostalgia but also because it reimagines the music and sensibility of the ’80s in a way that feels affectionate and exaggerated, like a telenovela with dance numbers. Its success stems from the energy of camp paired with the emotional resonance of songs embedded in Latin American popular culture.

That formula has proven durable, spawning tribute concerts, anniversary editions, and the drag parody “Mentidrags.” For many, the musical isn’t just a night at the theater. It’s a reminder of the cultural mood of the ’80s, when Latin pop and power ballads offered both entertainment and catharsis.

Songs and scenes that soared 

The adaptation found new life through its soundtrack. Belinda’s mash-up of “Él Me Mintió / Mentiras Mentiras” climbed to No. 1 on Spotify’s Viral 50 Global chart, while the Mentiras album debuted at No. 6 on Spotify’s Top Albums Debut Global list. Overall, the soundtrack racked up over 2.4 million streams in just days. The success also boosted the original singers. Daniela Romo’s streams jumped 170%, Amanda Miguel’s by 94% and Yuri’s by 75%.

The series itself fueled online buzz, with Belinda’s numbers and several campy scenes going viral on TikTok and X (formerly Twitter), where fans dissected everything from the costumes to the cheeky dialogue.

More than just escapism

When I first watched “Mentiras, La Serie,” I didn’t realize the stage show’s cultural weight, so I came in fresh. Some longtime fans criticized the changes to the plot, but I found the series fun, layered, and at times poignant. It left me curious to see the musical live.

I don’t really seek heavy content because the world already feels heavy enough. Mentiras, La Serie gave me the kind of playful diversion I was craving, but it also offered something deeper. A reflection on love, lies and the roles women were boxed into during a more conservative Mexico. That mix of camp and commentary is what makes the series worth watching—and why it’s more than just light entertainment.

Rocio is a Mexican-American writer based in Mexico City. She was born and raised in a small village in Durango and moved to Chicago at age 12, a bicultural experience that shapes her lens on life in Mexico. She’s the founder of CDMX IYKYK, a newsletter for expats, digital nomads, and the Mexican diaspora, and Life of Leisure, a women’s wellness and spiritual community.

The post ‘Mentiras, La Serie’ is a playful television spin on Mexico’s longest-running musical appeared first on Mexico News Daily

The long road to Santa Rosa

In July, I returned to Santa Rosa, my first home, after four years away. My parents go back each summer, and my older brother brings his family, too. I wanted to coincide with them. The usually sleepy ranchería comes alive in June, July, and August, then again in December. Weddings, quinceañeras, horse races, coleaderas, cabalgatas — the calendar fills fast. But first, you have to get there.

And getting there is no small feat. The “convenient” route is flying into Durango’s capital city, then driving five to six hours, with the last three on rough roads. Sedans don’t stand a chance — if it’s rained recently, they’ll get stuck in the mud. A sturdy truck is the only way.

Another option is to drive from the U.S. My family did this for years after moving to Chicago. We’d load up the car, spend three days on the road, and stop at roadside motels on the U.S. side for two nights before finally crossing into Mexico through Ojinaga, Chihuahua. My brother still does this journey at least twice a year. 

Then there’s the El Paso route, popular with many families. You fly into El Paso, cross into Ciudad Juárez, and catch the overnight bus — twelve hours to Santa María del Oro, the nearest town to Santa Rosa. From there, it’s still a two-hour drive. However you arrive, the journey is long, uncomfortable, and often exhausting. It usually takes days just to recover.

Rancho life, seen anew

But once there, it’s worth it. Santa Rosa is rugged and remote, tucked among mountains and desert. Durango’s semi-arid climate usually means scorching summers, but this year was different. Heavy rains had transformed the land. Rivers brimmed, creeks ran strong, and everywhere I looked, grass and vegetation replaced the usual muted desert tones. I was astonished — it was the greenest I’d ever seen.

Returning as an adult, I see things I once overlooked. Most families here live off cattle and remittances. Horses and cows dominate the landscape. As a child, I never grasped how relentless life as a farmer really is. My father still raises cattle, and during my ten-day stay, I watched him work from dawn to dusk — feeding, vaccinating and guarding pastures. At 72, he still mounts his horse daily, looking after his herd like a true old-school cowboy-ranchero.

Another observation: some ranchos that were practically ghost towns 20 years ago are now thriving. La Noria, for example, used to have very few people. This summer, I was shocked to see it transformed — with arches welcoming visitors into the rancho and homes remodeled and freshly painted. My parents explained that many of those who left to work in the U.S. decades ago have now retired and chosen to return and spend their golden years here.

This pattern is common. Families may leave for 20 or 30 years, working tough jobs in the U.S., but if they’re documented, they come back in the summers and winters. That’s when rancherías like Santa Rosa come to life. Fiestas, cabalgatas, and weddings are often scheduled around these visits, so locals and returnees can celebrate together.

Even my U.S.-born nephews feel the pull. From seven-year-old Oscar Jr. to 18-year-old Christian, they ask to come back every year. Watching them embrace the land moved me. If I have kids one day, I’ll make sure they carry that same connection.

Beauty and risk

Modernity has reached Santa Rosa in its own way. Wifi arrived a few years ago, though electricity and cell service can still be unreliable. While I was there, the power went out for 24 hours, and reception was so spotty you could forget about depending on your phone. Unplugging is still easy — sometimes, unavoidable.

But rancho life also comes with danger. In summer 2024, a family of three drowned while trying to cross a river swollen with rain. The father, confident he could make it across in his truck with his wife and three-month-old baby, didn’t survive. A couple of years ago, an older couple driving down from the U.S. veered off a cliff and died. A relative of mine recently fell from a horse and spent weeks in a coma. These tragedies sound like scenes from a particularly unlikely movie, but they’re part of everyday reality here.

Cultural norms can surprise outsiders, too. At parties, most men wear guns strapped to their belts, firing them in the air when a popular corrido plays. I don’t share this to glorify or condemn — it’s simply part of life in this corner of northern Mexico. With little to no police presence, it’s the Wild West in some ways. For many men, a gun is part of the outfit, along with the hat, boots, and belt.

Returning to my roots

Visiting Santa Rosa unlocks something new within me each time. My trip to the place where I spent my childhood evoked a myriad of emotions and themes — nostalgia, pride, joy, roots, heritage, and the concept of home(s).

When I was a college student at UIC-Chicago, I took a class on Latin American Studies. I had a distinguished Mexican-American professor, probably in his 40s or 50s, who shared an anecdote: growing up, he rejected his parents’ love of norteño music and leaned into hip-hop, wanting nothing to do with what his parents played. But as he got older, something shifted — he started craving the music of his childhood. He returned to his roots. I remember finding that story fascinating and wondering how it might relate to me later in life.

I was never ashamed of where I came from, but I did feel indifferent, more focused on bigger, better places. Leaving the village opened the world to me, and I wanted to see it all. That led me to study abroad in Italy during college and live in South Korea for two years in my 20s.

Now, though, I feel a fondness and pride for Durango that has taken years to surface but is now firmly rooted. Whenever I go to Garibaldi in Mexico City, I enjoy mariachi — but what I really crave is norteño music, especially old-school corridos.

I will always carry in my heart the place where I spent my childhood. In many ways, it completes the triangle of my life — Durango, Chicago, and Mexico City. Three homes that shaped me, each in its own way. And I’m already looking forward to returning to the first one, Santa Rosa, in December.

Rocio is a Mexican-American writer based in Mexico City. She was born and raised in a small village in Durango and moved to Chicago at age 12, a bicultural experience that shapes her lens on life in Mexico. She’s the founder of CDMX IYKYK, a newsletter for expats, digital nomads, and the Mexican diaspora, and Life of Leisure, a women’s wellness and spiritual community.

The post Three homes, one heart: Returning to my Durango roots appeared first on Mexico News Daily

Known as the Rarámuri (their own name for themselves, translated as  “those who run fast” or sometimes as “light-footed”), they are among the world’s greatest endurance runners. They live deep in the Sierra Tarahumara, a dramatic and rugged stretch of northern Mexico’s Copper Canyon, an area four times the size of the Grand Canyon.

Yes, they are incredibly fast. But what makes the Rarámuri’s running so remarkable isn’t just physical ability — it’s that running is a reflection of how they live, what they believe and how they’ve stayed connected to their traditions in spite of everything history has thrown at them.

A lifetime of movement 

The Rarámuri have lived in Chihuahua for centuries, long before colonization pushed them into the high sierras. Those who retreated deeper into the canyons were never fully conquered, preserving a way of life that still resists full assimilation. 

Today, estimates vary, but anywhere from 50,000 to 100,000 Rarámuri live across the Alta and Baja Sierra, continuing traditions passed down for generations.

One of those traditions is running. Rarámuri children don’t train for races — they run because it’s how they get around. The terrain where they live is steep and wild. Villages can be hours apart on foot. Over time, their bodies adapt: wide feet, strong joints, incredible stamina.

They often run in huaraches, handmade sandals fashioned from leather straps and the rubber from old car tires. Their feet are wide from a lifetime of movement, and modern sneakers can feel constricting. Studies suggest their minimalist footwear helps promote a more natural, injury-resistant stride.

Their diet also supports endurance. Take pinole, a simple but powerful mix of roasted ground maize and water. It’s nutrient-dense, slow-burning and provides sustained energy over long distances.

Their movement is woven into their lifestyle, their food and their connection to the land.

The Rarámuri have traditional footraces still practiced today. Rarajípare is a game where men kick a wooden ball ahead while chasing it over long distances. Ariwete, played by women, involves a hoop and stick. These events can go on for hours, or even days, especially when played between villages.

The spirit behind them isn’t just competition — it’s something deeper. Races are often preceded by a yúmari, a spiritual ceremony where runners are reminded to run with unity and for a purpose. Winning matters but so does how the race is run. As one phrase captures it: Iwériga — “send the power of your soul to another.”

Traditionally, the Rarámuri also hunted by chasing prey to the point of exhaustion. Running was — and still is — survival. But it’s also a form of gratitude and prayer deeply embedded in their cultural and spiritual life.

What the world gets wrong

The global spotlight found the Rarámuri after the 2009 release of “Born to Run,” a best-selling book that chronicled their ultradistance abilities. But even well-meaning stories often drift into caricature  — calling them superhuman, mystical, or natural-born athletes with supernatural pain tolerance.

This kind of praise flattens the truth: The Rarámuri are not magical anomalies. They’re people who have maintained an active, community-centered way of life for centuries. They’ve adapted to extreme terrain, preserved ancient practices and endured repeated waves of violence and environmental destruction.

Despite staying largely out of the spotlight, many Rarámuri have earned national and international recognition in competitive races. One of the most famous is Lorena Ramírez, who made headlines in 2017 when she won the 50-kilometer UltraTrail Cerro Rojo in Puebla. She did so wearing a traditional dress and huaraches, finishing in just over seven hours.

Her story was captured in the short documentary “Lorena, Light-Footed Woman,” which highlights not just her strength but the quiet pride and cultural grounding that fuel her.

In 2024, six Rarámuri women made history by completing The Speed Project, a grueling 540-kilometer relay from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. It was the first time Indigenous Mexican women had participated in the race. 

Their names — Verónica Palma, Ulisa Fuentes, Isadora Rodríguez, Lucía Nava, Rosa Para and Argelia Orpinel — now join a growing list of Rarámuri runners who’ve quietly reshaped the global narrative about endurance and strength.

The post Why the Rarámuri run: How an Indigenous people have kept their traditions for centuries appeared first on Mexico News Daily

But did you know that Mexico has had a Korean diaspora since the early 1900s? It was 120 years ago this year that the first wave of Koreans set foot on Mexican soil. In this piece, we’ll explore the fascinating and tragic story of that migration and what followed.

A forgotten migration story

In 1904, global power struggles and economic demands set the stage for an unlikely migration. Korea was increasingly under Japan’s control, though official annexation wouldn’t come until a few years later. Meanwhile, Mexico was in the last years of the President Porfirio Díaz dictatorship, and the Yucatán Peninsula faced a labor shortage as global demand surged for henequén, an agave plant used to make rope and twine.

To meet that demand, a Japanese firm partnered with a British labor recruiter to bring Korean workers to Mexico under misleading terms. Newspaper ads in Korea described Yucatán as a land of opportunity. They promised free transport to Mexico, housing, access to land, education for children, healthcare and a guaranteed return home.

The reality, however, would turn out to be grim.

At the time, Korean emigration outside Asia had only just begun. In 1902, laborers were first sent to work on sugar plantations in Hawaii. But by 1905, Japan began limiting Korean migration to the U.S., worried it threatened Japanese laborers and would increase anti-Japanese sentiment in places like California.

As a result, Mexico — with no prior diplomatic ties to Korea and no existing Korean population — became the next destination for migrant labor. This was driven more by Japan’s imperial interests than by any bilateral agreement.

From hope to hard labor

On May 4, 1905, over 1,000 Koreans disembarked at the port of Salina Cruz, Oaxaca, after a long trans-Pacific voyage aboard the SS Ilford. They had left an impoverished and unstable Korea for a better life in Mexico. Instead, they were sold as indentured laborers to henequén plantation owners in Yucatán.

They were quickly absorbed into Mexico’s deeply exploitative hacienda system. What had been promised as a five‑year contract with fair conditions — almost a dream opportunity for the time — turned into a grueling and punishing reality. Laborers worked long hours in extreme conditions harvesting henequén — referred to as “green gold” — without any of the promised benefits.

Many Korean workers were scattered across vast plantations with no access to Korean-language schools, churches or community networks. Isolated from one another and cut off from their culture, they found themselves working side by side with Indigenous Maya laborers, who were also subjected to the same brutal labor conditions.

Over time, the Korean men began to adopt elements of Maya life. Some learned Mayan before Spanish and formed deep bonds with the local communities. Intermarriage between Koreans and Maya became common. As families formed, a unique cultural fusion emerged. The descendants of these unions grew up immersed in Maya traditions, Catholic festivals and local customs while the Korean language and identity slowly faded.

By the time their contracts ended in 1910, Korea had been formally annexed by Japan, and the Mexican Revolution was erupting. There was no home to return to, and few viable alternatives. Many stayed in Yucatán; others left to find work elsewhere in Mexico or in Cuba.

Aenikkaeng: Reclaiming a buried identity

Descendants of those original migrants eventually came to call themselves Aenikkaeng, a term derived from the Korean pronunciation of “henequén.” It’s a word that captures both the hardship and the legacy of their ancestors’ experience.

For decades, this history remained buried. It wasn’t until the 1970s that South Korean researchers, diplomats and journalists began visiting Yucatán to trace the descendants of the SS Ilford’s 1905 passengers. Their efforts aligned with South Korea’s broader push to strengthen ties with Latin America, and the rediscovery of the Aenikkaeng story took on historical and diplomatic importance.

In 2005, the centennial of Korean immigration to Mexico was commemorated in Mérida with a monument inscribed with the names of the original 1905 laborers. Two years later, the Museum of Korean Immigration to Yucatán (MCICY) opened with support from both the Mexican and South Korean governments.

Yet, for many descendants, cultural identity remained complicated. Those interviewed during centennial celebrations often described feeling Korean in name only. Their lives were shaped by the land they grew up in — by Maya roots, Mexican traditions and generations of adaptation.

A cultural revival

In recent years, there have been growing efforts to reconnect with that lost heritage. Local organizations like the Asociación Coreano-Mexicana have launched language courses, genealogy projects and heritage trips to South Korea. Some younger Aenikkaeng descendants have traveled to Seoul or Incheon, seeking work there or trying to understand the culture their ancestors left behind.

In 2017, Korean-Argentine photographer Michael Vince Kim released a striking photo series documenting Aenikkaeng descendants in Yucatán and Cuba. His portraits offered an intimate glimpse into a little-known community, honoring the memory of those early migrants and the quiet endurance of their families. The series, like the people it portrayed, is both powerful and understated — a visual tribute to a legacy long overlooked.

The story of Koreans in Mexico is still missing from most textbooks and public discourse. While the experiences of other Asian migrant communities have been recognized, the Korean story remains largely absent from Mexico’s national narrative. For the Aenikkaeng, recognition is long overdue — but it’s slowly beginning to arrive.

Koreans in Mexico today

Approximately 13,000 ethnic Koreans now live in Mexico, with the largest communities in Mexico City, Guadalajara and Monterrey. In Mexico City, the area informally known as Little Seoul thrives with Korean restaurants, grocery stores and businesses, a vibrant counterpoint to the first wave of laborers who arrived in 1905 and the product of a newer migration surge tied to South Korean corporate expansion in the 1990s. Mexico City has become a hub of Korean restaurants, grocery stores and businesses, reflecting a very different kind of Korean migration.

I live just a few blocks from there, and it’s one of my favorite things about the neighborhood. After spending time in South Korea, there’s something comforting about being able to pick up gochujang nearby or sit down for a good bowl of kimchi jjigae. It’s a reminder of a place and time that still feels close — just in a different context.

Rocio is a Mexican-American writer based in Mexico City. She was born and raised in a small village in Durango and moved to Chicago at age 12, a bicultural experience that shapes her lens on life in Mexico. She’s the founder of CDMX IYKYK, a newsletter for expats, digital nomads, and the Mexican diaspora, and Life of Leisure, a women’s wellness and spiritual community.

The post Aenikkaeng: The forgotten story of Mexico’s Korean migrants appeared first on Mexico News Daily

Fernando Reyes grew up in a working-class family in Mexico City, far from the tech campuses and glossy offices that would later define his career. Through talent and tenacity, he carved out a space for himself in the United States, spending nearly a decade working as a game designer for Microsoft. It was a version of the American Dream that many chase and few achieve.

But then, Fernando did something unexpected: he came home.

Mexico News Daily: You grew up in Mexico City, but your background differed from that of most of your classmates. When did you first become aware of that divide, and what stood out to you?

Fernando Reyes: I wasn’t really aware of the class differences in Mexico until I went to a private high school. That’s when I started to see how different life was for people from wealthier backgrounds compared to mine, my family, my friends, my social circle.

What’s interesting about Mexico City is that people with money have a lot of money. They live very comfortably. And their lifestyle is very distinct, even compared to wealthy people in the U.S.

At the time, I didn’t really think about money or financial struggles—I just assumed everyone lived like we did. Struggling felt normal. It wasn’t until I entered those other spaces that I realized, oh, some people don’t have to worry about these things.

But even then, I didn’t feel envy. It was more like, ‘Okay, they live differently than I do — good for them.’ I wasn’t born into that world, and that’s fine. I just focused on living my own life.

Did your experience navigating privileged and wealthy spaces shape how you see class or identity in Mexico today?

Like most teenagers, I was trying to fit in, but I also didn’t really want to belong in that world. I saw how my classmates talked, how they acted, the kinds of things they were into, and I realized early on that those things didn’t resonate with me. So I made the choice to be friendly, show up, do what I had to do at school — but outside of that, I kept my distance.

Whenever I had the chance, I’d spend time with my old friends or people from other parts of my life. I felt more at ease there, and those relationships always felt more genuine. That’s probably why I was never particularly close with my high school classmates.

That said, it wasn’t like I was excluded or looked down on. The stereotype of the “poor kid” being singled out didn’t apply in my case. I was actually surprised by how respectful and thoughtful many of my classmates were, both in high school and university. Most of them were well-educated and, in many cases, aware of class differences. Sure, there were some spoiled kids, but overall, I was treated as an equal.

Still, the contrast was impossible to ignore. While some of them were planning ski trips or shopping weekends in the U.S., I was just trying to afford the tuition. We could sit in the same classroom and get along just fine, but we were living in very different versions of reality.

You left Mexico in your early 20s to work for Microsoft. What was that like? 

The dream was always to make games — ideally, Halo. I wanted to be a game designer, but at the time there weren’t many schools in Mexico focused on that, so I studied computer science to build technical skills and work my way in.

Eventually, I got the opportunity to move to Seattle and join Microsoft as an engineer. I was working on Xbox, not games themselves, but the console. Still, I saw it as my way in. I didn’t expect my first job out of college to be my dream job, so it was crazy that this happened. I was in the right company, around the right people, learning the industry from the inside. 

Since high school, I’d always worked on my own games on the side. Even once I started at Microsoft, I kept building things on my own. I was constantly reaching out to people on the Halo team asking, “What do I need to do to get there?” But the answers were all over the place. Some people said it would take 10 to 15 years of experience. There was no clear path.

At some point, I realized I was enjoying my job on Xbox, I liked the team and I was doing well — but I couldn’t stop thinking about that dream of being a game designer. So I told myself: ‘I’ll make one last game, get it out of my system and then I can move on.’

I ended up building a small team within Microsoft, people like me who weren’t working in games but were passionate about them. I couldn’t pay them, but we were all well-paid already, so we did it as a side project, just for fun. The game we made started getting attention internally, and eventually it caught the eye of the Halo team.

One day they reached out and said, “Who’s this crazy Mexican guy making games in his spare time?” They invited me to present the project to their leadership. At the time, I thought that would be the end of the story — a nice way to close the loop. But a few weeks later, they called me back and said, “You’re clearly a game designer. Why aren’t you working with us?”

And that’s how I joined the Halo team.

How did living in the U.S. shift your sense of what it means to be Mexican?

Before moving to the U.S., I didn’t really think of myself in terms of identity. I was just Fernando. I happened to live in Mexico, I happened to be brown, but I didn’t see those things as defining who I was. Being Mexican wasn’t something I consciously carried as part of my identity.

That changed when I moved to the U.S., because suddenly, it was my identity. People there made it clear. In Mexico, almost everyone around you is Mexican, so nationality, race or language rarely come up as points of difference. But in the U.S., those things become visible and, in many cases, central to how people see you.

That shift made me notice all these parts of myself that I hadn’t labeled before: my humor, my food preferences, how I relate to people. These weren’t just “Fernando” things — they were cultural. They were Mexican things. And when I started meeting other Latinos — Puerto Ricans, Colombians — I began to see both the similarities and the unique traits that come from being specifically Mexican, or even more specifically, from Mexico City.

I think it’s something many Mexicans experience after leaving: we become more patriotic. Not in a nationalistic way, but in a deeper, more reflective sense. Living in a place where your culture isn’t the default makes you appreciate it more. I’d always been proud to be Mexican — but after living in the U.S., I finally understood why. And that gave me a much clearer sense of who I am and how my background shapes me.

Things were going well for you in the U.S. What prompted your decision to base yourself in Mexico again?

After years in the U.S., I hit a point where I really started missing home. Not just my family or friends, but my culture, my language, the everyday feeling of belonging. I’ve seen it happen to others too. Some people reach that fork in the road where they say, ‘Okay, this is my life now,’ and others realize they want to reconnect with where they came from. 

I was tired of always speaking English, tired of the food I missed, the cold Seattle winters and especially the isolation. In Mexico, I never thought about the weather or loneliness; people are just naturally more social. I missed things like hosting friends, staying up late, listening to music. It felt like part of me had been muted.

Initially, Playa del Carmen was just a way to escape the winter, but once I was there, I felt something click. The warmth, the rhythm of daily life, the sun on my skin: it reminded me of who I was before. I didn’t just want a vacation anymore. I wanted to live that version of myself more often. Buying a place there started as a seasonal idea, but it slowly became a way to re-root myself in Mexico. I realized I wasn’t just homesick, I was out of sync with myself.

Did you feel like you were two versions of yourself in the U.S. and Mexico?

Definitely. At some point, I realized I had two versions of myself. There was the U.S. version — speaking English, adapting to American workplace culture, behaving a certain way — and then there was the Fernando from Mexico, who greeted people with a kiss on the cheek, stayed up late with friends and felt fully himself.

It became clear that constantly switching between those personas wasn’t sustainable. I didn’t want to keep fragmenting my identity depending on where I was or what language I was speaking. I needed to reconcile those parts and just be one version of myself, whether in English or Spanish.

Living in the U.S. helped me grow. I embraced things I never had access to before and I became a new version of myself in that process. But it wasn’t until I returned to Mexico that I felt all those pieces could finally come together. I’m still both versions, but now they’re integrated. I don’t need to perform; I just get to be.

How has your perspective on Mexican and Mexican-American identities evolved over time?

Now that I’ve lived in the U.S. and met so many Mexican-Americans, I’ve come to see how much we share, and how much we don’t. We often carry the same roots but very different experiences. And that can make conversations about identity complicated, especially between people who’ve only ever lived in Mexico and those who haven’t.

I think it’s important for both sides to be patient with each other. When I was younger, I didn’t think of myself as “Mexican” or “Latino” in the way I do now. That awareness came from living in the U.S., from being categorized, from experiencing things like racism or being treated differently based on where I’m from. It wasn’t theoretical anymore, it was personal.

A lot of people in Mexico may understand racism or identity politics in theory, but it’s not something they’ve had to confront directly. That makes it harder to talk about—and harder to fix. In the U.S., at least there’s more public conversation around it. In Mexico, it’s still hidden or denied in many ways.

So if you’re a Mexican American trying to talk about identity with someone who grew up in Mexico, or vice versa, just know that you’re likely speaking from different lived realities. And that’s okay. We just need more space for conversations like this, and more openness to listen, because the distance between us isn’t as big as it seems.

You’ve seen Mexico from both the outside and the inside. What hits differently now that you’re back?

That’s probably the most interesting part of all this, coming back and realizing I’ve changed. I’m not the same person I was before I left, and I see that in the small everyday things. I’m no longer fully “Mexican” in the way I used to be, but I’m not American either. I’m somewhere in between.

I’ve adopted behaviors that don’t always align with the culture I returned to. For example, I really value being on time now. In the U.S., that became part of who I am. But here, if a party starts at 7, it really starts at 9, and that drives me a little crazy. It’s something I accepted before, but now I question it.

Living abroad made me more aware of social norms I never used to think about. When you grow up in one place, you treat those norms as absolute truths. But once you’ve lived elsewhere, you realize there are many ways of doing things — and not all of them work for you anymore.

Even something simple like dinner time illustrates that. In Mexico, it might be 8 p.m.; in the U.S., 6 p.m.. Each version affects your social life, your routines, the way you relate to others. So now, I don’t just follow a cultural script by default. I’ve started choosing what feels right for me.

Looking back, do you feel like you’ve come full circle?

In some ways, yes. But it’s less like returning to the same place and more like looping back with a new perspective. I didn’t really get to be an adult in Mexico City. I left right after school, so now I’m hungry to experience the city in this new phase of life: working, building a home, navigating friendships. It’s like a second chance to live here on my own terms.

For a long time, I struggled with the idea of returning. It felt like failure, like I was giving up on something I had set out to prove. But I’ve realized that coming back isn’t a defeat, it’s a return on my own terms. I accomplished what I set out to do in the U.S., and now I get to come home with new tools, new experiences, and a completely different lens.

Being away gave me perspective. It gave me a deeper appreciation for Mexico, for my culture, and for this city. If I had never left, I don’t think I’d enjoy it the way I do now. The food, the energy, the chaos, it all tastes different. It tastes better. And I think that’s because I had to be away to really see it.

What does “the Mexican Dream” mean to you now, after everything you’ve lived through?

I think the American Dream had a big influence on me, and I won’t pretend it didn’t. A lot of what I’ve learned and experienced comes from my time in the U.S. But at the same time, there’s something deeply rooted in Mexican culture that I could never let go of: the idea of home.

For many Mexicans, home isn’t just a place — it’s family, tradition, community. And that’s something I know I’ll always need. I don’t know if I’ll ever move back to Mexico permanently, but I do know that Mexico will always play a central role in my life. I can’t imagine living forever in the U.S. or anywhere else without finding a way to stay connected to home.

So for me, the Mexican Dream isn’t about choosing one place over the other. It’s about accepting that I’ve become someone shaped by both countries and all my travels. And instead of resisting that, I’ve learned to embrace it, to build a life that lets both parts of me exist side by side.

Rocio is based in Mexico City and is the creator of CDMX iykyk, a newsletter designed to keep expats, digital nomads and the Mexican diaspora in the loop. The monthly dispatches feature top news, cultural highlights, upcoming CDMX events & local recommendations. For your dose of must-know news about Mexico, subscribe here. 

The post My American Dream is in Mexico: Fernando Reyes  appeared first on Mexico News Daily

But maybe that’s starting to change. The Copper Canyon, or Barranca del Cobre, was recently named one of Mexico’s top tourism destinations for 2025. As a proud Norteña, I’ll gladly take the win, even if the canyon straddles Sinaloa and Chihuahua more than my home state. It still feels like a shared treasure.

The Copper Canyon is one of the most breathtaking regions in northwest Mexico, a dramatic landscape of desert, mountains and deep gorges. And the best way to experience it is by train: the Ferrocarril Chihuahua al Pacífico, more affectionately known as El Chepe.

A brief history of El Chepe

Tucked deep within the Sierra Madre Occidental, the Copper Canyon is one of Mexico’s greatest natural wonders, a vast system of twenty interconnected canyons carved over millions of years by six rivers. In scale, it surpasses even the Grand Canyon, stretching more than four times its size and plunging deeper in certain spots. Despite the name, the canyon isn’t named for copper mining but for the greenish, copper-like sheen of its steep walls.

Constructing a railway through this remote terrain was no small feat. While many infrastructure projects take longer than expected, El Chepe took it to another level. Construction began in 1898 and faced delay after delay, including during the Mexican Revolution. When the railway was finally completed in 1961, it had taken over six decades and roughly US $90 million to build, a huge effort for the time.

The finished railway is an engineering marvel. The railway stretches over 650 kilometers, winding through terrain that remains inaccessible by road. It spans 39 bridges, passes through 86 tunnels and climbs to elevations of nearly 2,500 meters above sea level, linking Mexico’s northern interior with the Pacific coast.

The Rarámuri people, whose Spanish name — Tarahumara — graces the surrounding mountains, continue to live in the canyons much as they have for generations. Along the train route, some now share their traditions, crafts and food with travelers, offering a glimpse into a way of life shaped by the rhythms of the land.

What to expect

El Chepe connects the Pacific port town of Los Mochis, Sinaloa, to the inland capital of Chihuahua. But the journey isn’t linear. The most popular and scenic portion runs from Los Mochis to the mountain town of Creel, a nine-hour stretch known as the Chepe Express route. This segment offers the most dramatic canyon views: sweeping cliffs, plunging ravines and hairpin turns through jagged mountains.

To continue onward to Chihuahua city, travelers must transfer to the Chepe Regional, which adds about six more hours to the trip. While it’s less picturesque than the earlier stretch, it completes the historic route through northern Mexico.

The train stops in several towns along the way, including El Fuerte, Bahuichivo, Posada Barrancas, Divisadero and Creel before reaching Chihuahua city. Many travelers choose to disembark in Creel and explore the surrounding area for a few days before making the return trip west. El Chepe makes this kind of itinerary possible with a flexible ticketing system that allows up to three stopovers at no extra cost, as long as they’re selected in advance.

This flexibility turns the journey into a slow-travel experience. You can hop off to explore canyon towns, stay overnight and continue on a later train — some travelers spend a full week soaking in the sights.

There’s no shortage of reasons to linger. In Cerocahui, a 17th-century Jesuit town perched near the rim of Barranca de Urique, the canyon’s deepest gorge, you can stroll through vineyards or take in panoramic views. Near the Divisadero station, thrill seekers will find one of the world’s longest zip lines at the Copper Canyon Adventure Park, where the Urique and Tararecua rivers converge. Others prefer to kayak along the forest-lined Fuerte River, surrounded by silence and pine.

For the most comfortable ride, many travelers recommend booking first-class tickets. While more expensive, these include access to panoramic observation cars and better dining options. As for timing, the best months to go are July through September, when the rainy season has painted the canyons in lush greens. In the dry season, the landscape can appear dusty and sparse, and some of its visual magic fades.

Beyond the stunning views, El Chepe feels like an essential step in getting to know the north — this vast, rugged region that’s so often overlooked.

Ready for the ride?

Whether you’re drawn by the canyon’s vast beauty, Indigenous history or the simple romance of train travel, El Chepe is one of Mexico’s most unforgettable journeys, a window into a lesser-known side of the country. So if you’ve never explored the north, consider this your invitation.

The Copper Canyon is waiting.

Rocio is based in Mexico City and is the creator of CDMX iykyk, a newsletter designed to keep expats, digital nomads and the Mexican diaspora in the loop. The monthly dispatches feature top news, cultural highlights, upcoming CDMX events & local recommendations. For your dose of must-know news about Mexico, subscribe here.

The post El Chepe: An epic way to see northern Mexico’s Copper Canyon appeared first on Mexico News Daily

Few artists feel as woven into the fabric of modern Mexican music as Natalia Lafourcade. With a career spanning more than two decades, she is not just one of Mexico’s most beloved voices but also one of Latin America’s most decorated and enduring songwriters. At 41, Lafourcade holds four Grammy Awards and 18 Latin Grammys — more than any other woman in history, even edging out Shakira.

Over the course of 23 years, she’s released 12 albums and countless songs that have become part of Mexico’s collective soundtrack. One standout is her version of “Nunca es Suficiente” with Los Ángeles Azules, which has racked up more than 2.2 billion views on YouTube and still plays everywhere from taco stands to weddings, a decade after its release.

Lafourcade’s quiet power resonates beyond Mexico too. Her 2017 NPR Tiny Desk Concert is one of the 12 most-watched of all time, a testament to the global reach of her intimate, soul-stirring music.

The making of a musical icon

Born in Mexico City and raised in the lush, artistic atmosphere of Veracruz, Natalia Lafourcade was quite literally surrounded by music from the beginning. Her father was a musician, and her mother, a classically trained pianist, developed the Macarsi teaching method, which combines musical instruction with personal development. That philosophy became Natalia’s foundation.

Lafourcade attended music and art schools throughout her childhood, and by the age of 14, she joined a short-lived teen pop group called Twist. Just three years later, in 2002, she released her self-titled debut album. “En el 2000”, a playful, Y2K-era anthem from that record, became her breakout hit.

In the years that followed, Lafourcade leaned into collaboration, honing her sound alongside fellow musicians and releasing “Hu Hu Hu,” her second solo album. But it was her 2012 tribute project to Agustín Lara, “Mujer Divina,” that truly drew me in. This was the album that made me fall in love with Lafourcade’s music, and the one that revealed just how timeless and touching her artistry could be.

Reimagining tradition

“Mujer Divina” marked a graceful departure from Lafourcade’s pop roots into the romantic world of bolero. In honoring one of Mexico’s most legendary 20th-century composers, she reimagined songs that had been cherished since the 1930s. With the help of other acclaimed musicians, Lafourcade brought new life to Lara’s classics, setting the tone for a new artistic era— one grounded in soulfulness and folk tradition, where her soprano voice soared.

What followed was a series of critically acclaimed albums, including “Hasta la Raíz,” a folk-inspired and emotionally raw record whose title track remains Lafourcade’s most-streamed song on Spotify, and the two-volume “Musas.” These projects, created in collaboration with Los Macorinos — best known as Chavela Vargas’ backing band — paid homage to the richness of Latin American folk music. Here, the singer found her signature sound: acoustic, timeless, reverent.

By 2018, Lafourcade’s star had risen well beyond Mexico. That year, she performed at the 90th Academy Awards alongside Miguel and Gael García Bernal, singing “Remember Me” from Pixar’s “Coco,” which would go on to win the Oscar for Best Original Song.

Lafourcade has remained prolific in recent years, releasing two volumes of “Un Canto por México” and later “De Todas las Flores” in 2022— her first album of entirely original music in seven years. She debuted the project at New York’s Carnegie Hall, accompanied with a book and podcast exploring the album’s themes. Describing the album, Lafourcade called it “my salvation, my relief, the replanting of seeds.”

 “Cancionera” and a new chapter

Natalia Lafourcade’s latest project, “Cancionera,” released earlier this year, feels like her most intimate offering yet— a spiritual unraveling, a love letter to Mexico’s past and perhaps to the artist herself. Recorded entirely in one take on analog tape with 18 musicians, the album echoes the warmth and imperfections of something deeply human. Its sound is steeped in the spirit of the Golden Age of Mexican Cinema and shaped by the reflective weight of turning 40.

“This album is full of symbolism, inspired by the surrealism of Mexico and the values of our tradition and iconography,” Lafourcade told the Associated Press in April. “I wanted to honor the songs and the path of the cancioneras and cancioneros of life.”

When Lafourcade announced the Cancionera tour in February, there was no way I couldn’t go. Although I hadn’t read about the album’s inspirations beforehand, sitting in Toluca’s Teatro Morelos it quickly became clear that the show was built around a character: her alter ego, La Cancionera. Part Chavela Vargas, part smoky mystic in a mezcal-soaked cantina, this character sang boleros and rancheras with aching, deliberate grace. Lafourcade called the performance “el teatro de la canción”— theater of song — and that’s exactly what it was.

The evening unfolded like a quiet spell. “Cancionera” is not just an album; it’s a portal. Whether you’ve been following Lafourcade’s journey for years or are only just discovering her work, this project is a moving reminder of her devotion to Mexican music— and the enduring magic of a voice that keeps finding new ways to sing the soul.

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While deportation numbers rise and fall depending on who is in power in Washington, mass removals to Mexico are not new. They trace back nearly a century to the 1930s Mexican Repatriation, when hundreds of thousands of people of Mexican descent — many of them U.S. citizens — were forcibly expelled from the U.S. during the Great Depression.

In this edition of My American Dream is in Mexico, we share Jackie’s story and the painful journey she endured behind bars before returning to the country her parents once left behind.

‘Learning English became a promise to myself’

Jackie first arrived in the United States at age five, living with her family in California before returning to Guadalajara. At 17, determined to reunite with loved ones and build a future, she crossed the border again without papers.

With little English but a lot of determination, Jackie enrolled in ESL classes at her local high school. Soon after, she moved to Nevada, got married and became pregnant with her first child. But the pregnancy brought unexpected challenges. She gave birth prematurely at six months and struggled to understand the doctors in the NICU, relying on the only Spanish interpreter at the hospital, who wasn’t always available.

“I remember thinking, how can my baby’s life depend on my laziness or my lack of speaking English?” she says. “I decided I had to learn.”

Jackie kept that promise. She learned English, built a life and eventually found work at Misty Phases, a maternal health company offering postpartum essentials. “I love my job,” she says. “I see myself in so many of the girls — nervous, unsure, wondering how things are going to turn out.”

‘Whatever I learn is mine forever’

Jackie made her first big career leap from dishwasher at a nursing home to leasing agent at an apartment complex. The change came not because she had the experience but because she convinced the owners to take a chance on her. She told them she was a fast learner; they’d only need to teach her once.

The memory of her experience with premature birth and struggling to communicate with doctors stayed with her as a constant push to keep learning.

“I realized that anything I learn, I carry with me. Whatever I can learn is mine forever,” she says.

Hungry to keep growing, Jackie turned to a local realtor who, as she puts it, was “kind of lazy.” That worked in her favor.

She offered to take on the tedious tasks he didn’t want to do, if he would teach her the skills. It was the early 2000s, when computers weren’t as common in every household, so learning to write reports on a computer felt like a major step. The realtor was hesitant at first, but Jackie made her case: Once she mastered the work, he could sit back and do even less.

By 2004, when the realtor quit, Jackie saw another opening and made her pitch. She asked the apartment owners to give her a shot at managing the property, arguing that she already knew the vendors and had the skills to do the job. They agreed to give her one month. That month turned into eight years.

But nearly a decade into the role, everything unraveled. The apartment changed ownership, and the new landlords discovered Jackie was undocumented. They let her go.

The loss of her job came just as Jackie made the painful decision to leave her abusive husband. But her freedom came at a devastating cost: He refused to let her take their two sons with her.

Determined to stay afloat, Jackie found work at another apartment complex, though the pay was less than half of what she’d earned before. To make ends meet, she started selling tennis shoes at swap meets and outdoor markets, piecing together a living however she could.

‘I wasn’t myself’

Around this time, Jackie began dating a man from Las Vegas who worked in Hawaii. She visited often and, at his request, signed the lease on an apartment there. What she didn’t know was that he was involved in drug trafficking. After a delivery was made to the apartment, Jackie was arrested. Her name on the lease was enough to send her to jail.

She was sentenced to 16 months for attempting to possess drugs, but her legal troubles were only beginning. Following her lawyer’s advice, she pleaded guilty while her immigration attorney filed an asylum claim on her behalf.

The timing couldn’t have been worse: just before the raid, Jackie had suffered a miscarriage. She arrived at the federal detention center deep in postpartum depression.

“I wasn’t myself. I felt like I was just being given a tour of the prison when I got there,” she says. “The other inmates thought I’d done time before because I was so calm, but I was just depressed.”

The asylum process dragged on. Instead of 16 months, Jackie spent nearly three years behind bars. During that time, she witnessed the sexual abuse of her cellmate by a correctional officer, an experience that left her with PTSD and insomnia.

After two years in the Hawaii detention center, Jackie was transferred to a California jail to await the outcome of her case. But under President Donald Trump’s immigration policies, asylum seekers were required to wait outside the U.S.

Jackie’s petition was denied. In December 2019, she was deported to Mexico.

‘I didn’t need to be afraid to return home’

When she was finally deported to Mexico, she arrived carrying more fear than hope, convinced that returning to the country her parents had left behind would be another kind of punishment.

But once she was back, that fear began to fade.

“I probably left too young,” she says. “I didn’t realize how beautiful my country and culture are. I didn’t need to be afraid to return home.”

A few months after arriving in Guadalajara, Jackie found work at a call center. Most importantly, she reunited with her children after more than three years apart.

It was around this time that Jackie reconnected with Lizeth, a friend she had met years earlier in Nevada during her days as a property manager. Back in Mexico, Jackie proposed that Lizeth bring her on to help with her growing online store. Jackie was already doing similar work for StubHub through the call center, and she saw an opportunity to apply her skills in a new way.

Lizeth agreed, and five years later, Jackie has expanded her expertise into inventory management, customer service and e-commerce operations.

Today, Jackie’s sons are young adults in their early twenties. They visit her often in Guadalajara, and together they’ve traveled throughout Mexico, exploring the beaches and rediscovering the country she once feared returning to.

Jackie is now focused on nurturing her creative side, especially her love of photography. She wants to capture the rich, vibrant essence of Mexico — the warmth, the color, the life she has reclaimed.

“Mexico is not something to be afraid of,” she says. “It’s something to be proud of.”

Rocio is based in Mexico City and is the creator of CDMX iykyk, a newsletter designed to keep expats, digital nomads and the Mexican diaspora in the loop. The monthly dispatches feature top news, cultural highlights, upcoming CDMX events & local recommendations. For your dose of must-know news about Mexico, subscribe here.

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