Lately, I’ve felt a strong pull toward the rituals, places, and people that remind me who I am. This season has been so full; full of making, layering, and connecting with others in the best way.

In early October, my crafties girl gang made candles together as I re-learned this skill. I’d done it once before buuuut to this day, I still don’t understand the math. Grateful for friends who sit with you through confusion and have the patience to teach and re-teach when you need it most.

We all made lovely, smelly candles and gathered in my dining room with bagels, cookies, coffee, and other snackies, catching up on our hectic lives.

Creation has always been my way of processing, of turning chaos into something intentional. Making cool stuff in community has truly deepened that for me.

As we sipped coffee, chismeamos sobre upcoming trips, goals, and hopes for the rest of 2025 and 2026. There was something grounding about crafting warmth against the oncoming dark of the Pacific Northwest. It was special, and I loved hearing what everyone had going on. It’s almost like that light helps guide our paths forward.

My dad has held the same intention for years: that our family would one day dress up as catrines for Día de Muertos in Mexico City, alongside mis tíos (his siblings) who do this every year.

I spent so many summers and winter holidays en la Ciudad de México at my grandparents’ homes, surrounded by endless tíos, tías, primos y primas. Those memories still glow like flickering lights in my mind. So much of quien soy was shaped by that city and its people: the sights, the sounds, the taste of it all. I miss it every day.

These days, I don’t get to visit as often, so I leapt at the chance to go this year for Día de Muertos.

My dad’s side of the family has this tradition of heading to the Coyoacán neighborhood, dressing up, and joining the crowd en la plaza for Día de Muertos. They go all out: handmaking their costumes every year, and they’re such a sight that people constantly stop to take photos with them. It’s a whole production. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but I did know I was 100% in.

As we planned, I began sketching, collecting references, and creating a mood board (of course).

I knew I wanted to thrift/design my own costume for this. I wanted a somewhat modern Catrina look, so I opted for a dress I had from a previous costume and added red tulle underneath it to give it a papel picado look.

And then there were the masks.

Because I couldn’t find anything that felt exactly right, I decided to make them myself. I spent a few weekends experimenting with papier-mâché: layering, shaping the material and bringing my visions to life. Then I wanted my husband’s mask to match mine. Then I started imagining one for my brother.

What began as a quick art project I thought would take a couple of weeks became its own ritual: a way to honor my culture and create something personal for my husband, my brother, and myself.

Luckily, I had already gathered a bunch of supplies. I’d been curious about papier-mâché for a while and thought this might be the perfect opportunity to try it. I hadn’t done it since high school, but why not?! How long could it take? (Spoiler alert: 4 months)

I used newspaper and paper packaging I had lying around, Elmer’s glue, and mesh I purchased to form the base. Then I layered on gesso, sanded, and repeated several times until I got a smooth white surface.

Once the masks were done and I’d gotten the sizing just right, I started painting and adding details. The final touch was a bit of foam padding on the inside, to make them comfortable to wear.
In the end, did I end up wearing the mask I created for myself? Nope! I got real fancy with it and got my hair and makeup done by the wonderful team at Alesuart.

The photographer took me to Parque México nearby and on the walk there and back to the studio, I posed in front of this incredible mural.

But I digress. I’m still so proud of the mask project, because when I started, I had no idea what I was doing. I vaguely remembered what papier-mâché felt like & how moldable it was—and just went for it. I loved the process of gluing each layer, sanding the edges, composing the visuals, and sketching out concepts that slowly came to life.

There’s a particular yearning that comes with distance from the smells, the colors, the cadence of a language spoken in what feels like another lifetime. While crafting the masks, I often listened to cumbias and rancheras, imagining the visuals moving to the rhythm of the songs.

In the end, I made three masks: one for my husband, one for my brother, and one for myself. *Taaa daaaa!*

Through these small acts of creation: pouring wax, painting masks, making meaning—I’ve found ways to bridge that distance. To learn from loss. To make light, literally and figuratively, for what lies ahead.

What are some of your favorite fall rituals or traditions that ground you? 🍂

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