The lesson arrives as a shrug: when they criticize you, just say soy yo. Li Saumet's verses — half-rapped, half-sung — stockpile mishaps: falling, getting lost, failing, learning, each dispatched so quickly it reads as already survived, credentials rather than complaint. What the song finally defends is rest — sitting in the sand doing nothing, and the closing word going to a woman relaxed in bed, in pajamas, at home in her own body — identity claimed at its least performative moment. Don't worry if they don't approve; you don't even know me.

The recording gives that shrug a body. Its electronic cumbia pulse is quick, metronomic, and light almost to the end, unbothered in exactly the way the words prescribe, and the chorus is less sung than chanted — soy yo traded among voices until a private claim turns collective. Its deepest defiance is being relaxed. The track simply stops when it's done, as if nothing more needed defending.