Living at Mexico’s Pace

When people hear I moved to Mexico, they assume I’m one of three things. I’m a silver-haired beach bum with a pension and a strong opinion about the best birria recipe. I’m a digital nomad trying to find Wi-Fi in the jungle while “finding myself.” Or I’m running from the law and three ex-spouses.

Sorry to disappoint, but I’m none of those.

I have a full-time job I’m exceptionally good at. I write community features and hard-hitting news stories from a makeshift office that I move from outside or from room to room to coincide with my cat’s favorite sunbeam. I also own and run my own business, and I organize that with passive-aggressive Post-it notes. And then there’s my travel blog. That's my creative outlet, my mental escape, and my excuse to take too many pictures of street food.

But even with all that going on in my daily life, I’m not burned out anymore. Because, inexplicably, slowing down has become my default setting. And I didn’t choose that. Mexico did it to me. It forced me to stop racing through life and to instead start living it. And honestly? I’m not mad about it.

Back in the States, my life was full speed all the time. If I weren’t juggling emails, meetings, invoices, or to-do lists, I felt like I was failing. Even the vacations I went on were just relocation stress. The same chaos, just in different time zones.

I believed in the holy trinity of modern life: More! Faster! Now! “Sleep is for the weak.” “Hustle harder.” “You can rest when you’re dead.” “Baller’s gotta ball!” These were actual thoughts I had. I remember once answering emails from my hospital bed after an emergency gall bladder removal surgery. I remember I thought that was somehow a normal thing to do.

And then I moved to Mexico.

There’s a famous saying here, “Mañana, mañana.” It technically means “tomorrow,” but what I think it really means is “not today, and probably not tomorrow either, but maybe someday when the stars align between now and the end of the Mayan calendar.”

It’s not laziness. It’s prioritizing peace over pressure. Sort of like a kind of unspoken agreement in that nothing is worth getting ulcers over. This concept was incredibly difficult for my Type A soul to digest.

Back home, I scheduled my days in 15-minute increments. But here, I once waited five days for a guy named Ricardo to show up with a wrench. When he finally arrived, long after the sun had set, he smiled, gave me a fist bump, and said, “Tranquila, amiga. No pasa nada.” He then fixed my broken sink, and stayed for a beer and a long, unplanned and fascinating conversation about the avocado industry.

That, and many random occurrences like it, have taught me something since I moved here. Things don’t have to happen instantly to still happen. It’s just not how they roll here. Things still happen without the sense of urgency to make them happen. And if you try to roll faster than the culture allows, you’ll find yourself steamrolling your own sanity.

Now, when I say I’ve slowed down, I don’t mean I gave up or went full zen monk. I still get stuff done. My deadlines are met. My work calls are on time. I still color-code my to-do list because old habits die hard. But my pace is different.

I now take two or three hour lunches without guilt, because lunch is sacred and tacos deserve respect.

I now sit quietly outside every morning with coffee for as long as I want. Not scrolling. Just sitting.

I now say “no” to things that feel frantic or soul-sucking, no matter how productive they are.

I now take afternoons off sometimes, simply because the sky might be extra pretty shade of blue that day.

I now plan my work around my life, not the other way around.

Back in my “I’m a baller, shot caller” lifestyle, I wore busyness like a badge of honor. Now, I wear tranquilidad like sunscreen. It’s just as essential, and it prevents wrinkles!

No one cares how busy I am here. It’s simply not impressive, as Mexico simply doesn’t tolerate that kind of nonsense. Telling someone you worked 10 hours straight doesn’t earn you applause, it earns you concern. People will say, “Pero por qué, amiga? La vida no es solo trabajo.” And then they’ll hand you a plate of food and force you to sit down.

Sometimes the power goes out and the internet’s down? And guess what? That just means I’m done working for the day. I’ve learned that I can either fight it or grab my flip-flops and take a walk to the corner tienda for a coconut water. Either way, my router doesn’t care.

At first, I was a right ol’ nervous Nellie, and I’d think of all kinds of awful scenarios, and each one ended up with me losing my job or my contracts. But then I realized that the world didn’t end, and the emails could wait.

In Mexico, there’s this weird plot twist to a work/life balance that nobody warned me about. Doing less actually helps me do more. Not in an “I gamed the system” way, but in the “my brain works better when it’s not fried” way.

I’m sharper. I’m more creative. I actually finish things. My writing doesn’t take ten hours and seven internal breakdowns. My business decisions are clearer. I no longer wake up at 3 AM thinking about what I didn’t do. I still sometimes wake up from a delicious fever dream about tacos, but that’s unrelated.

Mexico has taught me to pace myself. Life isn’t a sprint. It’s more like a local street market. It’s chaotic, colorful, and better enjoyed slowly with a snack in hand.

It’s taught me that someone’s value isn’t tied to their output. We’re not factories. We’re allowed to exist without “producing” something every hour on the hour.

It’s taught me that sometimes the best productivity hack is a rest. Or a nap. Or a walk. Or a long chat with someone selling tamales out of a cooler.

I’m living proof that even someone with three jobs and serious addictions to deadlines (and apparently, oversharing) can slow down, breathe, and still kick arse.

Because slowing down doesn’t mean giving up. It just means finally giving yourself permission to be a person, not some productivity machine with a caffeine problem and a LinkedIn profile.

So if you need me, I’ll be here. Barefoot, messy hair doing its own thing, an agua fresca sweating in one hand, and a to-do list in the other that now knows who’s boss. I’m still working, still building, still juggling, but I’m not sprinting anymore to prove I’m worthy. I’m moving slower now, on purpose. Fierce, focused, and fully present.

You see, I didn’t come to Mexico to burn out in a prettier location. I came to finally remember what it feels like to live, and to breathe, and to slow down into my very best version of manaña.