They Want to Be Emma Coronel: The Obsession Driving Under-the-Table Surgeries and Drug-Laced Cosmetic Procedures

She raises the pistol to fire. A wide-brimmed hat shields her jet-black hair and flawless pale skin from the already scorching March morning sun in Sinaloa. Her teeth sink into her full, red-painted lower lip, and her thick, French-manicured nails rest upon the Glock as she adjusts her aim. She plants herself firmly on her strong, athletic legs, digging her heels into the gravel ground.

Then she lowers her finger to the trigger and squeezes it once to fire; the weapon recoils against her outstretched arms. It is the first time in her life she has ever fired a gun, yet the bullet strikes the human silhouette standing a few meters in front of her—right in the throat.

Surprisingly, the woman behind the gun bears a striking resemblance to Emma Coronel, the wife of Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán. However, she is actually an accountant and a mother of two with absolutely no ties to the drug trade; she simply grew up in an environment where Emma isn’t merely El Chapo’s wife, but a role model in terms of appearance and lifestyle. To some, she is an artist.

Emma Coronel was born in California but was raised in the northern Mexican states of Durango and Sinaloa. Women hungry for glamour, empowerment, and excitement avidly watch her exploits on television and social media. Moreover, she learned to shoot—just like that—and not far from here.

“I was at a beauty salon once, and there was a young woman getting hair extensions. She turned to the stylist and said: ‘I want an ‘Emma-style’ look,’” Sara Bruna Quiñonez Estrada—the former Attorney General of Sinaloa and, prior to that, a feared judge—told me during a visit to her office in February 2022.

El Chapo’s extradition to the United States in January 2017—to stand trial for the drug trafficking empire he had built from his humble origins in Badiraguato, Sinaloa—catapulted Emma even further into the public eye, as she was present every single day of the trial. However, the moment El Chapo exited Mexico’s criminal landscape, Emma was left on her own; it was time for her to learn to protect herself by her own means—never mind that she had grown up in the mountain ranges of Durango and Sinaloa.

“Once they extradited El Chapo, nobody here gave a damn that she was his wife,” said a source who has trained cartel hitmen in urban combat.

If *narcos* are heroes, their women are adored and venerated.

Emma grew up in a small rural village in Durango that borders Sinaloa. Many generations of families have grown up in these same small villages within Mexico’s Golden Triangle—a region spanning the states of Sinaloa, Chihuahua, and Durango, and home to thousands of clandestine poppy and marijuana fields scattered throughout its mountain ranges. Its production fuels the business of the Sinaloa Cartel.

The state of Sinaloa is distinct from the rest of Mexico. The eponymous cartel—founded and headquartered there—has controlled vast swaths of both urban and rural territory for decades, giving rise to a set of values ​​and customs that have become ingrained in the people’s very DNA. Rural and agricultural traditions have blended with a contemporary culture of conspicuous consumption, now propagated and promoted via TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram. It is *narcocultura* at its most potent. For many who live there, *narcos* are heroes. Legends. Benefactors.

In the center of Culiacán stands a “chapel” dedicated to Jesús Malverde—the unofficial patron saint of the *narcos*—a Robin Hood-esque bandit whom locals visit to pray to and ask for favors. The white mosaic floor is flanked by walls clad in dark green tiles; at the center of the chapel lies a small, grotto-like alcove covered in photographs of men, women, and children, as well as banknotes (both dollars and pesos) taped to the walls. At the back stands a bust of Malverde, positioned before a kneeler and framed by artificial flowers. On several of my visits, a musician was present, playing melancholic tunes for those who had come to ask for a miracle. Visitors kneel before Malverde’s bust, place a hand upon his head, ask for what they need, and leave an offering in return.

For some time now, tourist souvenirs—such as keychains, mugs, and votive candles bearing Malverde’s image—have been sold outside the chapel. But sometime in 2019, a new souvenir appeared at the little stalls outside: a perfectly sculpted statuette, approximately forty centimeters tall, of Emma Coronel’s husband—El Chapo—looking resplendent in a blue cap and pink shirt, with a plastic AK-47 in his hands.

El Chapo embodies the archetype of the Sinaloan man: rustic in appearance, rough-hewn, unpretentious, brave, and strong. He uses his knowledge of the terrain and his mastery of violence to defeat his rivals. A true badass, in other words. In the state’s rural areas, a fiercely *machista* culture dictates that men must tend to the livestock and the land, while women take charge of the home and the children.

Nevertheless, his effigy—now available for purchase—reflects a broader trend: the commercialization and global export of *narcocultura* as his cartel grows in power and influence. Previously, his image appeared only in the media; now, however, it adorns caps, T-shirts, and keychains. Of course, there are many—both in Sinaloa and elsewhere in Mexico—who reject this; yet his place in local legend is already assured.

“We’re like one big ranch—with a Costco,” Natalia Reyes, a feminist activist who grew up in Sinaloa, remarked to me.

He was referring to the fusion of rural, conservative values ​​with American consumerism—a trend that has been on the rise in Sinaloa, and in Latin America in general, over the last fifty years. This has gone hand in hand with the growing demand for cocaine, methamphetamine, heroin, and—more recently—fentanyl; a demand that has endowed narcotrafficking enterprises—such as the one founded by El Chapo—with far-reaching power and influence.

If drug traffickers are heroes, their women are equally adored and revered; yet, in an era dominated by social media—where influencers reign supreme—Emma has propelled her fame and power far beyond the mere status of being a famous narco’s wife, transforming herself into a full-fledged celebrity in her own right. From appearing in reality-style documentaries and music videos to walking runways in Milan and launching lines of clothing, lingerie, and jewelry inspired by the fame of both herself and her husband, Emma has proven adept at monetizing her notoriety.

Emma Coronel would one day become the most famous woman in Sinaloa.

She was present every day during her husband’s trial in New York, and her photo appeared all over the internet and in the newspapers. She knew that wherever she went, she would be recognized—but perhaps that didn’t bother her; maybe she had always wanted to be a star. She surely knew, from the very day she met El Chapo in 2006 on the dusty dance floor of a ranch in the small town of Canelas—when she was just seventeen years old and aspiring to be a beauty queen—that one day she would be the most famous woman in Sinaloa.

“He was dancing with another girl, I was dancing with my boyfriend, and we met right in the middle of the dance floor. He smiled at me—very flirtatiously…” Emma recalled in a 2016 interview with Mexican journalist Anabel Hernández. “Then someone said to me: ‘The gentleman is asking if you would like to dance with him,’ and I said: ‘Okay.’”

It is no small thing for a teenage girl to get involved with a man like El Chapo. By then, he had already become a legend after escaping for the first time from the Puente Grande maximum-security prison in 2001—allegedly while hidden inside a laundry cart. When he met Emma, he was already a legendary outlaw, a criminal.

A large segment of the people of Sinaloa regard him as a benefactor to the state’s humble poppy and marijuana farmers, and many assert that drug traffickers offer jobs or protection at times when the government fails to do so. When President Andrés Manuel López Obrador visited Badiraguato—the birthplace of El Chapo—in March 2020, he flouted COVID-19 restrictions to shake the hand of the kingpin’s mother as she sat in her car, a gesture that sparked both mockery and outrage. The act was interpreted as a sign that even the President of Mexico acknowledged his legacy.

Two years after meeting Emma, El Chapo appeared for the first time on *Forbes* magazine’s list of billionaires—a milestone that cemented his wealth, fame, and allure within certain circles: those of the *narco* world. Emma had grown up in that milieu; she was part of that world, as her father, Inés Coronel Barreras, was also a drug trafficker. His daughter’s proximity to the kingpin ultimately served to further entwine her family’s destiny with the operations of the Sinaloa Cartel. This union likely aligned her family’s interests more closely with the cartel’s leadership and inner workings, leading her father to rise to the rank of a high-ranking commander within his son-in-law’s organization. In 2013, he was arrested and sentenced in Mexico to more than ten years in prison for marijuana trafficking and illegal possession of firearms. That same year, the U.S. Department of the Treasury sanctioned him under the Foreign Narcotics Kingpin Designation Act, identifying him as a key figure who coordinated drug trafficking operations on behalf of Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán.

So that day in Canelas, after taking a few turns on the dance floor, El Chapo won Emma’s hand in marriage—and she won the beauty pageant. That was when her tightrope walk began, even as her emotional and financial ties to El Chapo deepened. He was her safety net—one that, sooner or later, would be snatched away.

Legend has it that El Chapo, after they met on the dance floor, ensured she won the beauty contest by dispatching a caravan of men on motorcycles, laden with cash, to sway the judges; Emma, ​​however, denies this. Emma’s beauty is indisputable in those circles, and perhaps she didn’t even need his help. Today, her long, straight, dark hair—combined with a tiny waist, prominent hips, and ample bust—has become the archetype of a certain type of beauty, not only in Sinaloa but throughout Mexico.

*Buchona* culture has exploded on platforms like Instagram and TikTok.

When Paulina Ramírez García, 26, was taken to the operating room for a “mini-liposuction” in the city of Culiacán in February 2022, she had a very clear idea of ​​the look she wanted. She believed that having a little fat removed from her abdomen—and using it to accentuate her hips and buttocks—would help her achieve the “buchona” style embodied by Emma, ​​one of her role models.

Paulina loved social media and celebrity culture, her uncle, José Ángel Angulo, told me over coffee. Like many other women in the state, she was obsessed with having a body like the ones she saw on Instagram and Facebook.

“In the past, young girls wanted a *quinceañera* party for their birthday; now they ask for a lipo,” said Angulo.

The *buchona* culture has exploded on platforms like Instagram and TikTok, which are teeming with women flaunting their expensive curves and offering pre- and post-operative advice. The goal isn’t to actually be a *narca*—a female drug trafficker—or a *buchona*, but rather to look like one.

“For many women in Sinaloa, the ultimate life goal is to marry a *narco*—for everything that entails: the lifestyle, the clothes, the house, the cars,” explained Isaac Tomás Guevara Martínez, a social psychologist who studies violence in the state of Sinaloa. “Emma Coronel represents the stereotype of the ideal body for many women.”

Paulina and a group of other young women pooled their money into a monthly payment scheme—a practice that was becoming increasingly common in Culiacán at the time—designed to help women from lower socioeconomic backgrounds pay for their surgeries. These schemes encourage women to save their money collectively, then hold a lottery to determine who gets to go under the knife next, as soon as enough funds have accumulated to pay the doctors. Compounding this issue is the fact that some of the medical practitioners operating in this sphere are charlatans—not certified plastic surgeons—who prey on young women who cannot afford high-end cosmetic surgery. They pay half of what they would pay to go under the knife of Dr. Rafaela Martínez Terrazas—a successful, board-certified plastic surgeon from Sinaloa—yet they are still promised that *buchón* look designed to attract the kind of man they want to support them financially.

Unfortunately, Paulina’s operation didn’t go as planned; shortly after her $2,000 surgery, she went into septic shock. It later came to light that, during the liposuction procedure, the “surgeon” had perforated her internal organs six times—including her lungs and intestines—according to reports from both Sinaloan authorities and the victim’s family members. According to the state prosecutor’s office, the woman who performed the procedure—Dr. Amayrani Adilene Rodríguez Pérez—wasn’t a board-certified plastic surgeon, but rather a general practitioner, and had been performing operations in one of the dozens of clandestine, unlicensed “clinics” scattered throughout Sinaloa.

According to Randy Ross, a commissioner for the local health risk prevention agency—Cofepris—dozens of clandestine plastic surgery clinics have sprung up “exponentially” across Sinaloa in recent years. By the time I visited in 2022, there were 233 clinics registered with the agency throughout the state (they had only just begun registering them that year). In early September—six months after Paulina’s death—government inspectors shut down 24 of them for failing to meet basic requirements; however, one cannot regulate what one cannot find, and the majority of these clinics—like the one that allegedly killed Paulina—are not even registered with the authorities and operate in the shadows.

I visited the “clinic” where Paulina underwent her mini-liposuction: a plain, unadorned white building situated roadside on the outskirts of Culiacán, which went completely unnoticed. Its windows and mirrored glass doors were covered with black security bars; there was no signage indicating what went on behind those doors—a common characteristic of this type of clandestine clinic, Ross noted.

Paulina spent three weeks in the hospital—most of that time intubated, according to her family—and I could see in photos they showed me how, during that period, the skin on her abdomen completely rotted away. She passed away on March 9, 2022, some twenty-two days after her surgery.

“It is common for ‘pseudo-surgeons’ to ‘operate,’ and Paulina is not the first victim of this particular ‘doctor’—nor of others like her,” Dr. Martínez Terrazas remarked regarding Paulina’s case.

According to local media reports, the “plastic surgeon,” Rodríguez Pérez, allegedly refunded Paulina’s family the money she had charged for the procedure. She was subsequently arrested on charges of homicide, though she never once visited her patient while she was in the hospital, the family confirmed. Rodríguez Pérez’s lawyers didn’t respond to calls or messages seeking comment on Paulina’s case or her “clinic,” and after the charges were reclassified as involuntary manslaughter, she was released on bail pending a hearing. Ultimately, she was merely fined.

La China Calderón, Sinaloa Cartel Hitwoman

Increasingly, women aspire to join the ranks of organized crime, and this desire is encouraged and facilitated by social media. Melissa “La China” Calderón is one of the most notorious female hitwomen linked to the Sinaloa Cartel. She is currently serving a life sentence in a Mexican prison for allegedly killing more than 150 people on the orders of Dámaso López—El Chapo’s former right-hand man—before her arrest in 2015. When I requested an interview with her, the Mexican government informed me that she had declined from her prison cell.

A profile in *The Daily Beast* asserts that “La China led an army of killers, then went rogue and terrorized all of Cabo San Lucas with a squad of three hundred hitmen. She likely would have continued had her partner not turned her in.” Violent women continue to be portrayed as a jarring anomaly—and their boyfriends or male partners often figure into the narrative—yet new generations in Sinaloa admire these types of women; and girls like fifteen-year-old Yazmín Esmeralda fall under their influence.

While visiting her grandmother in Guasave, in northwestern Sinaloa, Yazmín discovered an Uzi submachine gun at the back of a closet. According to local press reports, she felt inspired to use it to film “the best TikTok video of her life.” She held the weapon up in front of the camera—which was being held by her younger brother—and it discharged, killing her instantly. Her mother told reporters that she found her lying face down in a pool of blood. “What was an Uzi doing in Grandma’s house?” and “Why was it within reach of children?” were just a few of the questions that intrigued me as I read about Yazmín’s death—in addition to her desire to be seen posing with a gun on TikTok.

“Narco-culture is aspirational,” said Siria Gastélum, who was born and raised in Culiacán, the capital of Sinaloa. She has studied mafias for most of her professional life and works for the Global Initiative Against Transnational Organized Crime (GI-TOC).

“Long before social media existed, we already had *narco corridos*. It was all about showing off—about becoming a legend. Young people are always on the lookout for heroes, rock stars, and role models.”

“The fact that [Yazmín] chose to record a video [in that manner] demonstrates that our youth are immersed in that culture,” said Quiñonez Estrada, the former Attorney General of Sinaloa. “It is what they hear at all hours of the day.”

The universality of these ideals and aspirations doesn’t make tragedies like those of Paulina and Yazmín any easier to stomach, and the rise of social media has accelerated their spread. Emma always understood the value of using social media to build her brand; on her Instagram and Twitter (now X) accounts, she appeared in her *buchona* persona, posing with guns, yachts, and luxury cars.

However, the *buchona* look isn’t limited to those involved in the drug trade.

A Second Chance

Emma was sentenced to three years in prison after pleading guilty to helping her husband escape from jail and admitting to assisting him in his drug trafficking operations.] Approximately one year after her release, Emma Coronel starred in a music video released by one of her defense attorneys, Mariel Colón, who is also a musician.

“La Señora” (The Lady), a traditional *ranchera* song, features Emma in various elegant outfits—whether riding a horse, walking through a decadent mansion, or sitting down to conduct business with young men in suits who are smoking cigars. Emma plays the role of a boss well, appearing convincing, professional, self-assured, and beautiful, with her gaze often fixed directly on the camera lens. She also walked the runway in Milan during Fashion Week in September 2024, wearing an ornate wedding gown. With over 400,000 followers on Instagram, she has leveraged the platform to boost her image and fame, much to the delight of her admirers.

With her husband behind bars and an uncertain future ahead, she must do whatever is in her power to keep the money flowing and maintain—to some extent—the lifestyle to which she has become accustomed. It is clear that, for now, she has no intention of disappearing to start a new life with a different identity. The reality is that she likely doesn’t have many options anyway, given the fame she largely cultivated for herself.

Source: Milenio