Three lessons about death that I learned from Dia de los Muertos

This is the story of how I manifested my way to Oaxaca for the day of the dead, what I learned there, and how the universe granted me a sign that there is more to this world than meets the eye.

In October, I finished my gig in Las Vegas and jumped on a plane to Mexico City. There, I suddenly realised that my journey would take me through Oaxaca, the region known for the country’s most vibrant and elaborate day of the dead celebrations.

There was only one problem: I didn’t have a place to stay and hotels were sold out months ago.

So I did what I’ve gotten accustomed to doing on this trip. I decided to manifest someone to stay with.

I know that when you manifest, you’re only supposed to use the power of your mind. But I’m not quite there yet, and instead, I’ve designed my own manifestation technique. It’s simple: I write down what I want, taking a few steps in the right direction, and trust that the universe will meet me half way.

So I sent a few texts to my Mexican friends, to see if they knew anyone in Oaxaca, and immediately went out to have tacos.

And it worked: the guy standing next to me at the taco stand happened to have the same hand tattoo as I do, and after a short chat, he told me that he was going to Oaxaca for Day of the Dead and that I could stay with him and his friends. And people claim magic isn’t real…

First lesson: Death can be joyful and just fucking fun

I spent the first few days of the celebrations in Zipolite, a small nudist beach town on the Pacific coast. There, I was invited to stay at the family run hotel Budamar, where Miraceti and her family hosted a pageant to honour Catrina, the lady of death. Not to be feared but rather to be befriended.

Unfortunately (but deservedly) I did not win.

But I did get my face painted in an impressive collaborative work of art, and I got to flaunt my look next to a few naked penises. Which felt like a win: for me, death will from now on always be associated with the dick of a cheerful German tourist with a flower painted on the crown of his head. And that beats a lot of other associations.

Second lesson: Grief feels lighter when it is shared

I should know. I’ve accompanied my partner to his death. My associations are both profound and difficult. But not joyfully absurd.

After Javier’s death, I’ve remembered him on the anniversary of his passing. And on his birthday. It sometimes feels lonely. His family is usually far away, and I feel compelled to spend time in solitude to honour Javier’s memory. Talking about him feels like imposing my grief on others. And when you lose a partner in your thirties, you often feel like you’ve been condemned to grieve alone.

In Mexico, Dia de los Muertos showed me what I already knew but sometimes struggle to feel: that I’m not alone in experiencing grief and loss.

Remembering Javier alongside a sea of people who were also remembering their loved ones felt… comforting. It relieved the burden of having to mark the date in my calendar. Of having an obligation to step out of my everyday routine to honour my partner since there’s already a day for that. It felt lighter.

Third lesson: Relationships don’t end with death

And yes, seeing how the Mexicans remember their dead stirred something in me.

Their relationship to the dead isn’t abstract. It isn’t just a thought. A fleeting memory. A faded picture.

No. The Mexican spend weeks preparing. They carefully and intentionally create altars in their homes. They make small offerings to the people they have lost. They decorate and visit their tombs—they eat lunch and dinner at the graves. They play live music. They talk to their dead. They share stories. They meditate. They drink, sing, and laugh. They spend time with them.

Walking through the graveyards and seeing how these places came alive was a powerful reminder that relationships based on love are never ending. Even when the other is gone, we keep them alive in the countless conversations we have with them in our minds.

The sign

Seeing so many people go to such lengths to pay tribute to their dead inspired me.

At the graveyard in the center of Oaxaca I decided I would search for a grave that said Javier. Apparently, it is not a common name in Mexico, cause I could not, for the life of me, find any.

So I kinda gave up on the idea.

“It can say Romero as well,” I reasoned—Romero was Javier’s last name. And as soon as I had finished that thought, I saw it: a tomb that said Romero. “Wow!” I laughed to myself, “that was fast.” And then, tears, as I looked closer and realised that the grave I had found belonged, indeed, to Javier Romero.

There he was. Waiting for me. Comforting me. And impatiently demanding that I pay attention: “If you’re gonna be worrying about practicalities, I’ll leave” he said, as my mind drifted.

And that’s how I knew it was really him.