Things Left Behind

Since Virginia and I met and fell in love nearly five years ago, we’ve made a habit of big projects. In 2022, we launched a business together. In 2023, we planned and hosted our wedding. All while growing our relationship, nurturing a blended family, serving clients, building revenue, doing the inner work, and trying to keep joy in the picture.

And now, in 2025, we’ve taken on our most intricate project yet: relocating our lives to Mexico City. As I wrote about earlier, this is not just a move. It's a reorientation; a deliberate shedding and reshaping.

The logistics of moving anywhere are intense, but moving to a new country is a new level of logistical challenge! As we sorted what to sell, what to take to Portland for a future second home, and what to store in Austin for eventual shipment to Mexico City, we used the same method we developed when we moved in to our first place together in 2022:

Will we use it in the next 6 months?

Does it need to be replaced?

Would we miss it if it were gone?

That framework ended up being useful not only for our stuff, but for myself, as well. My identity, my systems, my habits, my emotional hygiene, my mental frameworks. What’s essential? What’s expired? What do I want to take with me? What do I want to leave behind. For this essay, I wanted to focus on what I intend to leave behind.

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1) Serving the System

Like it or not, in the U.S., most of us serve the system. The system shapes the culture, especially among white folks, even when we think we’re rebelling against it. The system dictates our priorities: efficiency, output, performance, consumption. It determines our relationship with money, time, and energy. In Mexico, that’s flipped. Here, culture dictates the system. People shape time around actual relationships, not just acquiring “more”.

Let’s take the backbone of the US economy: Consumption. I didn’t realize how deep my “retail therapy” habits ran. Need groceries? Jump in the car and go to H-E-B. And, of course, come back with more items than I intended to buy. Or the dopamine hit of ordering something from Amazon that I’m quite certain I needed. Side note: Approximately 80% of the stuff we sold or gave away was stuff we bought on Amazon.

Here, the system doesn’t encourage accumulation. It encourages adaptation. Repair over replacement. Just downstairs from our AirBB, there are three different shops whose businesses are built on repairing: electronics, appliances, shoes. It's a whole different operating system. Things break, and you fix them, or you work around them. The measure of a good life isn’t efficiency; it’s presence. It’s resilience. It’s improvisation. That difference touches everything: how people relate to time, fun, money, power, each other.

That shift is more than economic. It’s philosophical. It challenges my assumptions about control, comfort, and what it means to be resourced. In much of the U.S., the rhythm is urgency. Here, it’s "tranquilo". In Mexican culture, "tranquilo" is one of those words that does heavy lifting. It technically means "calm" or "quiet," but in practice, it’s more like a vibe check. It’s what someone says when you’re stressing out and they want to remind you that life isn’t an emergency. It’s a cultural shorthand for "relax, you’re good." Of course, there are versions of that in the US, but you have to either get real rural or real zen. And neither of those are viable options for us.

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2) Privilege

In the U.S., as a straight, white, American man who is also tall, confident and eloquent, I’m at the apex of the social hierarchy, whether I want that or not. Even without great wealth or power, I carry that status into nearly every room. That privilege has shaped how I’m seen, how I move, how I speak, how I’m treated.

In Mexico, I’m still privileged, but the terms are different. People who look like me didn’t create the systems here. I didn’t grow up with the same cultural fluency. I have to adapt. I have to listen more. I can’t assume anything.

This is humbling in the best way. I’m not the cultural center here. I’m the guest. And being a guest—if you do it with any integrity—requires respect, humility, and curiosity. And lots of adapting to not being an extension of the system.

Take apartment hunting.

In the States, if you have good credit, steady income, and can make a good impression, you’ll likely get the place, or at the very least, a clear yes or no.

Here? It’s a different dance.

In the past couple of weeks, we have applied to two listings. The realtor was enthusiastic about our chances. Our paperwork was in order. We checked all of the boxes.

No response. No follow-up. Just silence.

At first, I was irritated. How unprofessional. My American brain kicked in: Why ghost us like that? Why not just say no?

Virginia, who understands the culture far better than I do, explained it gently: “Silence is the no.” I've come to call it the "Mexican rejection", not as a complaint but as a reminder that I don't make the rules here.

In the U.S., we prize clarity, even brutal clarity. We like our rejection direct and timestamped. Here, it's softer and slower. It's not about avoiding conflict. It’s about preserving dignity, for both sides.

That difference exposes how much of my behavior has been wrapped in entitlement. In the States, I’m used to being told yes quickly, or at least told why it’s a no. I expect response, engagement, decision. When it doesn’t come, it feels personal. Like a power has been withheld.

But here, it’s not about me. I’m not being punished. I’m just not being prioritized. And that’s the part my privilege didn’t like to admit: I’m not at the center of this system. I don’t get to demand certainty on my timeline.

That’s a better way to carry privilege: not with guilt, not with shame, but with awareness. With the humility to adjust. And the curiosity to ask, not assume.

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3) Communication Style

If you know me, you know my communication style: direct, unscripted, passionate, sometimes fiery. I care deeply, and I say what I mean. That’s served me well in the U.S., especially in business, where straight talk often cuts through the bullshit. But here, that edge doesn’t translate the same way. It can read as brash or cold. And in some settings, even disrespectful.

Here, relationship comes first. Tone matters more than speed. Context carries more weight than content. Being “right” doesn’t get you far if you’ve lost the rhythm of the room. That doesn’t mean I need to stop being direct. But it does mean I need to slow my roll, learn the tempo, and adjust my volume.

I’m also learning that pressure and persuasion have completely different shapes here. In the U.S., pressure is often seen as a skill. Urgency, intensity, and strategic insistence are rewarded. You get what you want by pushing. But in Mexico, pressure can backfire. It’s seen as aggressive, even disrespectful. Influence here is relational, not transactional. People don’t respond to dominance; they respond to warmth, presence, rhythm. You don’t “win” people over by persuasion. You build trust, and then doors open. Slowly. Subtly. The moment you press too hard, the opportunity disappears.

I've come to call this "Usted Mode".

The word "usted" is the formal version of "you" in Spanish. It’s used to show respect, especially when speaking to elders, authority figures, strangers, or anyone you don’t have a close relationship with. Unlike English, which uses "you" for everyone, Spanish draws a clear line between formal (usted) and informal (tú) depending on social context. So when someone uses "usted," they’re not just choosing a pronoun—they’re making a decision about how much closeness or distance to show. “Usted" isn’t just grammar, it’s a posture, energy, tone. Coming from the U.S., where I’m used to cutting through formality and getting to the point, this has taken some adjusting. "Usted" means slowing down, softening your tone, and letting people know you’re not assuming intimacy, you’re honoring their space. It’s a small shift in language that signals a big shift in how power, respect, and connection work here.

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4) Following the Rules

In the U.S., I break as many rules as I can get away with. Not just to be contrarian but because so many rules are performative, arbitrary, or just fucking stupid. I’ve built a life and a business around questioning authority and bending systems that don’t make sense.

But here in Mexico, I’ve learned quickly: you follow the rules. Especially when you’re a guest.

There’s a seriousness to process here—especially around government, law, and bureaucracy—that doesn’t invite interpretation. Case in point: waiting at the immigration office to get all of my residency paperwork processed. I was there for hours, surrounded by nearly a hundred other people. And everywhere I looked—on every pillar, every wall—there were signs: a cell phone with a red circle and slash through it. "No celular."

Naturally, I felt the itch. Long wait, fluorescent lighting, bureaucratic processes. My reflex was to pull out my phone and start scrolling. That’s what we do in the U.S. when we wait: distract, entertain, escape.

But I noticed something. No one—and I mean not one person—had their phone out. Everyone just sat there. Some chatted with the person next to them but must of us were something you almost never see in the US: quiet. Then, finally, one woman a few rows ahead of me tried to sneak a look. Within seconds, a police officer approached her and said, firmly but respectfully, "No celular."

It wasn’t threatening. But it was clear: this was a space with boundaries. A space where your usual habits don’t belong. That moment clicked something into place for me. This wasn’t just a rule about phones. It was a reminder: you’re not in charge here.

In Mexico, rules come from a different place here, not just from authority, but from lived, shared experience. In the U.S., rules are often seen as suggestions to navigate or challenge. Here, they’re part of the social contract. They reflect values that are deeply embedded in the culture, respect, order, mutual responsibility. It’s not about blind obedience to a system. It’s about creating and maintaining a sense of communal safety and dignity.

Mexico has endured a long history of instability, corruption, and violence. So when a rule exists—especially in public space—it’s often there to prevent chaos, not assert dominance. It’s less about passive control and more about intentional order. You follow the rule not because you’re afraid of getting caught, but because it’s part of how things hold together. It’s a kind of cultural muscle memory, an inherited way of saying, "We’ve seen what happens when we don’t look out for each other."

So even if a rule doesn’t make perfect sense to my American brain, I follow it. Not out of submission, but out of respect.

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We landed in Mexico City late Monday night. We are staying in an AirBB, trying to get re-oriented, while also looking for our own place to live. So all of these intentions are still fresh. I’m sure I’ll contradict myself many times in a the coming months. That’s ok. This is the nature of transformation: disorientation, discovery, recalibration. But I can already feel my inner systems adjusting. Not just to a new city, but to a new way of being in the world.

At a human level—Maslow level, spiritual level—we’re the same. We all want safety, love, purpose, dignity. But socially and systemically, that sameness fractures fast. Power, privilege, skin, passport; all of it reshapes how we move through the world and how the world moves around us.

I didn’t move here to escape the US. But I did move here to unlearn some of the bad habits it taught me. To see my own conditioning with sharper eyes. To feel, in my own body, what it’s like to be the outsider.

I want to know what it really feels like to be an immigrant. To navigate a place that wasn’t built with me in mind. To earn trust. To live inside someone else’s rhythm. To find joy and belonging in a cultural and system that was not built by people who look like me or for people who like me.

One last thing that it is important to share…

I don’t call myself an American here. Everyone from Canada to Argentina is technically American. To use that term as if it only applies to the U.S. is, frankly, arrogant and historically ignorant - especially in light of the current administration’s policies and behaviors. I also don’t use the word 'expat.' That word reeks of superiority, like we’re here to enjoy the lifestyle and extract from the culture. I refer to myself as a gringo. It’s what people here call me, and I’ve come to embrace it. It carries a kind of humorous honesty. A reminder that I’m not native to this place, but I am welcome here … as long as I leave these four things behind.