I live in Puerto Vallarta, a place many imagine as the cure-all for everything that hurts. Winter here doesn’t arrive with sleet or darkness; it arrives in a burst of vivid colour.
December sunlight spills across the bay, and poinsettias stack in brilliant towers at every market stall. Palm trees shimmer with strings of Christmas lights. ‘Tis the season when people from colder countries flood in, chasing warmth they can’t find at home.
Holiday blues travel, even to Puerto Vallarta
But this warmth isn’t just the kind that heats your skin. It’s the holiday spirit. It’s the laughter spilling from crowded plazas, children singing carols and fireworks painting the night sky. Yet amidst this vibrant celebration, a different warmth entirely seeps into your bones. It reminds you of what you might be missing, making the heaviness you carry feel even heavier.
If you suffer from depression, it doesn’t stay behind; it travels with you. I know this because I live with it, and I admit it openly, even when societal expectations suggest I shouldn’t. It’s crossed borders with me more times than I can count.
People assume that moving to Mexico means sadness evaporates. Friends back home have asked, “What do you have to be depressed about there?” as if palm trees and sunshine can shield me from my own mind.
But depression doesn’t check your environment before settling in. It doesn’t care that others think you should be happier than you are. When I moved here, I hoped the sun would soften my depression, and sometimes it does, but more often, it simply adapts. You can relocate your body, but your mind always comes with you.
Beauty isn’t always a balm
Sharing my struggles can sometimes be met with disbelief, as if the beauty surrounding me should act as a balm for my sorrow.
At times, the beauty feels almost mocking. The world around me is too bright for the heaviness I carry. I’ve watched sunsets that should evoke something deep within me, yet I felt numb, walking the waterfront in search of relief, only to return home with the same weight tightening my chest.
The hardest part is explaining this to friends who believe I won some emotional lottery by living by the ocean. Sometimes, it’s easier to say, “I’m good,” than to delve into why I still struggle, even with palm trees swaying outside my window.
My depression sharpens around the holidays. The joy of the Christmas season bursts forth in a cascade of lights, music and laughter. There are posadas, parades and so many displays of life. Yet none of that cancels out the ache of distance for those of us who grew up with cold-weather Decembers and shared rituals.
Missing winter weather
When winter is stripped away, the emotional rhythm your body remembers feels lost. The familiarity of snowy rooftops and the scent of pine is replaced by palm trees draped in lights and sun-soaked mornings. While Santa in board shorts is adorable, I sometimes miss the magic of snow falling quietly outside my window.
According to an American Psychological Association study, a significant percentage of people with depression see symptoms increase during the holiday season, even without traditional winter darkness. For expats, the feeling of holiday loneliness can also increase. The sun doesn’t eliminate these feelings; it sharpens them against the vivid backdrop of celebration.
Beyond individual struggles, this winter feels more emotionally strained. Fewer people are travelling or making big moves, and it isn’t just because of flight prices or global events; we’re all carrying more than usual.
Mexico doesn’t cure depression, but it does alter one’s experience of it
Mexico’s upcoming 2026 residency requirement changes add another layer of stress altogether, with higher financial thresholds and stricter processes. The anxiety surrounding depression doesn’t motivate action; it freezes it.
Living in Mexico hasn’t cured my depression, but it has altered my relationship with it. The pace is slower, the light lingers longer and there’s something grounding about buying fruit from the same vendor every morning or watching fishermen pull in their nets at sunrise.
Small rituals have become my lifeline. A slow walk to the market before the heat settles in, a drive to a nearby town where life feels simpler, and days spent listening to waves instead of my swirling thoughts. These rituals may not heal me, but they hold me and sometimes that’s enough.
When I tell the truth about how I feel, when I allow myself to say, “I’m not okay today,” I find relief in vulnerability. It isn’t weakness; it’s a way to lighten the load I carry.
How light returns
If you’ve ever spent a winter in a landscape that seems like paradise but you still felt hollow, you’re not alone. If you stayed home this winter because planning a trip felt overwhelming, you haven’t failed. If the idea of moving abroad suddenly feels too heavy, you’re not weak. If the holidays make your chest tighten, you’re not broken. You’re just balancing memory, expectation and rhythm all at once, and that weight deserves acknowledgement, not judgment.
Depression doesn’t ask for permission, and it doesn’t disappear at the turn of a calendar just because your surroundings improve. Seasonal or not, it craves gentleness, a slower rhythm, softer mornings and permission to simply exist without the pressure to be happy all the time.
And healing doesn’t require something grand or dramatic. It can be as simple as a morning when the fog lifts just a little, an afternoon when a laugh bubbles up without effort, or an evening when you feel a flicker of hope again. That’s how light returns: gradually, unexpectedly and softly.
Personal experience and Puerto Vallarta
I’m not a doctor. I can’t prescribe solutions. But I can share my experiences.
I live with depression, and I speak it aloud. It’s okay to feel heavy in a place that seems perfect.
This winter, wherever you find yourself, give yourself permission to recognize your struggles without shame. Allow the light around you to coexist with the darkness within. Slow your mornings, immerse yourself in the sounds of the waves or the whispers of the wind, and let pauses be enough.
I don’t have all the answers. I only know that living with depression, especially in a beautiful place like Puerto Vallarta, has taught me that it’s possible to keep showing up for yourself, even when it feels impossible. That’s my offering: my own experience and the quiet reminder that you don’t have to carry this alone.
Hold your struggles close, and know that gentleness is a gift you can give yourself, especially amidst a vibrant holiday season.
Charlotte Smith is a writer and journalist based in Mexico. Her work focuses on travel, politics, and community. You can follow along with her travel stories at www.salsaandserendipity.com.
