Thousands of foreign women have moved to the Mexican capital to “reboot their lives,” creating successful businesses and attracting others like themselves. Not all Mexicans are happy.
Hannah McGrath, an American who moved to Mexico City, shopping at a farmers market in the Roma neighborhood. Credit…
Three years ago, Hannah McGrath felt more discouraged than ever; she was unemployed and in a relationship just to afford the rent in Los Angeles. “I felt very, very lost,” she said.
Now, hundreds of miles from her home country, she says she has found herself.
“For me, and for many other people, Mexico City is where dreams come true,” said McGrath, 35. “There is nothing but possibilities and potential.”
Thousands of foreign women, many of them American, have settled in Mexico City since the pandemic, seeking opportunities, an affordable place to live, or a complete reinvention. Their journeys often mirror McGrath’s: unhappiness, crisis, followed by a leap of faith—with a plane ticket—and then personal transformation.
“It’s like a modern, hipster version of Eat, Pray, Love,” said Jonathan Kalan, an American living in Mexico City who co-founded Unsettled, a company that offers retreats for mid-career professionals.
The women say they have generally felt welcomed. But the influx of foreigners has also fueled the anger of some residents, who say it has driven up rents and fueled soaring prices.
The central neighborhoods of Condesa and Roma, in particular, have become, like never before, strongholds for migrants who come to work remotely, where English is spoken in American-style cafes and restaurants. As rents have risen—almost doubling in just a few years—some Mexicans no longer feel a sense of belonging.
The complaints began circulating a few years ago in the form of stickers, covering walls with sarcastic slogans like “Imagine there’s no gringos.” Then, this summer, a destructive protest erupted, with stores looted and signs and graffiti painted with messages like “Learn Spanish, dog” and “Gentrification is colonization!”
But these migrants also boost businesses, even if they provoke irritation and unease. Some migrants’ penchant for the esoteric—cacao ceremonies, sound baths, healing crystals—has also earned them a mocking nickname, “the Tuluminati,” a reference to the nearby vacation spot.
It can be difficult to accurately assess how many remote workers have settled in Mexico City, since many come and go on long-term tourist visas. But there is a clue: in 2024, 56 percent more temporary residency permits were issued to Americans in the city than in 2019, according to government data. Americans still represent a small fraction of the foreign population residing in the capital, but government data shows they are fueling a tourism boom, and more women than men are visiting.
In the first seven months of this year, 3.7 million female American tourists flew to Mexico, half a million more than men. (Mexico City was the top destination for both, after Cancún.)
Many women say they have been drawn to Mexico City because of its lower cost of living compared to the United States, where high rents and housing costs eat into funds that could be used for other ambitions. They also cite the city’s safety for women compared to other cities in the region, another point of contention with many Mexicans.
“They can feel safe here, and that’s good, but it’s ironic because Mexican women don’t feel like it’s the safest place on the planet,” said Pamela López, a 35-year-old landscape architect, who pointed to the high rates of femicide and violence against local women. Foreigners, she noted, tend to stay in one area of the city.
Despite the traffic and its bad reputation, the smog and traveler’s diarrhea, many remote workers find Mexico City “healing,” said Kalan, the retired entrepreneur.
Even before the pandemic made remote work the norm, “Mexico was attracting women in their 30s and 40s who were in a transitional phase,” he said, adding, “They were leaving their jobs, ending relationships, facing burnout.”
After the pandemic, he said, “that exploded.”
While men came and went, women tended to stay. Tash Doherty, one of the newcomers, called them “slowmads,” a portmanteau of “slow” and “nomads.”
Doherty, a 30-year-old Briton, was working in business analytics in New York when, in 2022, she visited Mexico City with friends who worked in the tech sector. As the months passed, she became curious about the many migrant women she met.
“They had found apartments, adopted dogs, started or found a way to make their careers work here,” said Doherty, who was intrigued by how many were “in a kind of life reboot.”
So she followed their lead and quit her job to write a novel.
Although some Mexicans are wary of the newcomers, many say they have benefited from what they spend their money on, including dance classes, day trips, mezcal, and produce.
“I understand the gentrification issue, but it’s good for us,” said Jorge Ayala, an organic avocado vendor at an open-air market.
Some migrant women have also started businesses: an American runs a busy physical therapy clinic; a Canadian has created a Finnish-style sauna company; a Hungarian has created a line of all-natural sex products; a Scottish woman has opened a bagel shop.
Anna-Rose Lim, 33, arrived from her native London feeling “emotionally exhausted” after teaching during the coronavirus pandemic. In Mexico, she said, she saw “many friends starting businesses or doing interesting things.”
Lim added, “I thought, ‘Well, they’ve taken the plunge, why not me?’”
Last year, she opened Amorcita, an artisanal gelateria and wine bar in Rome named after her cat.
“Here, anyone can start anything,” said Charles Solomon, 36, who moved from Philadelphia to teach at an international school. “You just have to put in a little work, create a good Instagram page, and things just take off.”
Many women say that migrant workers who work remotely also owe their success to economic factors: dollars, euros, and pounds go further, and Mexico City has lower startup costs than many other cities, even if there is sometimes more red tape.
“We’re very isolated here.”
Women-only groups have also helped. One of them, “Hermanas” (Sisters), started as a small WhatsApp chat in Mexico City and has grown into an international network of thousands of women offering everything from sublet accommodations to holistic health advice.
The community’s widespread interest in wellness and spirituality hasn’t gone unnoticed by entrepreneurs. To promote her shop, Lim organized a “womb circle,” an event where “we meditated on our wombs and ate gelato,” said one of the participants, 25-year-old Samantha Jones.
The gelato shop has been a success. An employee, Daniela Barrera, said that businesses like Amorcita created jobs for young residents like herself, but that the massive influx of foreigners had hurt them in other ways.
Rent is so high, she said, that many can’t afford to move out and have to continue living with their parents. “It’s harder to become independent,” said Barrera, 22.
Many Mexicans, and migrants who arrived earlier, also criticize newcomers for not engaging more with Mexico, a trend some acknowledge.
“We’re very isolated here,” said Mary Haberski, 43, who left her job at an environmental nonprofit in Los Angeles to pursue coaching and a wellness startup. “I’m in a bubble and I barely get out of it.”
Breanna Claye, a 32-year-old model, caused a stir online last year when she posted a video from her apartment showing her wincing as she listened to one of the city’s ubiquitous organ grinders playing outside, sometimes off-key.
She says she understands why she became a target of people’s anger.
But the people who commented, she added, also made assumptions. Her life may seem glamorous, she said, but she had saved for years to move, living at home after college while working full-time. It was in Mexico, not the United States, that she was discovered as a model.
The protests have largely subsided. Even so, many migrant workers who work remotely say this year has been a turning point.
“At first, I thought we would be here forever,” Claye said. “Everyone was excited to have us here.”
Now, she said, “things are changing, changing: the feelings about our presence here.”
Many friends have already left, she said, some called back by their offices and most simply by choice. She was thinking of leaving, too.
McGrath, who said living in Mexico helped her afford a U.S. somatic therapy program, will soon return to California to further her career.
However, for every migrant who packs their bags, it seems another arrives.
Many are younger than those in the pandemic cohort. Unable to afford to live in the so-called “bubble” of Mexico City, they are moving to areas further away from the vast urban network.
Samantha Jones, the 25-year-old who appeared on the ice cream show, recently moved into a shared house 20 minutes from downtown.
On Sundays, she said, she goes “church-hunting,” hoping to get to know her new neighbors.
Older women have also begun arriving, finding their hometowns too expensive, but undeterred by the rising rents in Mexico City.
One of them, Nelle Gretzinger, 58, an accountant with grown children, said she was eager to explore her new home, adding, “It’s still cheaper than Jersey City.”
Source: nytimes
