I moved to Mexico 20 years ago at a time when Mexico’s violence was the lead story on U.S. network news. When I told friends and family, a lot of them reacted the same way: You’re crazy. Reconsider.
I speak to my very conservative father every Sunday, and for two decades, his greeting has barely evolved: “Oh, good—the cartels haven’t killed you yet.”
So yes, for 20 years, people I love have tried to put the fear of Mexico inside me.
This week, I understand that fear more than usual.
On Sunday, February 22, Puerto Vallarta was hit by a level of cartel-related disruption that was impossible to ignore: burned vehicles, blocked roads, smoke over the bay, and businesses attacked. The broader context—reported by multiple outlets—was that a federal operation in Tapalpa, Jalisco, ended with the death of Nemesio Rubén Oseguera Cervantes, the leader of Cártel Jalisco Nueva Generación, followed by a coordinated retaliation that reached far beyond one city.
In Puerto Vallarta, the mayor later estimated that more than 200 vehicles were burned across the municipality. Even writing that number feels surreal.
If you were here on vacation, I can only imagine what your body felt like in that moment—because vacations are built on the idea that bad things are “somewhere else.” In post-facto reporting, tourists described hearing explosions and seeing smoke roll across the city, then scrambling for safety as flights were canceled and people were told to stay indoors.
If you live here full-time—especially if you don’t have the cushion of money, a flexible schedule, a solid passport, or a job that lets you stay home—then Sunday wasn’t just scary. It was disruptive, expensive, and potentially life-altering. Stores were damaged. Transportation was limited. People lined up for basic supplies.
I want to say this clearly, before I talk about my own sense of safety: if you feel afraid right now, you are not being dramatic. Fear is information. It’s what your brain does when it can’t predict what comes next.
I also want to acknowledge something uncomfortable but true: my “feeling safe” is not a universal measurement. It’s a personal experience, shaped by 20 years of living in Mexico, by the routines I’ve built, and by the ways I try to reduce risk—where I go, when I go, and how I stay informed.
So when I say I still feel safe living in Puerto Vallarta, I’m not saying Sunday was “fine.” It wasn’t. I’m not saying the fear is fake. And I’m definitely not saying that people who are shaken should just “calm down.”
What I mean is this: I don’t carry an imaginary Mexico in my head.
I’ve never believed the fluff versions of Mexico written for clicks—stories that treat this country like a prop, or a fantasy, or a place where danger is something that only happens to “other people.” I’ve also never believed the opposite story—the one where Mexico is nothing but violence, all the time, everywhere, and survival is a daily miracle.
My view has always been: Mexico is a real place with real people and real joy—and also real risk. Both are true.
The word “safe” is tricky. It’s not a guarantee; it’s a relationship between risk and routine.
Driving a car is “safe,” and people still die in crashes. Flying is “safe,” and rare disasters still happen. Living in any city is “safe” until the day it isn’t—because safety is never absolute. It’s always conditional.
Sunday was a reminder of something I already knew: when the state hits a major cartel leader, violence can spike fast. That doesn’t mean life here is permanently unlivable. It does mean it’s honest to admit that extraordinary days can arrive without warning.
I’ve lived through visible cartel disruption here before. On May 1, 2015, there were also cartel-linked fires and attacks in Puerto Vallarta during wider unrest in Jalisco. And Puerto Vallarta has seen high-profile violence even in places tourists consider “safe”—including the assassination of former Jalisco governor Aristóteles Sandoval in 2020.
So why do I still feel safe?
Because “safe” for me does not mean “nothing bad ever happens.” It means I believe I can live a full life here with a level of risk I can understand, manage, and accept.
And because I don’t want to live my one life inside a permanent crouch.
That doesn’t mean I’m fearless. It doesn’t mean I ignore what happened. I’m angry that regular people pay the price—in anxiety, in lost income, in burned cars, in damaged shops—when criminals and the state collide.
It means I’m choosing to keep loving this place while staying honest about what it is—and staying tender with people who are frightened right now.
If you’re reading this from far away and you’re worried about someone here: call them. Don’t argue them out of their fear. Ask what they need. If you’re here and you’re scared: you’re not alone.
And if you’re like me—someone who still feels safe but also feels shaken—then maybe the most truthful sentence is this:
I still feel safe living in Puerto Vallarta, and I also understand why Sunday made so many people feel unsafe.
Both of those things can coexist.
