In Minneapolis, winter is unforgiving. Right now, it’s 0°F (-18°C), with lows predicted to hit -5°F (-20°C). Yesterday, it was -13°F, cold enough to cancel school. These brutal temperatures make outdoor activities unappealing, if not impossible, for most of the year. (For me, a Los Angeles kid. There are folks here who shovel snow in cargo shorts and wear ankle socks in eight inches of snow. Good for them.)
For contrast, Mérida (In Mexico’s Yucatan) enjoys a tropical climate, with temperatures ranging from 65°F to 97°F (18°C to 36°C). What’s that sound? My heart must be aflutter.
Having grown up in Southern California, where it’s almost always warmer than Minnesota, I have to say this kind of warmth doesn’t just change the way people dress—it transforms daily life. I can see from my research and the testimonials of other visitors that evenings in Mérida aren’t spent huddled indoors but are meant for gathering, dining outside, dancing, and making music. The culture thrives on connection, a stark contrast to the survival-mode existence I’ve grown accustomed to in the USA. It’s so much easier to move freely when you’re not thickened by the constraints of multiple layers of clothing.
Leaving Survival Mode Behind
It’s strange to realize how much of my life has been shaped by hypervigilance. When you spend years navigating a world where safety is never guaranteed, it becomes second nature to scan a room, park strategically, and avoid certain streets. I feel like everyone with daughters in the USA can relate to that.
Mérida offers a very different kind of life; one where I don’t have to plan my day around other people’s schedules, cleverly-named snowplows, or the latest crime reports. One where stepping outside at night doesn’t require a risk assessment. One where I can be part of a culture that embraces the simple joy of being outside—together—as much as I enjoy retreating to my own sanctuary for creativity and silence.
I’ve been listening to King by Florence and the Machine on repeat lately, and the lyrics capture this transition perfectly:
“I need my golden crown of sorrow, My bloody sword to swing, I need my empty halls to echo with grand self-mythology. I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king.”
Incidentally, King is my maiden name. When she sings, “I am King,” I feel it in my soul—like my ancestor Joseph King is telling me to get myself to Mexico, to find somewhere safe in case my children or grandchildren ever need to escape the U.S.
Joseph’s entire family fled Russia between 1905-1907 because he was on a watchlist for being a revolutionary. He and his cohort trained the people of Zhytomyr to fight back against their invaders and defeated a pogrom. That made him an enemy of the state, so at age 19 he fled the Ukraine to the USA with his father and two brothers. My great great grandmother Eva traveled a few months later, with the rest of his siblings. Even when she was in her 80’s, Great Grand Aunt Betty remembered smuggling the dining room’s dinner rolls in her pockets to share with the passengers in steerage; “they were so hungry and not allowed into the dining room.”
What I do know is this: I want to feel safe in my bones, physically and emotionally. I want to create. I want to be barefoot. I want to swim in warm water. I want to learn a new language through its music, films, and history. I want to eat all the (corn) tortillas and drink all the tequila (lol maybe after I build up a tolerance to alcohol). I am a glutton for exploring and tasting and experiencing this world, we only get one life. I can’t imagine not wanting to explore.
A Safer Environment
In Minneapolis, the crime index stands at 56.06. Muggings, assaults, and carjackings are a reality. Mérida, on the other hand, has a crime index of 24.64. Women can walk at night without clutching their keys between their fingers. They can exist in public spaces without fear being their default setting.
These numbers aren’t just statistics; they represent a different way of living. Right now, I don’t go out at night unless I have to—dinner with my daughter, an awards ceremony, a 6:30 dinner reservation that barely qualifies as nightlife. There is definitely no dancing except on skates in my own living room. In Mexico, I imagine myself rollerskating through a bustling town square, live music filling the air, feeling the humid night breeze on my skin, a belly full of ceviche, maybe a Sangria with clean air in my lungs, warm-water beaches and never more than 13 hours of darkness in 24 hours.
The Freedom to Live Differently
I know some people will say I’m romanticizing a place I haven’t lived in yet. But I’ve been to Mexico once before. I spent ten days in Puerto Vallarta in 2019, and while I know no place is perfectly safe, I also know this: I am choosing my future. I have every right to choose how I want to live.
In Seattle, I was punched in the head by an unhoused woman just walking down the street. I loved that city—if I could afford to live there today, I would go back in a heartbeat. I didn’t choose to lose my home. In Minneapolis, I have been safe in the sense that nothing terrible has happened, but also I barely leave the house in the winter. Is that really safety? Or is it just another version of being trapped? I haven’t made many friends or felt a sense of community much, I’ve been dealing with my own internal stuff. Cohabitation has been a huge C-PTSD trigger, that’s filtered my experiences here in MN so very. much. Not feeling “like myself” I was detached and literally could not connect with anyone at school or at Roller Derby or at the coworking space or at TCS. Friendly casual statements always landed wrong. CPTSD tricks you into interpreting everything as a threat. It’s really hard work to see reality through that fog.
But even that’s in the past already. For the first time in my adult life, I am designing a life where I get to exist outside of the shadows. I don’t have to keep my spotlight on my children, I can shine it on my interests, my goals, my own dreams and life. It’s a life where I can go where I want, when I want, without the expectation of communicating my comings and goings, or the weight of constant vigilance. Where the night air isn’t something to be avoided, but something to embrace.
I don’t think Matteo will be joining me on this first trip, which I expect will last six months. He has a lower tolerance for uncertainty, and his stress would transfer onto me in ways that trigger my CPTSD, making me less sharp and detached from my surroundings—ironically, the opposite of safe. It’s better for both of us if I go alone, get things set up, and find my rhythm.
Our first stop will be a larger city where we can lean on English if we need to while mostly immersing ourselves in Spanish. I feel like I need 2-3 months of that 50/50 immersion before I can handle 100% Spanish. After that, I want to settle somewhere quiet but walkable, where I don’t need a car and can sustain myself on my own income, should he opt to stay back. Self-sustainability is always the goal.
Almost Heaven
Mexico is not perfect. No place is. But compared to where I am now, it feels like another world.
The idea of walking freely at night, past open-air cafés, past families enjoying an evening stroll, past street musicians playing to crowds who aren’t rushing home—this is what calls me south. Not just the warmth in temperature, but the warmth in life.
Minneapolis will always hold a piece of my heart—its bike paths, its rollerskating studio, the friends I’ve made here. But my future isn’t here. My future is somewhere I can be outside, where I can live, breathe, and finally step into the autonomous life I’ve been dreaming of. I was born to be me, my wants matter. I own my life and nobody else is qualified or authorized to make plans for me.