Updates from Vallarta
“Fear doesn't stop death. It stops life.” — Vi Keeland
One of my latest paintings done for my niece, Mia.
March 2nd, 2026
📍Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico 🇲🇽
¡Saludos desde el desierto!
I’ve been trying to figure out what to say about the events in Mexico last week.
I was in San Pancho when the violence began in Jalisco—miles away, technically in another state—walking along an almost empty beach, blissfully unaware of what was unfolding closer to home.
When I finally checked my phone, I had a string of missed calls and texts from friends in Jalisco and Nayarit telling me to stay home. Before there were answers, there were rumors. Before there were facts, there were headlines. All I knew at first was that cars were being lit on fire outside the home of someone I know in Vallarta.
I did what most of us do—I went online. I sifted through speculation. I felt the pull of sensational headlines. I texted my family group chat. I posted that I was safe. I checked in on my local friends. I was deeply grateful for those of you who reached out.
As my friend and I walked back from breakfast, the tone of the town shifted. Shops began closing. Restaurants shut their doors. Beach clubs emptied out. We soon learned incidents had spread into Bucerías (where I’m living), La Cruz, and north toward Guayabitos. The airport closed. Highways were blocked. Stay-at-home orders were issued. For 24 hours, I was “stuck” in San Pancho. And yet…
San Pancho beach at sunset
With the beach clubs closed and most people indoors, glued to their phones, the shoreline was quiet. I spent the afternoon swimming in the pool, checking on the neighbors.
Because we were only supposed to be there for the weekend, we were low on supplies. My friend stood in line for two hours at the only tienda open, buying food and water not just for us, but for our neighbors. Local Facebook groups filled with posts from Mexicans reminding one another: check on the tourists. We don’t know how long we will be locked down and they probably don’t have stocked pantries.
Amid fear, Love showed up. Not abstractly. Practically.
I’m learning that this is part of what it means to be Mexican—demonstrable care for one another in the face of uncertainty.
My offrenda of Love for Mexico, made on San Pancho Beach
And being inside of it—not watching from a screen, but living it in real time—made something undeniable rise to the surface: In moments of crisis, everyone’s relationship with fear reveals itself. You can see it in people’s eyes. You can hear it in their tone. Some move toward community. Some move toward control. Some freeze. Some flee. Last week, all of it was on display.
Some people spiraled. Some became angry. Some tried to flee through a closed airport. I could see the nervous systems of less seasoned travelers firing on all cylinders—doom scrolling, worst-case-scenario thinking, the primal need to escape. It was so human.
It would have been easy to co-regulate to that collective panic. To let imagination outrun reality. But here is the grounded truth from someone on the ground: The events were targeted. They were contained. There were no armed men roaming beaches. There was no targeting of tourists or planes on fire. By the next day, roads reopened. Shops returned to normal rhythm. The ocean views never stopped being beautiful.
I don’t say this to invalidate fear. When we see images of burning cars, our bodies react. That’s natural. But fear without context can distort reality.
Mexico is not a caricature. It is not a headline. It is not a political talking point.
My remote work location
It is families who depend on tourism to feed their children. It is fishermen blessing their boats. It is thoughtful people standing in line to buy groceries for their neighbors. It is sunsets that remind you that beauty heals.
Sensational news cycles and AI-amplified imagery can make this paradise look like a war zone from afar. From here, it is very different. I am here and I never felt anything but safe, especially now that life has returned to its normal rhythm.
Tourism is the lifeblood of this region. When fear keeps visitors away, it is not cartel leaders who suffer—it is restaurant owners, housekeepers, drivers, artisans, fishermen. The Mexican people are not the problem.
So here is my invitation: If you’ve been hesitating… come see for yourself. Come walk the beach at sunset. Come eat the best tacos of your life. Come experience the kind of communal care that quietly steadies a town when the headlines flare.
Don’t let fear make your world smaller. There is still beauty here. There is still safety here. There is still Love here.
And I cannot wait to welcome those of you joining me in this paradise for the RENEW Janzu Retreat in April.
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