After everything that’s been written about Bad Bunny’s residency in Puerto Rico—the praise, the emotion, the cultural impact—as a Puerto Rican writer, I couldn’t not write about it. His 31-show residency was a cultural phenomenon. According to reliable sources, it generated over $400 million into the struggling island’s economy, revitalizing tourism during a typically slow season.
Just a few weeks ago, though, a Puerto Rican former priest posted on social media that Bad Bunny’s concert had been a spiritual experience. Spiritual? Perreo as communion? The claim jolted me. I laughed—then, uncharacteristically (I’m not the trolling type)—commented twice, full of judgment and defensiveness. How could anyone call “spiritual” a show with lyrics that say:
I like the p***y from Puerto Rico / I’m gonna take them all to the VIP / Let the ones I already had s** with smile. / I really like the Gabrielas, the Patricias, the Nicoles, the Sofías… / I’ve got a Colombian who writes me every day / A Mexican I didn’t even know about… / Another in San Antonio that still wants me / The ones from Puerto Rico—all of them are mine. / A Dominican that is a bombón / And the one from Barcelona that came by airplane and says my d*** is amazing / I got bored, now I want a virgin p***y / A new one, and another new one, and another new one, ey! / Listen to your friend, she’s right / I’m going to break your heart. / Baby, better than you, now I’ve got like ten. / And I screwed your friend, I screwed her.
Where the cycle of disrespect and hypersexualization of Latina women that belittles our intellect is repeated? Where heartbreak, ego, resentment, and unbridled desire are glorified? Where Latina women are cast not only as objects of conquest, but as emotional antagonists—heartbreakers, seductresses, or chaotic forces to be tamed? These portrayals, wrapped in catchy hooks and cultural bravado, reinforce a narrative that our passion is dangerous, our independence is threatening, and our complexity is a flaw rather than a strength.
Enjoying his songs at parties, clubs, concerts, el jangueo? Sure. But calling it spiritual? That was a stretch.
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That stretch felt eerily familiar too. Like the disbelief I felt during the 2016 election, when many women still voted for Donald Trump after the release of the infamous Access Hollywood tape in which he said, “When you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything… Grab them by the p***y.” The contradiction between that statement and the support he received from women left me stunned. Just like calling Donald Trump our president, calling a Bad Bunny concert a spiritual experience felt like a distortion of values.
I couldn’t help but notice a disconnect. The same women who not long ago were posting “Ni Una Más”—a movement born out of grief and rage over the epidemic of femicide and gender-based violence in Latin America—who speak out against the systemic objectification and dehumanization of women, don’t seem to register how some of Bad Bunny’s lyrics—however catchy or culturally resonant—casually reinforce the same patterns of sexualization, conquest, and emotional volatility that normalize the very dynamics Ni Una Más protests against.
It seems like the moral urgency of movements like Ni Una Más and Me Too only lasts a minute, but the cultural amnesia that follows stretches on indefinitely. The outrage burns bright—until the next hit single drops, the next charismatic performer takes the stage, and suddenly, the same behaviors we swore to challenge are repackaged as empowerment or art.
His lyrics live in a gray zone—where progressive gestures and patriotic sentimentalism coexist with reggaeton’s deeply ingrained gender dynamics. He’s not the worst offender, but he shouldn’t be exempt either. And while the feminist critique doesn’t cancel his artistry and philanthropy; it asks us to hold both truths: that he’s a cultural force, and that some of his lyrics deserve scrutiny.
This isn’t about rejecting sensuality or self-expression. After all, I’ve defended performances like JLo’s Super Bowl halftime show as empowering—because they were self-directed, intentional, and defiant of double standards. The difference lies in agency: when a woman chooses to perform sexiness on her own terms, it can be liberating. When a man’s lyrics frame women through resentment or conquest, it risks reinforcing the very power imbalances we claim to resist.
That clash between values and artistic admiration stirred something. Just like my disbelief in 2016, I found myself wrestling with another paradox: beyond my role as a spiritual and children teacher, I want to celebrate the success of my compatriot Benito and recognize the fun “urban poetry” in his artistic expression, his presence, and his magnetism. But that machismo—whether dressed in progressive drag or authoritarian conviction—is still old paradigm. It adapts, rebrands, even performs relatability, but at its core, it continues to center colonial-era male dominance and entitlement.
That distraction kept surfacing in my awareness as if an "omen"—quiet, insistent, personal (in the form of ads and feed suggestions, just like during elections). So, despite my reluctance, I felt compelled to experience the final night of the No Me Quiero Ir de Aquí residency.
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The show lived up to everything I had read about prior shows of the residency. It was an emotional tribute to Puerto Rico and a masterclass in immersive performance. It was held at San Juan’s iconic Coliseo de Puerto Rico, lovingly known by Puerto Ricans as "El Choli"—on the eighth anniversary of Hurricane Maria. The show blended high-energy reggaetón with deep cultural reverence. The production featured a replica of a Puerto Rican home, where on the rooftop Benito raised a glass to the crowd and declared, “This is for you,” as thousands lifted plastic cups in return. The setlist spanned more than 40 songs, including hits like “Tití Me Preguntó,” “Yo Perreo Sola,” and “El Apagón,” alongside tracks from his latest album Debí Tirar Más Fotos. Special guests included Marc Anthony, who joined Benito for a moving rendition of “Preciosa,” as well as Ñengo Flow, Arcángel, De La Ghetto, RaiNao, and Jowell & Randy. The concert was livestreamed globally via Amazon Music, Prime Video, and Twitch—marking the first time Bad Bunny shared a Puerto Rico performance with the world. More than a concert, it was a cultural moment—one that honored resilience, identity, and the transformative power of art to unite.
But as I watched the young women with drinks on their hands pushing their butts out and the men rubbing their crotches against them, I felt my heart center tighten.
Side note: I grew up on the island during a time when the emerging reggaetón subculture was part of what was known as los frikis—or “freakies”—a term used with a hint of disdain to describe a music scene whose provocative lyrics, focus on sex and drugs, heavy low-frequency beats, and New York-inspired hip-hop fashion and attitude challenged cultural norms with unapologetic boldness. One of my youth activities was dance, and I was exposed to elements of this subculture through the electro-boogie films of the ’80s and the golden era of MTV, back when music videos were its heartbeat and the channel offered a platform to youth who didn't see themselves reflected in mainstream media. So whenever I encountered a "friki" street battle, I’d join the circle, clapping and cheering, absorbing their flow. Today, younger generations in Puerto Rico use the term “freaky” more like it’s depicted in popular American series' like Freaks & Geeks—but back then, it carried a different cultural weight. Of course, Bomba y Plena, Salsa, Boleros, Baladas, Merengue, Guaguancó... these were part of my heritage, woven into the fabric of our culture and celebrations; I never took formal classes to dance them, yet my hips instinctively know what to do at weddings, parrandas, Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián, and all the gatherings that mark our cultural exuberance—and we Puerto Ricans celebrate life often. These genres were a given. But because of our proximity to the U.S., and as American citizens with family ties across the mainland, we are inevitably influenced by American culture. When I was a preteen, my mother moved to Florida, and I began living between the two cultures, absorbing influences from both. As a teenager, I found my place among the artsy, alternative kids, and while the music scene I grew up with shares the creative edge that Bad Bunny now exports to the world, the scene I was immersed in was something else entirely. I’ll call it Puerto Rican ‘alternative’ for lack of a better word—though it was really a fusion of global subcultural sounds: world music, folk, jazz, reggae, ska, new wave, punk, synth pop, new age, art rock, political rock, grunge, shoe gaze, international indie, jazz rap, alternative hip-hop, electronic, and more, all infused with that unmistakable Puerto Rican magic—the sonic pulse of a culture that knows how to feel deeply and express freely. It wasn’t as pounding, the lyrics didn’t focus on sex, but it was equally exciting. Having experienced countless musical acts across genres and countries—from underground to mainstream—I can say with confidence that there’s something uniquely enchanting about La Isla del Encanto’s artistic expression, something that anyone with a keen eye for art can recognize.
So when I experienced the show through the lens of my spiritual discernment, my senses recognized the artistry and the visceral thrill of the moment, but my heart and spirit felt the tension. Seeing this male chauvinist iteration of reggaetón elevated to global spectacle, I found myself asking deeper questions—not just about the music, but about what it reflects back to us. How can someone who sings “I’m the worst” have such a hypnotic effect on so many people? How can an artist who seems to complain about women in every verse—who normalizes emotional detachment, transactional intimacy, and promiscuity—become a symbol of connection for millions, especially now, as more of us begin to explore what it means to live with deeper awareness?
Yes, Bad Bunny—along with his songs and videos—is undeniably fun, backed by a powerhouse of creative talent. Some of his magnetism lies in the catchy, hypnotic beats that feed our shortened attention spans. But to explore the deeper pull, I turned to the Eight Limbs of Yoga.
In yoga, before we reach higher states of awareness—before we cultivate intuition and energetic mastery—we must first confront the layers of conditioning, identity, and emotional entanglement that cloud our perception. The yamas and niyamas, the ethical and personal disciplines, are designed to purify the heart and clarify the mind. Without that foundation, we’re vulnerable to charisma without consciousness, magnetism without substance. So from a yogic perspective, it’s as if Benito bypassed the foundational limbs and landed directly on his siddhis. His art, his production team, his presence on stage… everything vibrates with an intensity that cannot be denied. And that, even if it doesn’t come from a traditional spiritual practice, is energetic resonance. It’s a human magnetic field.
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His latest residency concert in Puerto Rico was proof of that. Thousands in the coliseum felt the high-frequency energy that pulsed through the collective experience. A vibration that can be felt at spiritual gatherings, retreats, some churches, concerts, sport events, and anywhere people gather with collective interest, emotional resonance, and high spirit.
That experience made me reflect. Just as he expresses in his songs, I too have felt disappointment and pain from men I’ve loved deeply but who weren’t right for me. Creative, charming, magnetic men… like Benito. And the truth is, we all carry the immensity of God’s eternal and unconditional love within us. We love many people throughout our lives—for different reasons, sometimes for no logical reason. But when that attraction isn’t aligned with our dharma, with our higher purpose, the universe—which is always seeking harmony—pushes us to let go. And sometimes, we do so in ways that seem out of our control.
I’ve stood on both sides of heartbreak. And by the end of our lives, we'll all experience those polarities. Because the human experience is about transcending duality. Not because of a lack of love—love is infinite—but because of misalignment with our inner compass. And it is our choice whether we stay stuck in depression fearing the repetition of our past or allow those lessons to illuminate what doesn’t align, so we can move toward what does… toward our dharma.
Sometimes, as in some of Benito’s lyrics, those emotional wounds are released through art. Complaints that, if repeated over and over, can become emotional mantras that reinforce pain, bitterness, and heartbreak.
This is a moment to pause and reflect on what we’re consuming—and why. We live in an age of addiction: to dopamine hits, curated perfection, algorithmic validation, cosmetic enhancements, and endless scrolling... An era driven by instant gratification and a growing confusion between fleeting pleasure and genuine connection. Repeating mantras that glorify hypersexualization, wounded ego, heartbreak, and unconscious desire has consequences. Not only does it perpetuate harmful stereotypes, but it also reinforces emotional patterns that keep us trapped, disconnected from our deeper truth.
And this brings us to something often overlooked: words are powerful, and what we feed our subconscious by singing, repeating, dancing to… shapes our energy.
In yoga, shabda—sound—is considered a subtle form of energy that shapes consciousness. Mantras are vibrational codes that purify, elevate, and align us with divine truth. What we repeat becomes what we embody.
This spiritual insight isn’t exclusive to yoga. The Bible echoes this reverence. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” (John 1:1) Words are portals. They create worlds. They bless or curse. They heal or wound. “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.” (Proverbs 18:21)
This understanding of sacred speech reminds me of a quote from Phillips Brooks I often return to: “Preaching is truth through personality.” This phrase emphasizes that effective preaching involves not just delivering spiritually alive healing information, but communicating it through the unique character, life experience, and being of the preacher. It highlights how, when someone is able to translate a healing message through the lens of their own relatable experience, it can leave a profound and transformative imprint on others.
Art is truth through personality too.
Benito’s lyrics reveal an internal struggle with romantic love—a love shaped by unresolved emotional wounds and protective parts that seek connection through intensity rather than intimacy. This reflects the concept of “negative love”—a distorted imprint of love that's been internalized: that love is painful, conditional, controlling, or unsafe. Why does Benito want to fall in love but can't? Because we unconsciously seek partners who mirror our unresolved wounds, hoping to resolve them through reenactment rather than transformation. As a result, what emerges from this artistic processing is art from the wound, not from healing—and it reinforces the old paradigm of love as emotional volatility and control rather than love as conscious connection for spiritual evolution.
Which begs to reiterate the question: why is this kind of wounded art so magnetic?
Because it carries the conviction of lived experience—channeled through the lens of the artist’s wounded personality. This is the part of the self shaped by emotional pain, protective mechanisms, and ego-based identities. When an artist creates from this place, their expression resonates—not from a healthy place, but because it’s raw, familiar, and emotionally charged. The listener recognizes their own wounds in the artist’s expression, and that recognition creates instant rapport.
Benito—like many artists—is processing his life experiences, good and bad, through his art.
Many people unconsciously carry narratives of love shaped by disappointment, abandonment, betrayal, or emotional volatility. When an artist expresses those wounds through music, it doesn’t just entertain—it validates. Unresolved trauma often leads us to seek out emotional environments that feel familiar. The wounded narrative feels like home. So instead of challenging our emotional patterns, this kind of art reinforces them. It keeps us in terrain we know—where heartbreak is expected, connection is replaced by intensity, and love remains elusive. That familiarity is comforting. And that’s why wounded art, when unexamined, can magnetize us more than healed art: because it speaks the language of our wounds.
Yet, if we keep feeding our psyche with that negative love, it keeps us stuck in the cycle of seeking connection through familiar wounds instead of choosing conscious and healing love.
This is why I meditate and pray to teach and communicate from my healing—not from my wound. We are living in times where the pursuit of instant gratification is eroding not only our capacity for genuine connection, but also the health of the only planet that sustains life as we know it. This reflects a form of collective self-sabotage or self-destructive behavior—a quiet spiritual and societal erosion that disconnects us from our deeper values. Which is why I believe anyone with a substantial following carries a sacred responsibility to do the same.
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To communicate our version of truth, we must filter it through our unique life experience. Our personal journey is what makes our message resonate. But although wounded art feels authentic to our wounds, it's not authentic to our soul. Love is only lost in our minds when we’re unable to process and transform it. There are infinite versions of love. Like all of nature, some love lessons emerge for a reason, some for a season, and some are perennial. Even perennial nature has its ebbs and flows. If we don’t learn the lessons and receive the gifts these loves bring—what we resist persists. By not doing so, we miss the opportunity to transform the illusions of separation—be it sexism, nationalism, racism, ageism, classism or any other construct that divides us—into the ultimate reality: non-duality. We miss the opportunity to tend the compost of our failed attempts at love to transform it into the fertile soil from which lasting, perennial love can take root and flourish.
The love that we withhold is the pain that we experience lifetime after lifetime.
He may not have had the best experiences with romantic love yet, but Benito says he comes from a loving family and has a supportive community and fans. That’s what nurtured his success: love and support. He would've succeeded at anything he poured his heart into. That energetic support — is — the yoga of Bad Bunny’s success. He even said he was going to take that supporting energy with him on tour and reminded the audience what he hoped we’d take away from the exhilaration of the production we had just experienced:
“As long as we are alive, we should love as much as we can. Value every second that life gives you… The past cannot be changed. We can only learn from it. Nobody knows what’s going to happen tomorrow. So don’t worry so much about what’s coming. Focus on the now. Seize the moment that God and life give you to make better decisions, to grow, to learn, to be a better person. But above all—to love. No matter what the situation is. No matter what your problem is. Of all the options, love is going to be the best one. Trust me.”
Touched by those words, I began to reframe my perception, wondering if the attraction to Benito was tied to that colloquial expression that can be humorously rephrased as: “Women want a Good Bunny during the day and a Bad Bunny to enjoy the nights with.” I'm sure that some of you may have gone straight to sex when you read that. But to a lot of women, me included, is more than that—someone to dance and enjoy life with, to express our femininity and sensuality safely with. Someone who can hold both tenderness and passion. Someone who honors the full spectrum of who we are.
I needed to understand why this mattered to me. So after the show, I took my conundrum to the meditation cushion. And that’s when more clarity came: it wasn’t Benito who triggered me—it was the memory of the Benitos I’ve loved deeply. The ones who thrilled me in the moment, but didn't nurtured my flourishing. And I laughed. Of course I’d feel conflicted watching thousands worship a man who reminds me of my past heartbreaks, singing about his own.
When you’ve been let down by the very people who were supposed to nurture and love you, or who you trusted to help you grow, it may feel like you’re walking alone, starting from nothing, with no map and no hand to hold. But that just gives you more space and freedom to design yourself and your life from the inside out. You don’t need validation to be worthy. You don’t need perfect conditions to grow. You are the spark, and you are the one who keeps it lit. Every time you choose to love yourself, to create, to rise again, you’re living proof that Divine power is not something you outsource—it’s something you embody. In fact, the more you outsource your sense of value, the further you drift from your own center, and the more fragile your sense of worth becomes.
So when we see art for what it truly is—internal processing, truth through personality—we can begin to extract its medicine. The medicine of Benito’s art, like all resonant art, lies in the energy transmitted by the artist’s courage to feel deeply, express fully, and make a living doing what they love and enjoy. And that, in times when so many are disconnected from their dharma—from their higher purpose or soul’s calling—if we recognize it for what it is and don’t internalize it as a justification for bad behavior, I have to admit… it’s a spiritual act.
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If, as renowned scientist Neil deGrasse Tyson says, we are literally made of stardust, then superstars like Benito are simply those who’ve been able to shape that cosmic material into something illuminating. The transformation of these stardust elements to superstardom can be seen as an alchemical process—one that begins with energetic resonance, where lived experience becomes vibration that others can feel. It deepens through emotional authenticity, as wounds are transmuted into art that mirrors collective emotion. It expands through cultural relevance, when personal truth aligns with the pulse of a generation. It’s sustained by a supportive ecosystem—family, friends, community, and fans who act as gravity to hold the rising star. It demands creative courage: the willingness to be misunderstood in order to shed light on deeper truths. But ultimately—and this is the part of the alchemical process where Benito is at—it’s powered by spiritual alignment, when this visibility becomes rooted in dharma, not ego. And the artist becomes ready to embody his light, not perform it. But none of this unfolds without awareness—the artist’s capacity to observe, reflect, and choose consciously. Awareness is the inner lens that turns raw experience into refined expression. And when you do this, that inner light of yours doesn’t just shine bright—it illuminates the path for others.
Bad Bunny's latests albums show a more expansive tone. He’s leaned into his politics, Puerto Rican pride, beach vibes, and genre-blending experimentation, which to me reflect emotional maturity and a deeper comfort with his identity. Through the Good Bunny Foundation and other efforts, he has also embraced a role beyond entertainment. Giving back and being seen as a cultural leader may be shifting his emotional tone—from simply doing whatever he wants to intentionally building something meaningful.
As one of my spiritual teachers, drawing from the insights of A Course in Miracles, says:
“The way of the miracle-worker is to see all human behavior as one of two things: either love, or a call for love.”
Perhaps one of the most meaningful lessons, then, is this: to show up for ourselves, our families, our friends, and our communities with the same fervor, devotion, and presence we offer our favorite artists. We cheer for them, hold space for their complexity and imperfections, memorize their lyrics, show up for them, and pour energy into their success. Not realizing that the light we celebrate in them also lives within us, waiting to be honored with the same attention, enthusiasm, and adoration. That’s the highest expression of the practice of the first two limbs of yoga. The light in me sees the light in you. That’s the spiritual revolution Bob Marley sang about—One Love.
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