My great-aunt passed away a year ago on October 3rd, 2025.
It’s strange to say that because, somehow, it feels like it happened yesterday and forever ago at the same time. Like most deaths, hers came with the things we typically associate with losing someone: a viewing, a funeral, and a burial. There were tears, flowers, people dressed in black, and eventually, everyone had to go home.
But when I think about the day she died, that isn’t what I remember most.
I remember sitting on her front lawn.
My family gathered there, surrounded by extra-large photo albums filled with years and years of memories. We flipped through what felt like a million pictures, pointing out people, laughing at old hairstyles, and telling stories we had probably heard a hundred times before. We went through her cooking and baking recipes, too, the handwritten instructions and the same comments on her handwriting filling the air.
We were grieving, but we were also remembering.
And maybe, without realizing it, we were celebrating her life.
What Does It Mean to Celebrate a Life?
In many Hispanic cultures, death isn’t treated only as an ending. Traditions surrounding death often blend Catholic beliefs with Indigenous customs, creating an understanding of death as a natural part of life and remembrance as something that continues long after a funeral ends.
That idea really stands out to me.
One tradition is El Velorio, or the wake. Rather than being limited to a few quiet hours, wakes can continue late into the night or even last for a day or two. Family and friends gather together, sharing food, drinks, stories, music, laughter, and, of course, tears.
Children may also be included in wakes and funerals rather than completely sheltered from them. They grow up learning that death, while painful, is a part of life and that remembering someone can be communal.
Religion can also play a major role. Catholic funeral Masses, rosaries, crucifixes, images of the Virgin Mary, and prayer are often incorporated into the mourning process.
And the grieving doesn’t suddenly stop after the funeral.
The Novenario, or novena, brings family and friends together to pray for nine consecutive days following a death. I think there is something incredibly comforting about acknowledging that people still need one another after the funeral is over.
Then there is probably the most recognizable tradition: DĂa de los Muertos.
Celebrated on November 1 and 2, DĂa de los Muertos brings families together to remember loved ones who have died. Ofrendas can be filled with photographs, candles, marigolds, favorite foods, drinks, and personal items.
Death is present, but so is life.
There is color. There is food. There are stories. There are children. There is family.
There is joy alongside grief.
Grief Doesn’t Have to Be Quiet
Growing up in mainstream American culture, I feel like death is often supposed to be quiet.
We go to the viewing. We go to the funeral. We go to the burial. People bring food, send flowers, hug you, and whisper to you that they’re sorry. Then, eventually, life is expected to return to normal.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with that way of grieving. The structure and privacy surrounding American funerals can provide comfort during one of the most overwhelming moments of someone’s life.
But learning more about Hispanic traditions surrounding death has made me think about what happens afterward.
What happens when everyone goes home?
What happens a week later? A month later? A year later?
Grief doesn’t follow the timeline of a funeral.
That is what I find so beautiful about traditions that continue remembering someone long after they are gone. They create space for grief, but they also create space for connection.
Looking back, I can see pieces of that in my own family.
My grandma still goes to my great-aunt’s grave and makes sure everything is clean and exactly how she would have wanted it. It’s such a simple thing, but there is so much love behind it.
My great aunt is gone, but caring for her hasn’t completely stopped.
Neither has remembering her.
Keeping People Alive Through Memory
I think that is what I want to carry with me.
I don’t want remembering the people I love to be limited to funerals or anniversaries of their deaths. I want to pull out the pictures. I want to make their recipes. I want to tell the same ridiculous stories over and over until the younger people in my family know them by heart.
I want kids to be part of those conversations instead of feeling like death is something too scary to talk about.
I want someone’s favorite song playing in the background. I want people laughing about something they did 20 years ago. I want food on the table that tastes exactly like something they used to make.
I want there to be room for crying and laughing in the same conversation.
Because I don’t think one cancels out the other.
A year after losing my great aunt, I’m realizing that celebrating someone’s life doesn’t mean you aren’t mourning their death. Sometimes, celebrating them is part of mourning them.
Maybe grief doesn’t always have to mean learning how to leave someone behind.
Sometimes, it can mean learning how to carry them with you.
And maybe that’s the kind of celebration of life I want to hold onto.