As I Look Outside
On leaving the United States for Mexico to protect a transgender child, and what safety really means when both countries are on fire.
“I don’t like it when people call me a boy...”
Those were the words our oldest daughter told my wife and me when she was four years old. For two years, we noticed that she was not like the boys that we had forced her to play with, often looking at them as though they were aliens and crying when she looked in the mirror. With each performance of “Let It Go” that we were held captive audience to, we assumed we had a future theater kid. Naomi would appropriate scarves, ties, belts, and anything else she deemed sufficient to make into an Elsa braid.
One afternoon, in the fall of 2021, as we sat on our back patio, it all clicked when our daughter confided in us, “I don’t like it when people call me a boy.” I do not remember who asked why, but I have a vivid memory of her looking at us, her brow furrowed, as if she were confused about why we were asking. “Because I’m not a boy, I’m a girl.” That was five years ago.
The next few months were a flurry of information gathering and laying a foundation to assist Naomi through her journey, which we, at the time, were not fully equipped to support. Podcasts, books, articles, pediatrician recommendations, gender-affirming therapists, and groups; it was all fair game. Over the years, our network of families going through similar journeys expanded—yes, there are a lot of us, but many families fear being targeted and cannot be open about it. We, however, were fortunate to live in Colorado, and found that our neighbors, friends, family, and schools were not only accepting but also supportive of Naomi. At the time, we lived what we thought was a perfect life in what we referred to as “our forever home.”
During the 2024 presidential election, Republicans spent nearly $215 million on television ads targeting transgender people, a group that makes up less than one percent of the population. Still, after the 2024 presidential election, my wife and I were worried but held out hope that our government would protect our daughter’s right to exist.
Two months later, our greatest fears were realized when, on January 20, 2025, Donald Trump took office and immediately began announcing his executive orders targeting transgender people. “Defending Women from Gender Ideology Extremism and Restoring Biological Truth to the Federal Government” was the first anti-trans executive order signed by Trump.
Lack of brevity in naming aside, the executive order was a shot across the bow, signaling that our family needed a backup plan if things got worse. And they did. In the month that followed, the Trump administration signed four additional anti-trans executive orders.
“We need to get out of here,” my wife said.
I was sitting at the dining room table when she said those words, and, like when our daughter came out to us, a part of me already knew. The discussions that followed focused on where we could go and the various hypotheticals that could play out, impacting our urgency to leave.
Again, our lives were dominated by research: visas, residencies, cultures, crime/safety, remote work, healthcare, gender-affirming care, how to sleep when your world is crashing down, and schools.
Eventually, we determined that Mexico’s proximity to the United States would be optimal for both family and work obligations. As the top LGBTQIA+ destination of Mexico, and with an ample amount of immigrants—they call them “expats” here—we chose Puerto Vallarta as our jumping-off point.
The next five months were a blur, and in a bizarre, undiagnosed medical anomaly, my sphincter found a new home in my throat. We packed what we needed and told the girls that we were leaving the United States because the government was making laws that were unfair for our family. At the same time, we sold nearly all our possessions and said goodbye to our friends, family, and forever home.
Our initial week was set to be a whirlwind: obtaining residency, signing a lease, and completing the testing required for the school we had been in touch with for several months. Shortly before our flight, we were notified by the school that they no longer had openings for us, for reasons that we speculate were related to Naomi’s gender identity. My wife and I were heartbroken and upset, but we also had our first encounter with the “things happen for a reason” culture that is prevalent in Mexico, which we are still getting accustomed to.
For anyone who has not experienced Puerto Vallarta in July, it can best be described as having your entire body wrapped in gym socks full of sweaty armpits. Not having a car meant that even short trips to the grocery store left me looking like Ursula Andress emerging from the beach in Dr. No, minus any seductiveness.
Neither my wife nor I speaks Spanish. My parents are both fluent; however, I somehow made it to my mid-forties barely able to order from a Taco Bell. So even in the air-conditioned grocery store, I found myself in interactions that replaced heat sweats with nervous sweats, which smell worse and look more like someone who just committed a crime. Within the first week of our arrival, I was questioning whether we should begin exploring other, cooler cities in Mexico.
Before we left, my wife’s friend told her that what helped her move abroad was taking time to celebrate all the firsts, no matter how difficult or easy they were. So, we did: my youngest daughter’s first trip to the beach, their first day at a Mexican school, our first Spanish lessons, and our first earthquake—I would be content to not celebrate a second of the latter.
Living in Mexico has been an amalgam of culture and art, with customs and infrastructure that have required some acclimating for our family. While credit cards are accepted at many restaurants and stores, it is not guaranteed, nor is it guaranteed that their machines will be working that day. We learned quickly that you should keep your head down when walking, or you might trip over cobblestones, broken sidewalks, or step in—pick your animal—excrement. Also, somehow keep your head up when walking, because a pipe might be dripping onto the sidewalk, or you might run into an air conditioner unit inconveniently placed at eye level.
Of all the learning experiences, one of my favorites has been the handling of time, which is often wrapped in a tortilla of vagueness. The nebulousness of time in Puerto Vallarta is made evident in “ahora,” which translates to “now,” meaning anytime other than this moment, because that would be “ahora mismo.”
Before leaving the house one morning, I checked a store’s Facebook page—Facebook pages are more common than websites—for their hours, then arrived fifteen minutes after their scheduled opening, only to find a herd of completely unbothered people waiting outside the locked door. Thirty minutes later, the store opened. On another occasion, our family arrived at a birthday party at the time the invitation said it started, only to find ourselves setting up the decorations until the rest of the guests arrived, anywhere from one to three hours later. It’s 1 AM, think it’s time for sleeping? Not in December, when you can listen to outdoor bands playing until the wee hours of the morning and fireworks, or possibly dynamite, going off for no apparent reason—or perhaps it is in The Bible.
Above all, my biggest takeaway has been how incredible my daughters are. In 2020 and 2021, during COVID, I often heard how resilient kids are. The pessimist in me would scoff or want to ask whether those people would be willing to pay for the therapy my kids would require for all their resiliency during what we thought at the time was as bad as it could get. But it’s true. Every day, my daughters prove they are grittier than I ever imagined.
Throughout this experience, they have kept their gripes to a minimum, despite saying goodbye to everything they had known for their entire lives, and embraced adjusting to new lives in a different country. With each word or sentence I hear them speak in Spanish, each friend they make, each new food tried, I am filled with pride.
The past five years have been scary as a parent, and the last eight months have caused an abundance of platinum blonde hairs to grow on my otherwise black beard. While not as large as the community we built in Colorado, we are making friends. More importantly, we are creating indelible memories for our daughters in a place where acceptance is the norm.
This morning, while making breakfast, I looked out the window and noticed a fire in the distance. My daughters and I went out and looked at it, curious whether it was a house or burning trash.
Within twenty minutes, several more fires appeared, and before we knew it, there were fires surrounding the city. El Mencho, the head of a cartel, was killed, and we were witnessing the fallout from the retaliation.
The local news had not reported any civilian deaths, but we wanted to be prepared to leave if it came to that. I had to isolate myself for a few minutes because my heart raced and my legs shook. Like animals, kids can sense fear, so I wanted to compose myself before we began preparing.
My wife and I drew the shades, messaged friends and family, discussed an exit plan, and told the girls to stay away from the windows. We said that we did not know exactly what was happening, but that no matter what, we would do whatever it takes to keep them safe.
As more details became available, we explained that cartels were setting fires to cars. Naomi, always our inquisitive one, had a dozen questions:
What is a cartel?
Why are they burning cars?
How do they make money off of drugs?
It was difficult to answer everything when we were unsure ourselves.
While we tossed toothbrushes, toilet paper, cash, and our documents into backpacks, the girls packed essentials like stuffed animals, “treasures” they collected off the street, and fruit snacks. For the next few hours, we distracted the girls with games and screens—keep your shaming to yourself—and listened to the local news, in Spanish. Then waited.
By 2 PM, the city was quiet. Smoke still smoldered from several unextinguished fires, but there were no reports of new ones. There have been announcements that stores and schools will be closed tomorrow, but officials do not expect any additional incidents. We watched a movie together, but our hackles were still up, and remained that way until the kids went to bed.
As I write this, it is almost midnight, and solitude breeds reflection. Again, I am in awe of my daughters’ incredible resilience. Perhaps it is youthful ignorance, but I think it is more than that; throughout the ordeal, they remained calm and cooperated with us, something that we cannot always say on a typical day.
When we left the United States, we thought we were leaving the violence behind. During our first school tour in Mexico, we noticed a sign for earthquake drills, and asked whether they also practice active shooter drills. The woman giving the tour raised an eyebrow and explained that they do not have that problem like in America.
That is not to say that Puerto Vallarta is without violence. As of last year, it was estimated to have 15.6 homicides per 100,000 people, which is still a far cry from even relatively safe Denver, but it feels different.
Unlike the United States, the violence we experienced today was between the government and cartels; civilians were not targeted.
While messages continue to flood in from friends in the United States, asking if we are safe, we are reading about the US government abducting and killing citizens in the streets, refusing to prosecute child predators, and further dividing its people through race, gender, and sexual orientation culture wars.
As I look outside at a city that wears the ashes of a skirmish, I still feel safer than in the country aflame that we left behind. The last year has been difficult, but at least I know that should we need to flee again, my daughters will be fine.
In June 2025, Orlando de los Santos and his family moved to Mexico to provide a better life for his trans daughter (featured in a to-be-released documentary shortlisted for SXSW). As part of the move, he pressed pause on a 20-year career in IT, joined a writing group, and has been dedicating time to writing short stories, essays, and manuscripts.
Family safety! Always. Great read.