After successfully resolving the great manual-versus-automatic transmission debate, I headed into the French countryside for a family wedding, pretty pleased with myself.

I drove the unfamiliar roads. I survived the roundabouts. GPS delivered me to my teeny tiny hotel without accidentally sending me to Spain. What could possibly be next?

When I travel, I almost always choose traditional and rustic over modern and predictable. If I have the opportunity to stay somewhere that actually feels like the place I’m visiting, I take it. So naturally, for rural France, I chose a 13th-century hotel.

I did, however, have two requirements: Wi-Fi and air conditioning. As you may know, Europe is experiencing a heatwave, sending numerous people to dive in fountains to cool off. While I appreciate authenticity, I do have limits. The hotel website assured me it had both wifi and AC.

Technically, this may have been true.

Wi-Fi existed, although apparently it decided sometime around the 14th century that there was no reason to extend itself beyond one small area of the ground floor. No problem. I could adapt.

Air conditioning had a somewhat broader interpretation. I’m not sure how AC translates in French, but the English version of the website assured me that it was there and operational.

In my charming little attic room, I found a small fan with three speeds. Perhaps somewhere in the translation from French to English, “fan” becomes “air conditioning.” Or perhaps after 700 years, expectations are simply different. I later learned that adding water to a small reservoir at the back can potentially cool the warm air blowing through it….hence, air conditioning??

Then I discovered the room had exactly one electrical outlet. Now I had a serious decision to make.

Fan or phone? The fan won.

I had just spent considerable time debating whether I was brave enough to drive a manual transmission in France. I was not going to be defeated by a single electrical outlet.

In the dead of night, I took my adapter and multi-outlet charging hub downstairs, found an available outlet in a far corner of the dining area, and set up what looked like a small international charging station for my three devices. I had to laugh at myself creeping in the dark through the dining room with my phone flashlight searching for an outlet. But found it, I did.

Problem solved.

Hair drying and styling required another strategy. I simply woke up early enough to beat the cook to the kitchen and the diners for breakfast and turned the charging station into a mini-salon.

Which left the issue of the toilet. There was no flush handle. Or one that I could find. No button on the wall. Nothing obvious anywhere. I have encountered squat toilets in India. I have used primitive board toilets in the Himalayas. A 13th-century French hotel toilet was not going to be my undoing. I had already bothered the host enough by questioning the air conditioning and the lack of outlets. I was not going to be the whiny American who couldn’t even figure out how to flush the toilet.

I pushed, pulled, poked and investigated every crack, crevice and piece of plumbing until I finally discovered a tiny button near the floor.

Success. Water rose. Mechanisms engaged. Civilization prevailed.

And really, that is one of the things I love most about traveling. You can plan. You can research. You can check the box that says “air conditioning.”

And then you arrive. The adventure is figuring out what that checked box actually meant.

I had a brief fantasy about becoming the kind of person who casually drives a stick shift through the French countryside. Top down, wind in my hair, breezing by sunflower and lavender fields. After all, I learned on a manual transmission. I drove one for years. Twenty years ago.

When I reserved my rental car in Toulouse (headed to a family wedding this week), the little voice in my head whispered, Come on, Deborah. You’ve still got it. Another voice, one that has aged alongside me, responded, Or….maybe not. The debate continued for a few hours.

Part of me loved the story. Imagine it: overcoming fear, rediscovering an old skill, proving to myself that I could still do hard things. The other part of me pictured stalling repeatedly in the middle of a French village while a dozen impatient locals cursed this American abroad.

Eventually I surrendered and reserved the only car with an automatic transmission available. Was I a wimp? Did I chicken out on a possible adventure? As it turns out, this may have been one of the better decisions I’ve made.

Within thirty-six hours of travel, I found myself in four countries, juggling three languages and three currencies. My brain was already trying to remember whether merci, gracias, or thank you was the appropriate response. I was pooped and hungry…..and soon to be hot (heat wave in France).

Then there was the GPS. Bless whoever invented that miraculous bit of technology. My destination wasn’t Paris or even Toulouse. It was a tiny 13^th-century hotel tucked away in the French countryside where every road looked like every other road, and every intersection seemed to feature 4 blind corners. The single lanes winding through vineyards and sunflower fields surely couldn’t be right. Trust the process and the GPS.

I have never encountered so many roundabouts in my life. Miss one exit and I’m fairly certain I’d eventually wander into Spain. Actually, I was close enough that this wasn’t entirely a joke.

As I drove through vineyards and sunflower fields, happily letting the automatic transmission do its thing, I realized something.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life believing courage meant always choosing the harder, more challenging path. Sometimes it does. Sometimes courage is learning a new language, moving to another country, or walking into a stranger’s life with a camera and enough curiosity to ask good questions. And sometimes courage is admitting that maybe today isn’t the day to relearn a skill you haven’t practiced since disco was popular. The French rural roads were adventure enough. But there was more to come.

The manual transmission can wait another twenty years.

*************************Coming Soon: Witness: What Women Hold************************

Curiosity has taken me down a lot of unexpected roads. One of them became a book.

My upcoming book, Witness, brings together my black-and-white photographs and stories of women in Mexico, women whose lives have reminded me that wherever we live, we are often more alike than we imagine.

I’ll be sharing more about the book and the stories behind it in the months ahead. Stay tuned.

When I signed up for a storytelling photography workshop with Magnum photographer Matt Black recently, I expected to spend my days wandering the streets of Santa Fe looking for photographs that wouldn’t embarrass me during the morning critiques. I didn’t expect lowriders.

(If you’ve never heard of lowriders, Google can explain them better than I can. I’ll wait.)

Like many people, I carried the usual assumptions. Loud cars. Loud music. A rebellious subculture that I’d never experienced. I’ve always admired the artwork on the cars from a distance, but never imagined I’d spend an afternoon immersed in one family’s world.

Curiosity has a way of changing plans.

Thanks to our wonderful workshop assistant and a little patient persistence, I tracked down one of the grand dames of Española, New Mexico, the self-proclaimed “Lowrider Capital of the World.” Joan Medina welcomed me into her home, where she, her husband “LowLow,” and their daughters generously spent three hours introducing me to the art, family traditions, and sense of community behind lowriders.

I expected to photograph beautifully restored cars. Instead, I found myself photographing something much more interesting. Family.

The driveway and too-many-to-count storage buildings were a revolving door of stories. The cars in every stage of restoration were fascinating. But the people who loved them fascinated me even more.

As I listened, it became clear that these automobiles weren’t symbols of rebellion at all. They were family heirlooms, restored and painted by hand, expressions of creativity passed from one generation to the next. Every modification carried a story. Every fresh coat of candy paint or repaint marked another chapter in a tradition rooted in craftsmanship, neighborhood pride, and belonging.

By the end of the afternoon, I could identify pinstriping, hydraulic suspensions, and at least a few shades of candy paint. Twenty-four hours earlier, I couldn’t have identified a lowrider if it had been parked in my driveway.

What surprised me most wasn’t the artistry of the cars; it was the generosity of the people. Complete strangers welcomed me into their lives simply because I was curious enough to ask questions and, I hope, respectful enough to listen.

Then they casually mentioned they’d been photographed by National Geographic...twice. Featured on 60 Minutes. And that one of their cars is currently traveling as part of a Smithsonian exhibition. Apparently I had wandered into lowrider royalty without having the slightest idea.

Photography has taught me that my camera is rarely about making pictures. It’s an invitation into conversations I otherwise would never have. It gives me permission to slow down, to ask questions, and to discover that the stories we tell ourselves about other people are often incomplete.

The longer I photograph, the more convinced I become that curiosity is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves. It has carried me from pueblos in Mexico to neighborhoods in New Mexico, from men making adobe bricks to families preserving lowrider traditions. Each time, I leave with photographs, yes, but more importantly, with a deeper understanding of people whose lives aren’t nearly as different from mine as I once imagined. Does curiosity come with a few risks? Indeed. But the rewards far outweigh any case of nerves as we say “yes” to new opportunities to experience something.

If this unexpected afternoon taught me anything, it’s this: curiosity doesn’t have an expiration date. Every time I follow it, another stereotype quietly falls away. And every time, I discover that we’re far more alike than we imagine.

It finally happened.

After nearly five years of living in Mexico, I have officially run afoul of the law. Before you imagine an episode of Locked Up Abroad, let me reassure you that my life of crime involved...parking.

Specifically, parking where I apparently should not have parked too close to an intersection. The white piece of paper with large black letters tucked under my windshield wiper looked, even from a distance, very official. Not just the usual note from a neighbor asking me to park elsewhere. In the US, a parking ticket is annoying. In Mexico, where my Spanish vocabulary still inches along somewhere between ordering tacos and talking about the weather, it felt like I had committed an international crime.

My imagination immediately went to work. Would I need a lawyer? Would they tow my car? Would I need to sign up to spend weekends picking up trash on the Malecón? There was only one solution. Face the music. And do it quickly.

Armed with a small amount of knowledge of apologetic Spanish, shaky confidence, and the confidence gained from successfully navigating conversational Spanish, I planned a trip to the municipal police office. To my surprise, no one seemed particularly interested in treating me like Public Enemy Number One.

Instead, everyone was... exceedingly helpful, kind, and smiling. The process, however, required a bit of a scavenger hunt. One office sent me to another. That office sent me somewhere else. I walked hallways, went to three different floors of the UMA building, and finally added an official sticker to the back of my ticket, which gave me permission to pay. I smiled at everyone, the universal language of I’m trying my best to do the right thing.

Somewhere along the way, a woman who didn’t fit my false stereotype of a municipal employee looked at my paperwork and informed me that because I had come in promptly, I qualified for a discount. I wasn’t exactly certain that’s what she said, but I did get the 590 MXN fine reduced to 283 MXN. Time off for good behavior kind of thing? A discount. Apparently Mexican parking tickets have an early-bird special.

One of the unexpected gifts of living abroad is realizing that courage rarely arrives with fanfare or awards. More often, it looks like walking into a government office where I don’t speak the language fluently (yet), hoping I’m in the right line (usually wasn’t), and trusting that I’ll somehow figure it out (I did).

Every new, unfamiliar process such as renewing residency, opening a bank account, getting my car’s smog sticker, or paying a parking ticket, chips away at the belief that I can’t do this. Little by little, the foreign becomes familiar. The intimidating becomes routine. And one day I find myself leaving a municipal building not just with a receipt, but with a little more confidence than I had when I walked in. It’s funny how the smallest victories can make a place feel a little more like home.

For the record, I still intend to stay on the right side of the law. But if life in Mexico has taught me anything, it’s that courage isn’t always found in the extraordinary adventures. Sometimes it’s found in simply paying a parking ticket...and discovering that even running afoul of the law can come with an unexpected discount.

My curious mind is exhausting. Just ask my family and friends. Or anyone who has ever made the mistake of saying, “I wonder why...” within earshot of me.

A simple question rarely stays simple. “I wonder why Escaramuzas ride side saddle.” Two hours later, I’ve somehow wandered through Google into the history of women in charro culture, the role of tradition in modern Mexico, Marianismo, and whether goat milk belongs in coffee. (For the record, here in Puerto Vallarta and other parts of Mexico, it absolutely does. See my previous Substack.)

A few days ago, my curiosity latched onto another question. Like good photos, do conversations have layers? Not because I’d been reading heavy philosophy. Quite the opposite. I was sitting with a friend in an open-air café in a tiny town in the Sierra Madre mountains, discussing the important issues of the day, which included a relative, a boyfriend, and a number of overnight visits. Somewhere between that round of chisme (gossip) and my second cup of coffee, I remembered a quote I believe is attributed to one of my favorite badass ladies, Eleanor Roosevelt:

“Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people.”

I’ve always been a little uncomfortable with that quote. It feels...judgy. Maybe conversations aren’t meant to be categorized. Maybe they simply evolve. They often begin with people. Then move to events. And every now and then, someone asks why.

That’s when the conversation quietly shifts toward ideas.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that’s exactly how I believe my photography works.

At first, I think I’m photographing a festival, women riding horses, or a family on the beach. But if I make myself stay long enough, the photographs become about something else entirely: identity, resilience, change, belonging, and what we choose to carry forward.

Perhaps that’s why I return to the same people and places again and again. Not because I’m looking for a different photograph, but because I’m hoping for a deeper understanding. I now confess:

The camera is simply my excuse to keep asking questions.

I’ve often said that curiosity is my favorite thing about myself. Not because it gives me answers, but because it reminds me how much I still have to learn. Every answer seems to uncover another question, another story, another reason to return. I’ve begun to think that curiosity is simply the willingness to stay with something long enough for it to reveal itself. Rather than simply look at (or talk about) people or events, there’s bound to be a “why” or a “WTF” in there somewhere.

Photography has introduced me to remarkable people whose stories have changed the way I see the world. It has reminded me that the first impression is rarely the whole story, and that understanding almost always takes longer than I expect.

So yes, my curious mind is exhausting. And drags me beyond the chisme.

It sends me down rabbit holes and to places I never intended to explore. It asks one more question when everyone else seems ready to move on. But it has also brought remarkable people into my life, opened doors I never knew existed, and taught me to look a little longer, listen a little better, and leave room to be surprised.

For all of that...

I’m deeply grateful. And exhausted.

A colleague who has been part of the design process for my books recently wrote a beautiful Substack about the importance of surrender. It struck a nerve.

Now, anyone who knows me well knows that I appreciate a good plan. I enjoy schedules, checklists, and knowing what happens next. Some might call that being controlling. I prefer to think of it as being highly organized and exceptionally talented at managing outcomes. Am I fooling myself ????

Unfortunately, life and especially learning Spanish do not seem particularly interested in my management skills.

The phrase that keeps coming to mind is simple:

Trust the process, babe.

This week, I spent 20 hours immersed in Spanish classes. Twenty hours. That’s a lot of verbs, a lot of vocabulary, and a lot of opportunities to discover new and creative ways to embarrass myself.

I have been trying to learn Spanish for a very long time. In fact, I can trace my fascination with the language all the way back to second grade, when I checked out my first Spanish grammar book from the library. I’ve always loved the culture, the people, the rhythm of the language, and yes, the impossibly beautiful flow of Mexican music.

For decades, I secretly believed I could simply will myself into fluency. Surely determination alone would be enough.

As it turns out, Spanish has other ideas.

Learning a language, at least for me, requires the same approach I used to build a business, create photography projects, and write books: show up, do the work, make mistakes, repeat. There is no shortcut. There is only practice. Lots and lots of practice.

The good news is that when I stop long enough to look backward, I can see progress. In 2020, when I began spending significant time in Mexico, my Spanish was painfully basic. Today, I can navigate daily life, take classes entirely in Spanish, and have conversations that would have been impossible just a few years ago.

The challenge now is not learning more grammar. The challenge is using it. Using the verbs. Using the tenses. Using the words before I’ve had time to mentally rehearse them six times. And accepting that sometimes things go sideways.

For example, this week I confidently told a taxi driver that he was born in Texas. Not that I was born in Texas. That he was. He seemed surprised by this information. I was surprised too.

But that’s the deal. If I want to learn Spanish, I have to surrender to the awkward moments. Surrender to the mistakes. Surrender to sounding less intelligent than I know I am. Surrender to the fact that growth is rarely graceful.

The funny thing is that photography has taught me this lesson over and over again. The best images often arrive when I stop forcing them. The most meaningful projects emerge slowly, revealing themselves over months and years rather than according to a carefully constructed plan.

Maybe language learning works the same way. So for now, I am surrendering. Surrendering to the verbs. Surrendering to the imperfect and preterite tenses that continue to humble me. Surrendering to the mistakes that make for good stories later.

And most of all, surrendering to the process itself.

Because despite the frustrations, I still love this language. I still want to communicate more deeply with the people around me. And I still believe that one day all those verbs floating around in my head will find their way into the right sentence at the right time.

Or at least I’ll stop telling random taxi drivers they were born in Texas.

Progress is progress.

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We shall not cease from exploration,
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
— T. S. Eliot

I recently rediscovered this and remembered how it first hit me when I read it. And now it showed up like a cosmic 2x4. Not because it speaks about simply travel, although it does. Not because it speaks about exploration, although it certainly does that too. It stayed with me because it captures something I’ve come to understand about photography.

The longer I photograph, the less I believe the work is about finding something new. More often, it’s about seeing something familiar in a new way. Or at least that is what I keep telling myself (!)

When I began photographing women in Mexico several years ago, I was curious. I wanted to understand the lives of women whose experiences were different from my own. I photographed women balancing tradition and modernity, women preserving cultural practices, women carrying responsibilities to family and community while navigating a changing world.

At first, I thought I was learning about them. And I was. But over time, something unexpected happened. The women I saw began to reflect parts of my own story back to me.

The details were different, of course. I grew up in the South (Texas), not Mexico. The customs, language, and traditions were not the same. Yet I recognized something beneath the surface. Expectations about what it means to be a woman. The belief (erroneous) that caring for others comes before caring for oneself. The tension between honoring tradition and pursuing independence. The strength and sometimes perceived defiance required to navigate competing demands.

The more I photographed, the more I found myself returning to questions I thought I had left behind long ago. Photography became a form of exploration, but not in the way I expected. It led me outward into the world, yet somehow brought me back to myself.

That is what Eliot’s words seem to describe. We embark on life in search of understanding. We travel, study, observe, and experience. We think we are moving farther and farther from where we began. Then one day we realize we have come full circle. Not because the place has changed, but because we have. I ask myself regularly, “geez, am I having to learn this lesson AGAIN?”

As photographers, we often talk about finding our voice. Early on, I assumed that meant discovering a particular style or subject matter. Black and white instead of color. Documentary instead of street photography. Women, traditions, and cultural change instead of landscapes. Now I think finding a voice has less to do with choosing a subject and more to do with recognizing the questions that keep calling me back.

Why am I drawn to stories of women preserving traditions? Why do I find myself documenting disappearing crafts such as Adobe brickmaking, cultural practices, and the people who sustain them? Why do certain images stay with me and make me feel emotional? The answers are never clear, but maybe they don’t need to be.

Photography has taught me that understanding rarely arrives all at once. It gathers speed slowly through conversations, experiences, mistakes (for sure this one), fear, and time. Sometimes months pass before I understand why a particular project mattered so much to me.

Growth in photography is rarely a straight line. It is a series of circles. We leave home. We explore. We become fascinated by people and places that seem different from ourselves. We follow our curiosity wherever it leads. And if we are lucky, we eventually arrive back at questions that have been with us all along.

The people I photograph in Mexico have taught me many things about resilience, tradition, family, and change. But perhaps the greatest gift they have given me is a deeper understanding of my own life and experiences.

Eliot was right. The end of all my searching may be to arrive where I started and know the place for the first time. And perhaps that is true not only of photography, but of life itself.

Confession: I have a coffee obsession.

It’s not just the drink itself. It’s the making of it at home. It’s the morning ritual. It’s the walk to a local coffee shop. It’s the smell and the ambiance and the comfort and familiarity of that first sip.

Coffee is not simply a beverage in my life.
It’s a thing.

So it is somewhat surprising that there is a coffee I have no intention of trying.

Every weekend, between about seven and nine in the morning, the local purveyor of coffee (I call him Jefe) appears on a corner, parked near a bridge not far from where I live. He arrives in a pickup truck with its bed full of goats. He parks, lowers the tailgate, and singles out one goat to stand there getting its morning breakfast of grain in a small bucket.

This is not a pop-up coffee shop in the modern sense. There is no chalkboard menu. No Wi-Fi.
No Starbucks stars to collect. Simply a tradition long-held and beloved by the neighborhood.

Instead, Jefe sets up a small table with instant coffee, powdered chocolate, sugar, and tequila. He places a few stools on the street behind his truck, arranging them in a semi-circle, ready for morning conversation. It feels less like a business and more like a gathering. In fact, each time I visit there, I feel like I’m stepping back in time to when my dad and his cronies met over coffee to solve the world’s problems each morning.

And people come. They start showing up early, some still out from the night before, others on their way to work. They greet one another with a hug or a fist bump, sit on the stools, and wait while Jefe oversees the preparation. He lets each customer select their ingredients. They then hand the cup over to Jefe to add the milk. He walks over to the truck and squirts fresh goat milk directly from the goat into the cup or coconut shell/mug.

It is efficient. It is practical. It is unforgettable to watch.

Naturally, I photographed him. And I asked if he thought I was weird, wanting to photograph the whole thing. He just smiled (I think he indeed thought me strange.)

That is usually my response to anything interesting: take a picture, observe, document. Photography allows me to get close to a moment without fully participating in it. It is my way of saying, I see you, without necessarily saying, I’ll have what you’re having.

Over time, I learned that he also offers a special version of the drink served in a coconut shell. After pouring the ingredients inside, he lights it on fire. It’s called a pajareta.

This detail alone seems too natural to his customers, who gather to watch the small burst of fire before the goat milk puts out the flames. The whole process is natural, part ritual, part performance, part community gathering.

I admire this kind of entrepreneurship. It is simple, direct, and entirely local. No marketing plan. No social media presence. No app to order ahead. Just a truck, a goat, and a dependable spot on a bridge.

I consider myself reasonably adventurous. I moved to another country. I navigate daily life in a second language. I eat street food and try new dishes. I have learned to accept that paperwork will always require one more copy than I brought. But apparently, my sense of adventure has limits. And those limits appear to involve goat milk and tequila before breakfast.

Each time I see this scene, I am up and out early on my photographer rounds. The scene is always the same: the truck, the goat, the stools, the steady flow of customers, the quiet rhythm of early morning life unfolding with roosters crowing and dogs barking. The neighborhood is waking up. There is something comforting about his predictability. Two hours on a bridge. Every weekend.

And there is something comforting about mine, too. I’ll continue to drink my familiar coffee, black, reliable, and unlikely to challenge my digestive system. I will continue to notice Jefe and admire his dedication. And I will continue to resist the voice that whispers, Maybe just one sip.

For now, I am content to be the woman who photographs the coffee. And the goats.
Not the one who drinks it.

Last Sunday, February 22, I learned that when uncertainty spreads through my current hometown, Puerto Vallarta, people’s first place for information is Facebook. Only later did I learn that the strange wave of roadblocks and clouds of black smoke wasn’t random at all; it was a ripple from events elsewhere in the state.

Within minutes, the Facebook posts started multiplying. Messages began arriving from every part of town: What are you hearing? Is it near you? Is the highway closed? Where is all that black smoke coming from and drifting across the sky?

Cars were reportedly being set on fire along Highway 200 (a 2-lane road) near my home. Also, an Oxxo here. A Kiosko there. And for many of us, information didn’t arrive through official channels. It arrived through Facebook. The strange part wasn’t noise or chaos. It was the opposite. No morning roosters, no dogs barking, no uphill roar from the big rigs. Just an unusual quiet settling over the city while everyone refreshed their phones and tried to piece together what was actually happening.

If you’re familiar with the Enneagram personality system, I’m a Type 7. Which means my natural response to uncertainty is curiosity, optimism, and, occasionally, opening 17 mental tabs at once.

Sevens are often described as enthusiastic, optimistic, and endlessly curious. The less flattering description is that we are extremely talented at reframing reality when it becomes uncomfortable.

Which makes living through a day of unfolding cartel activity an interesting psychological exercise. When uncertainty arises, a Type 7 brain immediately goes to work.

How an Enneagram 7 Processes Uncertainty in Three Steps

(1) Gather information.

Not calmly. More like opening those multiple browser tabs in your mind at once.

Facebook posts. Neighborhood groups. Messages from friends across town. Someone’s neighbor who drove past something on the highway. A photo that may be AI-generated. By late-morning, Puerto Vallarta had effectively turned Facebook into its unofficial newsroom, complete with eyewitness reports, investigative analysis, and the occasional photo that bore no resemblance to reality. The language escalated quickly.

Posts arrived generously sprinkled with adjectives and adverbs. The city was described as a war zone. People were barricaded inside their homes.

That last one became my personal favorite erroneous description of a Sunday afternoon in Vallarta. Was I doing something wrong? I had no barricades and was in fact, walking my dog several times. Was I in denial, or was my Enneagram 7-ness overtaking me? While some areas were clearly dealing with very real incidents, much of the rest of the city was doing what humans often do when information is scarce: filling the gaps with increasingly rapid Facebook posts. And then the inquiries from friends/family started flooding in.

My Enneagram 7 brain, meanwhile, was doing its own version of investigative reporting.

What do we actually know?
What part of this is confirmed, and what part is Facebook?
Who is the one friend who always seems to know what’s actually happening? (yes, that’s you, Eduardo.)

Sevens are excellent at curiosity. We are slightly less excellent at sitting quietly with uncertainty.

Which brings us to the next coping strategy.

(2) Keep moving

Another classic 7 trait is motion. When things feel uncertain, the instinct isn’t to freeze. It’s to keep the day going in some form.

Coffee still gets made. Emails get answered. Friends keep texting, although now every conversation begins with some version of: “Are you hearing anything?”

My dog got walked twice as many times that day as normal. Keep it moving. My interruption of her naps made her cranky.

The street outside my house was unusually empty. Normally, there’s a steady hum of people, foot traffic, cars, and motorcycles somewhere nearby, but that day the neighborhood felt paused.

On my walks, when I reached the end of the street, I could see the highway. Or at least the part that mattered. After several hours, a length of yellow caution tape stretched across it, from a light pole on one side to a tree on the other. Was this meant to stop traffic (there was none) or symbolize that something bad was in process (there had been).

The tape fluttered slightly in the breeze, the only thing moving on an otherwise empty stretch of highway. No cars. No buses. It was one of those quiet visual confirmations that something unusual had happened, even if the full story was still unclear.

Standing there with my dog, I noticed another Enneagram 7 reflex: the brain immediately begins reframing the moment. Not dismissing the seriousness of it. Just adjusting the emotional lens.

Well, the internal dialogue says, this is certainly not a normal Sunday.

Curiosity, perspective, and occasionally a slightly inappropriate sense of observational humor are the tools Sevens tend to reach for when uncertainty arrives. And if Sunday revealed anything, it’s how differently people process those moments. Some people analyze every new piece of information like investigators. Some disconnect from the news entirely. Some assume the worst immediately. And some of us, hello again, Enneagram 7, begin trying to understand the situation from every possible angle at once.

By later in the day, information slowly became clearer. Some roads reopened. By the next morning, Monday, the rhythm of the city and the resilient people who live here began to return.

Puerto Vallarta is a place of extraordinary beauty, but it’s also a real city in a complex country. Days like Sunday are reminders of that reality. For me, it also offered a small window into the psychology of optimism.

Sevens process uncertainty by staying curious, by gathering information, by reframing what we can, and by staying connected to other people.

And yes, occasionally, by laughing a little at our own instinct to analyze the situation from seventeen different angles at once. Eventually, the traffic returned, the Facebook posts slowed, and the city exhaled.

But for a few quiet hours that day, Puerto Vallarta existed in that strange space between information and uncertainty, text messages flying across the city as people tried to understand what was happening around them. And somewhere between the Facebook updates, the silent streets, and the caution tape stretched across the highway, something else became clear.

(3) Reach for others.

When uncertainty spreads through a place, people reach for information.

And just as instinctively, they reach for each other. I did too.

Although I have a Lightroom file full of images of the aftermath of last Sunday, for now, they will remain on my hard drive. I choose (in good Seven style) to post images of the beauty and joy of Puerto Vallarta and Mexico. That is reality.

Recently, I traveled to Toluca, Mexico, to interview a printer for an upcoming photobook.

I had never been to Toluca.
I didn’t know the town.
I had never met the printer.
And I absolutely did not speak the language of the printing industry, not in English or in Spanish.

Paper weights? Coated vs. uncoated?
Cover materials? Linen? Soft touch?
And then there was the moment that really got me: choosing the black ink.

Isn’t black just… black?

Apparently not.

I was nervous. No, actually, I was scared. I wanted to retreat back to my comfort zone. I was about to make decisions that would put four years of my photographic work into print and before eyes that judge. There was no “it’s just a draft.” This was permanent. It needed to be right.

I quickly learned there are different blacks. Warm blacks. Cool blacks. Rich blacks. Blacks that lean to blue. Blacks that lean brown. Blacks that make photographs come alive, or fade on the page.

And silver? What exactly does silver have to do with black?

I sat there while my inner critic blathered, You are completely out of your depth. Act like you know what they’re asking. It would have been much easier to stay home, go to the beach, and let someone else decide. Avoidance is very efficient that way.

But I’ve heard that growth comes through courage.

And when I say growth, I don’t mean outward manifestations of success. I mean the kind that shows up as deeper satisfaction with life, something more meaningful than consumerism and accolades. For me, fear, after all, is a yield sign, not a stop sign. It doesn’t get to be the boss that keeps me from doing things that expand my life.

But new things ARE scary. Doing something without a predictable outcome can make my stomach knot up. That’s biology, my ancient protection system doing its job, sometimes a little too well.

The decision to maintain a writing practice between books and articles led me to create a Substack. What a great idea, right? No cost, a great way to maintain a steady practice, but OH, the realization that people would be reading and judging. Yikes.

As an introvert, even entering a room full of strangers feels risky. It’s one of my most gut-wrenching fears. Standing alone. Talking to no one. But what’s the worst that can happen?

Now flip the question. What if I walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with a new connection?

Last week, I did exactly that. Had to Google the location. New event with a crowd of seasoned attendees. They come every month. I expected no familiar faces. But, by the end of the evening, I’d met a fellow writer/photographer and was invited to join a local authors group.

Boom.

And whle we are listing fears…..another common fear in the creative world: submitting work to an open call. The likely outcomes are (a) be ignored completely or (b) not be selected. I’ve experienced both. Many, many times. Scary stuff.

Statistically speaking, those two outcomes are the most probable. But submitting doesn’t carry real risk. I’ve learned that for me, there is the effort to submit (requring courage) which just might lead to some more growth, and occasionally (rarely), success. I’ve had a LOT of growth. There is effort involved, for certain. And ego. We all want validation. But there’s no real harm in putting ourselves out there. And it gets easier. And the rejection stings a little less.

Studies show that doing scary things is actually good for us. So what if we start small? My goal is one scary thing a week. Zero expectations.

Possible outcomes:

• The nervous system learns resilience

• Scary things get easier

• Courage expands my world

• I discover strengths I didn’t know I had

• And the icing on the courage cake is that I get a good laugh when things go sideways

Feeling nervous or scared isn’t wrong. It usually means something new and meaningful is happening.

And just like black ink, with all its variations, scary isn’t just one thing.

It has shades. And in the end, it is black. And perfect.

Warning: confession and vulnerability ahead. Bail now if feelings give you the ick. This is also MUCH longer than the posts I usually write. I have to circle and spiral to express my feelings about feelings. Based on the kind intervention of my family during the Thanksgiving holidays, I now admit the errors of my ways. Deep breath…..

For most of my working life, I lived in a world where feelings were something to be managed (if not avoided completely), preferably outsourced to the softer types. My comfort zone? Spreadsheets, financial statements, profit-and-loss summaries, and perhaps a well-executed Venn diagram if things got really emotional.

I built a successful commercial service business on systems, logic, and efficiency. Emotions were inconvenient. They had no cell in the spreadsheet, no column on the balance sheet, no bullet point in the safety manual. Nobody calculates EBITDA and then pauses to consider how their EBITDA feels. (Though honestly, that might have saved me some angst during contract negotiations.)

Yet, like uninvited guests who show up early and stay late, feelings kept showing up, trying to be acknowledged, especially when I most wanted them to stay quiet. The truth is: feelings never did clock out just because I did. They were always patiently waiting for the day when I might acknowledge their existence.

If business decisions were governed by logic, feelings would be the cast of characters I kept trying to write out of the script. Fear? Never, except in the wee hours of the morning, the day before payroll or tax payments were due. Frustration? Always one harsh word away from a shout. Caring? This was allowed to let loose, carefully disguised as compensation.

I convinced myself that business required a kind of emotional neutrality—an even tone, a clean mental desk. But in reality, feelings were always there, dangling like the tacky fluorescent lights in our office, lurking behind every moment of every day. No matter how many spreadsheets I built, the human part, inputting the numbers and ignoring my own humanity, did, in fact, possess a heart.

Fast-forward to now: I’m living in Mexico, attending Spanish classes as I work on my photography projects, and discovering that feelings—those messy little things—have followed me across the border. The other day in class, the topic was sentimientos. (feelings) The teacher asked us to describe a feeling that affects our ability to practice our Spanish out in public. Hackles up, I wondered what the heck this had to do with reflexive verbs. For most of us, the word used was fear.

We talked about how fear can slow down the process of learning something new. How lives in your brain and nags, “You’re going to sound ridiculous.” And suddenly I realized something I had spent decades professionally ignoring. Fear wasn’t just a personal feeling. Fear was also a business partner I never agreed to take on.

It has held me back speaking Spanish the same way it once held me back in aggressively growing my business—just more dramatically, because with my parasitic fear is frenetically performing salsa in my head and yelling, “Don’t even try to explain your banking problems to the teller, you’ll just embarrass yourself.”

Here’s the funny thing: stepping away from business didn’t make feelings disappear. It made them louder. As a photographer—particularly one focused on the lives of women—I have discovered that feelings aren’t a distraction from the work. They are the work. The pride in a woman’s eye as she presents an order of food carefully made in a street cart. The beauty on the face of a woman straightening her child’s traditional costume for a celebration. The joy on the face of a girl exhibiting her photos for the first time. The resilience I hope to capture in every story.

These aren’t things you understand with a spreadsheet. There are no cells in Excel labeled tenderness, joy, pride, and the best of all, hope. Photography doesn’t ask feelings to be just a bystander in the work. It demands an active role. It insists that I notice them, reflect them, and—perhaps hardest of all—experience them, which is how I found myself wondering whether I had been doing life backward. Maybe feelings weren’t saboteurs. Maybe they were data, just of a different kind.

The older, wiser, slightly more Spanish-speaking version of myself now realizes that feelings were not the enemy of sound decision-making. They were the missing puzzle piece. You can run a business without acknowledging feelings—people do it every day—but you will always be swimming upstream in a stream of one’s own resistance. No Excel formula can outperform my own internal compass.

Fear is an interesting creature. It shows up in the most likely as well as the most unlikely places. Business decisions, life decisions, financial decisions, knowing whether to use “por” or “para” and especially, in photography. Fear is the emotion that says, don’t take that photo, someone will be annoyed. Don’t publish that story, someone will disagree. Don’t try that new camera, you’ll just mess it up. Don’t speak Spanish to the bank teller; he’ll just be annoyed because your sentence structure sucks. And don’t enter that photo festival open call, you’ll look like a fool.

Fear is not subtle. It is the banda singer of emotions—loud, bold, and sometimes off-key. But here is what age, experience, and a few thousand photographs have taught me. Fear is rarely trying to sabotage us. Fear is trying to protect us from stepping outside the familiar. Its methods are questionable. Its timing is terrible. But its intention, hilariously enough, is kindness.

The problem is that fear doesn’t know the difference between real danger and trying to say a simple sentence in Spanish while your brain sweats profusely over verb tenses. Photography is a feelings-forward profession, even if you stumble into it with a point-and-shoot camera, clutching a calculator.

When you photograph people—especially women whose stories are often overlooked—you must feel with them. You must sit in their space, listen to their words, watch their gestures, and sense the history and culture. Sometimes the photograph forms itself in a second. Sometimes it takes hours. But in every case, the image is only as honest as I allow myself to be. And honesty requires emotion.

Photography forced me into intimacy with feelings I had spent decades avoiding. It made me see them not as obstacles but as collaborators. Fear now helps me stay humble while curiosity keeps me motivated. Listening to the inner voice that whispers empathy and ignoring the loud yelling from the corner where fear lives. And vulnerability—my old nemesis—turned out to be the essential ingredient in every image with real resonance.

The next time fear rises up in Spanish class or photography or life, I’ve started asking myself, what if this feeling is information? What if it’s pointing toward the exact place where growth wants to happen? Fear shows up when something matters. Discomfort shows up on the cusp of transformation. Resistance shows up when something important is taking shape. Every. Single.Time.

Even confusion in Spanish class is information—proof that my brain is trying to wire new pathways, even if they look more like spiral noodles than a straight road. Feelings may be unpredictable, but they are never random.

So here is the confession I never made in my business years, and it is long overdue (as my daughters pointed out over Thanksgiving). I’m sorry I ignored you, feelings. I’m sorry I treated you like a worn-out fax machine. I’m sorry I acted as if feelings were inconvenient and unnecessary. You were telling me when something was off and when someone didn’t align with my values, when a decision didn’t sit right or when intuition tried to smack me and get me to listen. Now, in my photography, my writing, my life in Mexico, and even my halting attempts at Spanish, I realize you, dearest feelings, were not the problem. You were the north star.

I often joke that I’ve lived two professional lives: one where I ran a business with feelings hidden away in a desk drawer, and another where I live a creative life with feelings spilling all over the floor like a tipped-over margarita in my neighborhood cantina. The second is much messier and infinitely richer. Feelings make life a little unpredictable, sometimes inconvenient, and occasionally downright illogical. But they also make it textured, meaningful, and full of color — just like a good photograph with both shadows and highlights. So, if you, like me and were trained to keep your emotions politely hidden, here’s my current suggestion: Let them in a little and see what they have to say. Let them be part of the story instead of the thing you’re trying to outrun.

Spreadsheets will survive, my life will be richer, and who knows, my Spanish might improve.

Recently, a planned photoshoot for a children’s group during their weekly practice was canceled unbeknownst to me. This was my first time interacting with them, and my expectations were high. I set off on a 90-minute drive to the location and finding the plaza empty when I arrived, I felt a bit disappointed and even a little annoyed. But this shift also sparked a pivot to try something different—something unplanned. And the unexpected—the new photo opportunity—was unique. Another story, another time.

As someone who thrives on schedules, this was yet another moment for (never-ending) personal growth. Life reminds me that plans can and do change, and here in Mexico, not much is fixed and rigid. It was yet another beautiful Mexican moment, nudging me to find the extraordinary within the ordinary. As a seeker of the unique, I’ve learned that while planning helps, being open to the unexpected often leads to the most exceptional experiences.

Another example of a shift in expectations involves my discovery of different shopping in a new country. Visitors are eager to explore local markets (mercados) and artisan shops, which are definitely worth a visit. But I learned that the real gems are the tianguis. These lively open-air markets that appear on specific days in neighborhoods all over Mexico offer a real slice of life. With roots dating back to the pre-Hispanic period, the tradition of tianguis continues strongly, mostly unchanged.

Once I learned about the tianguis in Las Mojoneras near my home, I was hooked. Each visit feels different, and the treasures vary: clothes, tools, household goods, electronics, and so many small items perfect for carrying home in your shopping bag. I also found busy produce stalls with the fragrant smells of the freshest fruits and veggies, and unique food prep areas where you can sample delicious morning birria or a hearty lunch. In a community without a full-sized grocery store, the tianguis becomes the go-to spot for everything a family needs.

But the best part? The people. The tianguis is an extraordinary hub of connection where neighbors gather, share stories, and nurture that close-knit sense of community that keeps everyone together. They’re not just about commerce; they beautifully weave a tapestry of culture and community. Another experience uncovered.

Independence Day in Mexico? For me, there’s nothing like it. For weeks, flags and red-white-green banners appear on every corner and car, and in plenty of towns the parties stretch on for days. This year, September 16 was no different.

I headed to Mascota, Jalisco—as I often do—with a good friend, ready for music, food, fireworks, and dancing. But the real fun? The plaza shenanigans. Think burro races, firecrackers that fling sparks and embers over the crowd, and the entire town jammed into the square, waiting for the next big event. It all builds up to the late night “El Grito,” when the mayor shouts “¡Viva México!” from the central plaza, echoing the historic cry for independence.

And for my money, the best is the greased-pole climb. Yes, an actual giant pole coated in black grease with prizes at the top—cash, household goods, random gifts. This year, I watched four women battle it out for more than an hour before finally throwing in the metaphorical (and actual) grease-covered towel. I’ve seen them try year after year. Why keep going? Is it the prizes? The bragging rights? The admiration of the town's royalty? Or just the fact that your whole community is cheering you on, laughing with you, and maybe secretly rooting for you to tumble?

Every year I document this event, but this time it hit me differently. Why do they/we all go after things that seem impossible? For the win? For the story? For the sheer thrill of trying?

Honestly, I do it too. I take on things that feel way “too hard.” Sometimes I quit. Sometimes I surprise myself. And sometimes I just end up with metaphorical grease all over me.

But here’s the thing—I hope I never stop trying. Will I ever hike the Inca Trail again? Or trek to Everest Base Camp like I did a decade ago? Nope. That really is too hard. But will I keep exploring, learning, and saying yes to new adventures? Absolutely.

Because that’s what keeps life interesting. That’s what keeps us climbing poles

(One of the first images from new project Escaramuza Charra)

Any other Enneagram 7s out there? My type description nails me: versatile (yep), practical (most days), and wildly optimistic (absolutely). But it also says I tend to overdo it—misusing my talents, getting scattered, chasing the next shiny thing. I don’t love that part, but it does explain why I get weirdly stressed when a project wraps. Instead of celebrating a finished zine, book, article, or exhibit, I get bummed that it’s over and the next thing isn’t rolling yet.

Anyone else feel this? Please tell me I’m not alone.

Recently, one photography project ended and another was close to completion, and I suddenly felt unmoored—no focus, no direction. I had to ask myself: where’s the celebration? Come on, Seven—be optimistic about the finish and the fresh start it makes possible. An ending isn’t an ending; it’s a handoff to what’s next. And since humans aren’t great with endings (movies, books, relationships, death—even the thought of them, ugh), where’s the classic 7 reframe?

I also know I do best with meaningful goals—double-barreled ones. Not just “a project,” but a project with teeth. Something that matters.

So after giving myself a little tough love about my end-of-project blues, I went back to my tried-and-true three-legged stool: patience, affirmation, and gratitude. It’s not the obvious cure for writer’s block or creative blahs, but it works for me. Add a walk in nature (the beach is magic), and I usually feel a shift within hours or days.

Because dissatisfaction isn’t really Seven territory, the blues don’t stick around. Recently, beach walks, focusing on what went well with the projects, and genuine gratitude for the chance to do the work, did turn things around fast. Then out of nowhere, a friend sent me an article that sparked not one but three new ideas—projects I can’t wait to research, photograph, and write about.

No big moral here—just a little reflection on the part of the process that hits me hardest: the ending. Mostly because I’m already leaning toward the beginning that follows.

If you haven’t explored the Enneagram yet to learn more about yourself and why you do what you do, I recommend it. (https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/how-the-enneagram-system-works/). And it’s even better when partners take it too-you learn so much about each other. And we can all use a little more self-awareness, right? I’m such a 7.

A Sunday morning visit with neighbors in the El Caloso barrio. I visit with them and photograph their morning ritual of coffee and fresh goat milk. I delivered some prints of images I made during the previous week’s coffee time.

There’s a saying in Mexico that, when translated into English, reads: “Hope dies last.” At first hearing, I thought it a pretty simple phrase, but for anyone who has spent time in Mexico, its meaning is apparent. This isn’t just a phrase—it’s a philosophy, a way of life. It helps explain a cultural reality that intrigues and inspires me: why people here seem perpetually happy, why smiles are so abundant, and why even in the most difficult times, the Mexican spirit is so upbeat.

Mexico was recently ranked among the top 10 happiest countries in the world—not because it leads in economic wealth or political stability, but because the people embody a deeply rooted resilience despite hardship or lack of the “things” I have taken for granted. Living in Puerto Vallarta has offered me a daily reminder of this happiness and hope. I have found myself asking again and again: Why are people here so genuinely happy?

The answer, I’ve come to realize, lies not in the lack of struggle, but in the presence of a powerful underlying collective spirit designed for facing it: family, faith, community, humor, and above all, hope.

In Mexico, happiness is not performative. It’s not manufactured for TikTok or tied to profession and finances. Instead, it’s woven into daily life—in the way people gather for a family or community meal, in the music in the neighborhood, in the way strangers say hello with a smile and a goodbye with a blessing. Strangers are always willing to strike up a friendly conversation at any time of day.

Recently, I began asking locals in Puerto Vallarta why happiness seems to be such a constant presence here. I admit I have gotten some puzzled looks before I go on to explain that I am eager to understand the culture better and to be able to photograph life here more respectfully and in a real way. I got answers that referenced family and God, culture and tradition. But no matter how the answer was phrased, it is often tied to this idea: We are here. We are together. There is always something more we can expect.

Even in times of adversity—be it economic hardship, illness, or natural disaster—I have seen people come together rather than be divisive or attach blame. I have witnessed families rally around a sick loved one, not with despair, but with a shared sense of strength and even humor. In times of crisis, I have seen community members roll up their sleeves and get to work, often without being asked. There’s rarely moaning or complaining. Instead, there’s action, unity, and faith that things will improve. Hope.

Some of this positivity, I suspect, is rooted in religion. Approximately 75% of Mexicans identify as Catholic, and faith remains a powerful presence in daily life. There is a kind of peace that comes from believing that something greater is at play—that suffering has purpose, and that eventually, all things will be made right.

But religion in Mexico is not simply dogma. It is ritual and rhythm, celebration and remembrance. As photographers, we experience the reverence and joy of Día de los Muertos and learn that faith blends with culture. Death is not feared in the same way it often is in the West. It is embraced, talked about, and honored. Aging, illness, and passing on are seen not as failures of the human body but as shared rites of passage—parts of the universal story. And there is always hope. This cultural attitude removes the fear that often chokes joy. When death is not seen as the thing to be avoided (we all know it cannot), life can be embraced more fully.

I’ve had more strangers wish me well in Mexico than anywhere else I’ve lived or traveled. A teenage boy once told me, “Vaya con Dios” after he posed for a street portrait. Passersby walking near sidewalk cafés will often say “provecho”, encouragement to enjoy my meal. It’s not just polite; it’s deeply human.

I’ve been invited to private celebrations by people I’d only just met. I’ve been offered unsolicited assistance in grocery stores, at bus stops, and on unfamiliar roads. In a world that often feels increasingly transactional, these acts are gifts, given freely and without expectation.

This kindness seems to be rooted in a collective understanding that everyone is navigating something—and that generosity is not a resource to be hoarded but a currency to be shared. There is a trust here that kindness will be returned, maybe not by the same person, but eventually, by someone, somewhere.

Mexican society is built around the nucleus of the family. It is common to see multiple generations living under one roof, or at least in close proximity. Elders are respected, children are adored, and decisions are often made collectively. There is strength in numbers, not just physically, but emotionally. This support system cushions falls and celebrates the victories.

Even outside of biological ties, the concept of “family” stretches wide. Neighbors become tias and tios, friends are siblings, and strangers are treated like guests. This deeply communal way of living ensures that no one faces hardship entirely alone.

In moments of community hardship, such as a flood or a neighborhood power outage, I’ve seen entire blocks jump into action—not in panic, but in participation. People sweep the streets, share supplies, and cook meals together. There’s a sense that if one person is struggling, then we all have a role to play in easing that burden.

It’s this cultural hopefulness that most deeply affects me. In Mexico, hope is not passive. It is not blind optimism. It is a deliberate act of resistance against despair. When someone says “La esperanza muere al último”—hope dies last—they are not making a dramatic statement. They are reminding you of a fact. Hope is what remains when everything else is gone.

This is why Mexico remains among the happiest countries on earth, despite what statistics might predict. Because happiness here is not the absence of pain—it is the presence of hope.

It is the belief that tomorrow could be better than today. That even if tragedy strikes, laughter will return in a shared meal, a song, or a prayer and can carry us through. That, at the very least, we have each other.

As a newcomer to Mexico, I have learned as much from what is said as from what is not. I have learned that there are always invitations, blessings, and that showing up for one another is the highest form of abundance.

I have learned that to live in hope is to live in joy. And I am grateful every day to be surrounded by people who remind me that hope, indeed, dies last.

**Thanks to my beloved Spanish instructor, Melchor Cortes, who not only improves my language skills but also adds to my understanding of Mexican culture and helped with this article.

Welcome back for the final entry of my three-part series. If you’ve missed the first two, please look for previous Substack posts for background and additional images. My friendship with my accidental amigo, Ramon Pena, has been a highlight of my new solo life in Mexico.

Ramon is more than a friend. He has also been my teacher, as so often happens in life. When I met him and began photographing his business and art, I never anticipated learning so much more about life, family, resilience, and tradition.

Ramon, the patriarch of the Pena family, inspires me.

For four generations, his family has made Adobe bricks by hand in the small Colonia of Las Mojoneras, within Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. What began for his family as a means of survival has become a way of life, passed down from father to son, held together by tradition, community ties, and unshakable faith that everything works out. “No te preocupes” (don’t worry) isn’t just a phrase without meaning. Ramon and his family exemplify it.

My introduction to Ramon two years ago has been an evolution from curiosity to friendship, and eventually, an invitation into his world. Each month, I return with my camera—not just to document the Peña family’s work, but to witness something deeper: the power of resilience, the value of simplicity, and the beauty of creating something that lasts.

Now, the foundation on which the legacy was built is changing.

The land Ramon has leased for years to make his Adobe bricks has been sold. He’s been told to leave, with a date unclear. In its place, developers will build condominiums and retail spaces—not from Adobe, but from poured concrete and concrete block. The production yards of all the ladrilleros (brickmakers), like their way of life, are in the shadow of inevitable gentrification. I don’t mourn the passing of time or even modernization. But I do find it sad to lose generations of proud tradition and the materials that built entire towns.

Almost 70 years ago, families moved to Las Mojoneras from the mountain town of Mascota, looking for better prices for their handmade bricks. Today, about 20 families continue the tradition, although fewer young people are choosing to follow in their footsteps. Many of the original family members began working in their early teens, leaving school around the seventh grade to help support their families. Apprenticeship is practical: they learn to mix the “mud”—a combination of earth, water, and straw—with their feet and hands as they have for generations. The most advanced tool is often a wheelbarrow.

There are no buildings on the property. No permanent ovens. No machinery. The firing ovens are formed from raw bricks, carefully stacked and spaced to allow the right amount of airflow for an even, thorough burn. Every two weeks, the family collects materials to fuel the oven—scrap wood, discarded construction materials, anything that will burn. One person tends the fire through the night, ensuring the bricks bake properly. By morning, the ovens begin to cool, and within days, the outer dried mud “skin” is removed. The finished bricks—baked, red, and full of character—are stacked and ready for sale. Each brick sells for about 5–7 pesos, roughly 25 cents, and is ultimately used in local homes, garden walls, patios, ceilings, and roofs. In a world where we value speed, scale, and economy, these handmade bricks represent something slower, more intentional. Something that connects the craft and me to humanity.

Despite the uncertainty of location, Ramon remains hopeful. He believes that his family will continue to thrive—not because the future is guaranteed, but because their values are. He’ll keep working. He’ll keep building. Because, for him, the most important things never change: faith, family, and the dignity of honest work shared by his grandfather. For his family.

Thanks for letting me share this special friendship and magical journey with you through text and images. Stay tuned for more soloenmexico stories.

Welcome back for part 2 of a 3-part series that shares my story of friendship with the Pena family, a family of Adobe brickmakers in the Las Mojoneras Colonia of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. If you missed part one, where I shared how I came to know them, take a quick look at the previous article for the backstory. I have known Ramon Pena and his family for two years. After each visit to Charro’s production yard, I come away with greater respect and admiration for him and his family. In this article, I share with you some images of those who make the bricks.

The first time I watched men (son Roberto above) of the ‘la familia Pena’ work barefoot in the soil/sawdust mix, I understood that adobe brickmaking is not just a job—it’s an unspoken conversation between the generations. With the brickmaking process passed down from his grandfather, Charro and his sons mix and shape the clay and organic mixture into bricks—each one a small part of the years of skill and perseverance in a craft that supports a wife, five children, and six grandchildren. The leased land where production takes place is rich in history. Years of remnant construction materials and cast-off family possessions lie in the shadow of the high-rise buildings. These concrete buildings stand watch over the land, ready to claim it as a part of gentrification. But for now, while he still can, Charro and his family work with the determination of a man determined to finish what he started. The land is sold, and Charro must leave.

Charro has told me stories of how, at just seven years old, his first job was to clean the sides of newly formed bricks, guaranteeing uniformity. That early discipline formed the foundation for everything he does today. Now, in his sixties, he knows how to manage the entire operation—coordinating the daily workflow, reading the weather, and working materials so precisely that nothing goes to waste. There’s no mechanization here—only hands, feet, sun, and time. Any tools used in the yard are made from salvaged wood and metal, many of which have been shaped and reshaped over the years through use.

The physicality of the work is humbling. Charro’s crew, primarily family members, move tirelessly under the Mexican sun, shifting piles of dirt, hauling water in buckets, and flipping bricks with the same reverence others might reserve for glass. Close by is a 73-year-old man who works as if age did not define his ability to work. He bends, lifts, and forms bricks in the same rhythm as men half his age. He and Charro have been friends for decades. When I asked how long he’d been making bricks, he paused, then said, “Desde siempre.” Since always.

The Peña family is the primary workforce in the operation. Charro’s sons and his eldest grandson are deeply involved, learning from him the way he once learned from his grandfather. There is something unspoken between them—an understanding that the work is more than economic survival. It is identity. In the small Colonia of Las Mojoneras, Adobe brickmaking has long been the trade that tied families to land, to rhythm, and one another. But now, as concrete and steel rise on all sides, the demand for Adobe has decreased.. Fewer architects and builders are opting for this natural, centuries-old material in their structures. The brickyard, once surrounded by similar operations, now feels like an island in the middle of an advancing enemy.

Development pressures have already made their presence felt. Charro is only permitted to fire his bricks after 4 p.m., and only on alternating Fridays, to accommodate nearby condos and a school. As with all changes, Charro has adapted. When it rains and threatens to damage the freshly formed “green” bricks, he covers everything with black plastic. When he’s delayed in cooking the bricks, he waits. He is optimistic, he is resilient, and he continues to work.

In this slow unraveling, there is no blame and no despair.. That is not how the Peña family operates. Setbacks are met with shrugs, then jokes, then laughter. When bricks crack during the drying process, they are set aside for use in footpaths or family projects at home. Nothing is discarded. Workday breaks are shared in the shade of a large stack of bricks between tasks, and any small success—a big order, a dry week, a good source of new materials—is met with the same resolve and determination to carry on.

There’s a quiet heroism in their togetherness. Even as their future is clouded with uncertainty, they are grounded in the present. They work. They adapt. They keep moving forward, one brick at a time.

As I walk through the yard, I stop and admire these craftsmen who steadily work at what might be seen as monotonous tasks. I often wonder if they think I am the strangest of characters, visiting them regularly in their yard to watch them and photograph them at work. There are no other women in any of the brickyards. The women are at home caring for the house and the children. Even though I have explained why I ask to observe their work and have provided many prints I have made for them, I suspect that they believe me to be one of those strangely independent American women who don’t always follow the rules and do what is expected of them. For now, I continue to visit and to enjoy the privilege of the Pena family friendship. Call me crazy. I call myself grateful.

Part 3 is coming up soon.

At the end of the road lies the story…

I’m excited to share the first installment in a three-part series that will introduce you to a local family I met through a series of seemingly unrelated events (isn’t that how life works?)—and evolved into a lasting friendship. The unpredictable nature of documentary-style photography and the willingness to wander often lead us to unexpected places. The gift of the unexpected not only informs our craft but also our soul. Letting go of control of situations and being open to these moments is a lifelong lesson. Connection is key.

All three parts of this story will be published in quick succession. I hope you enjoy them as much as I’ve enjoyed creating them. Please indulge me as I guide you through the events, from the backstory to a friendship that develops most unexpectedly. It begins with a Sunday visit to the tianguis (pop-up market).

Discovering the ladrilleros…

Always on the lookout for photo projects and stories, I stumbled—quite by accident—upon a community of craftsmen in my adopted hometown of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. PV, as the locals call it, is best known for its beaches, world-class restaurants, and bottomless margaritas. It draws Canadians, Americans, and Europeans seeking relief from harsh winters. The beach culture here is a way of life, with live music, culinary experiences, and relaxation elevated to an art form. Even more special than what shows up on posters and menus is the warmth, resilience, and strong culture of the people. Those are the stories I seek. Just beyond the reach of gentrification lies a world few visitors see.

In a small colonia in Puerto Vallarta in the mid-1960s, brick yards were established among palm groves and tropical foliage in an area apart from the town center. Building materials were needed to build homes, shops, and churches and the beautiful deep red adobe bricks could be made inexpensively as they had for centuries. Much of the original town center, as well as homes in the over 100 colonias, were constructed of these bricks. Fast forward to today, the construction of larger and taller buildings requires concrete blocks and poured concrete, which is less expensive to create and build. The adobe brickmakers—some of whom have been practicing the craft for generations—continue their work in a fragile coexistence with a rapidly changing landscape. For now, tradition holds. But for how long?

And in the beginning…

Documenting the process of Adobe brickmaking began when I visited the Sunday pop-up market (tianguis) in the Las Mojoneras colonia. Weekly, this neighborhood of homes and small shops on cobblestone and dirt lanes transforms into a mega market of food stalls, used clothing (in fact, used everything), and unexpected treasures. This market has been in existence for over 30 years, and my first visit did not disappoint.

At the end of town, past a long row of local vendors, I spotted a towering stack of bricks that looked like a Mayan temple, alongside a modest shed cobbled together from salvaged materials. A pot of coffee was brewing on a small outdoor grill, and music played from the little shed. I waited for a few minutes, and when no one appeared, I returned to the market. Curious, I asked and learned that the families living in this community were adobe brickmakers. Most families had been in the trade for three or more generations. I wanted to meet one of the ladrilleros and learn more about their work.

A new friend…

As is often the case in small towns, relationships are everything. To meet one of the brickmakers, I needed an introduction: A introduced me to B, who led me to C, who finally introduced me to Ramón Peña—known as Charro. Charro has shared his time with me without reservation. He has opened his business operations as well as his home to me every month for two years. He has taught me about brickmaking and taught me about relationship building. Over time, Charro and his family became more than just subjects in a photo series; they became friends.

I’ve enjoyed this friendship for the past two years. While some friends and peers know I’ve been working on a “brick project,” I’ve never shared in detail about the people behind it—until now.

Life at the brickyard…

When I first asked Charro if I could photograph his production, he said yes without hesitation. I started slowly, trying to keep up with the rhythm of the workday. Each month, I returned to Charro’s rented production yard, photographing each family member and worker, as well as every part of the process. The work begins early, before the heat settles in, and flows with necessary breaks: coffee first, breakfast later, then lunch, a mid-afternoon rest during the hottest hours, and a final push before wrapping up late in the day. The work goes on 6 days a week.

The process has a rhythm. A rhythm that has played for decades in Mexico and centuries worldwide. Brickmaking is not just a livelihood; it is a tradition born of necessity and sustaining families across generations. The process remains the same, as do the materials. Various clay soils, organic matter, and water are all worked in much the same way they have been for hundreds of years to create essential building materials. Creation of the necessary materials created by basic tools, hands, and feet is unchanged.

Every other Friday is firing day, when the formed bricks are stacked, covered in mud, and then baked overnight. That means starting and tending handmade ovens late in the afternoon and cooking through the night for 14-18 hours.

I learned to visit either early in the morning or late in the day when the oven was lit. Cloudy days were ideal for documenting, but rare. Regardless of the lighting or wind conditions, I was always welcome. An invitation to observe is a gift—a sign of trust from people who are always busy, yet never fail to make time for me and my camera. Slowly, I met each member of the family (Charro is married with five children) and the other workers. The crew is small and primarily made up of sons and grandsons. Additional men are added when production increases. Each man can produce 800 bricks a day. The need for extra help decreases as demand decreases.

The craft, the fire, the family…

Their methods haven’t changed through the generations. There are no permanent, modern kilns—only hand-crafted ovens built from bricks, coated in mud, and fueled by discarded construction materials. Charro’s sons build these ovens with precision to ensure the fire breathes properly and the bricks cook evenly. He learned this from his grandfather, and now his sons and grandsons carry on the tradition, managing each “burn.” When asked what he loves most about his work—this trade he’s practiced since he was seven—Charro’s answer is simple: “I do it to take care of my family.” And that’s what matters.

Come back for Parts 2 and 3

No, it’s not what you think.

There have been no timeshare offers, no “yes to the dress,” and definitely no bended knees involved in this, not one, but a series of yeses in my life.

Recently, when a somewhat snarky third cousin told me that I had led a charmed life, I was offended. I felt that not much had been handed to me on a silver or even Tupperware platter and that I had worked hard for everything I have achieved. While I’ve never been blessed with good hair or stellar dance moves, I have always taken pride in my work ethic.

But as this nugget continued to be a burr under my saddle and nag at my thoughts, I began to consider what might be different in my life that was absent in his. Whereas he lived in hesitation and negativity about life’s possibilities, I realized that most of the time, when presented with opportunities, after careful consideration, I said “yes.”

And lest you think I am foolhardy, my “yeses,” as I have matured, have always been tempered by weighing my options and considering the positives and negatives. Sometimes, a yes has been a “not yet.”

This is why I left a stable job with benefits to take my $ 1,000 in savings and start a service company with a friend. My gut said yes. I left this same successful business 35 years later to pursue a creative life of photography and writing. No paycheck? No problem. My heart knew this was the right choice.

A recent unexpected and unconventional “yes” involved a move from the only country I had known my entire life. A move to a new country, a new town, knowing no one except a new friend I met on the beach. The opportunities would be endless. The adventures would happen every day.

Not every question or decision ends in a yes, but I know that life provides, and it is up to me to say yes to the possibilities. Possibilities to fail, to grow, to fall, to be happy, to be fulfilled. Yes, or at minimum, not yet

.

“The world begins at a kitchen table.” This first line of a poem by former US Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo, is true no matter the country, culture, or cuisine.

According to the U.N.'s World Happiness Report, people who share meals with others report higher life satisfaction and a more positive outlook. Additionally, this report ranks countries and assigns them ratings, with my current country of residence, Mexico, placed at number 10 globally on the happiness scale. For Mexicans, the kitchen is where magic happens - the most vibrant place in a home. In a Mexican household, life revolves around the kitchen table, where the most meaningful conversations (sometimes ending in tears) occur. It’s where homework is done with a telenovela playing in the background. It is where mothers and grandmothers pamper children and impart life lessons. And it’s where family gathers to eat and share.

The magic doesn’t stop at the front door. Often, the opportunity to congregate and eat extends into the street. In neighborhoods, vendors sell coffee, irresistible tacos, snacks, and drinks. In the local market or tianguis, food is prepared with talent and care that, in my opinion, rivals any high-end restaurant.

In a grad school class, during an exercise of meditation and journaling, we focused on the kitchens of our childhood. My experience included a dad, tired from a long day’s work and bus commute, and a mom, by nature quiet, with nothing to share about a day at home alone. The rotating menu of fried chicken, meatloaf, spaghetti, and pork chops (all seasoned with a hint of salt and pepper) was eaten in silence. My brother, to me frozen in time as a teenager, did the adolescent thing and ate in silence. And with no one to talk to, I too remained quiet. Reflecting on how strange that was makes me sad, even as I now experience joyful meals in Mexico and other countries.

The kitchens and kitchen tables in the culture I now live are rich in happiness and sensory delights. Fragrant food is delivered to the table with a flourish, aromas enveloping everyone. The sounds of conversation, laughter, and music fill the air. The gentle warm breeze embraces all, whether at a street café, an open-air market, or a home patio filled with plants and flowers. And, oh yes, the flavors. Oh my. Birria tacos, carne asada, frijoles, tlayudas, mole. No matter the region, the tastes are muy rico! And it all feels so joyful, so much more than just a meal.

But it’s not the atmosphere or even the flavorful food that makes the difference. It is the culture of the kitchen, the subtle meaning of coming together to enjoy one another, that warms my heart. Stepping into a kitchen or any space with a table for sharing is like a warm hug. The kitchens and tables I experience in this adult life are where everyone is welcome and leaves well-fed, serving as a testament to a culture high on the list of happy.