ALYA has always understood that timing is everything. Some songs arrive exactly when they are written. Others quietly wait for the moment they are truly needed. Believer, her first release of 2026, belongs firmly to the latter. Written six years ago and left untouched until now, the Grammy-winning artist finally felt the song had found its rightful place, not within an album, but as a story that deserved to stand entirely on its own.
At first listen, Believer feels like a song about rediscovering love after heartbreak. But beneath its elegant pop production and cinematic atmosphere lies something more profound. For ALYA, the song is less about romance itself and more about the transformative power of being truly seen by another person. It is a reflection on identity, surrender and the quiet realisation that strength does not always come from standing alone. As she tells House of Solo, believing again is not an act of naivety but one of courage.
That deeply personal perspective is woven throughout every element of the record. The unexpected inclusion of an accordion, an instrument she once resisted learning as a child growing up in Eastern Europe, reconnects her with a part of herself she had unknowingly edited out while building an international career in Los Angeles. Rather than chasing genre, ALYA embraces specificity, allowing her own history to become the defining sound of the music. Inspired as much by The Shape of Water as Beethoven’s iconic “fate knocking at the door” motif, Believer showcases the cinematic storytelling that has become central to her artistry.
Beyond music, ALYA continues to champion the stories of others through initiatives such as FirstGen, celebrating immigrant women who have rebuilt their lives in America. That same belief in resilience, reinvention and possibility runs through both her work and her life. As she steps into a new creative chapter, Believer is not simply the closing of an old story. It is the opening of a new one, where hope, identity and imagination meet with a confidence that feels entirely her own.
‘Believer’ is built around the idea that love can find you when you’ve completely stopped looking for it. Looking back now, what do you think that difficult period taught you about yourself beyond romance?
I’d gently reframe it – “Believer” isn’t really a song about love arriving after you’ve given up. Its real message is finding out who you really are when the right person walks in your life. During that period, I learnt that loving yourself isn’t something you achieve alone primarily; sometimes it really becomes visible in the presence of another. For me, that was humbling. I had believed that independence was the goal and meant not needing anyone to see me truly, boy was I ever wrong.
You originally wrote this song six years ago but chose not to release it at the time. What changed emotionally for you that finally made you feel ready to let the world hear it?
Honestly, less emotional than practical at first. “Believer” sat on the shelf because I was building an album, and it simply wasn’t a fit – it has its own lane so to speak. What changed was that I stopped trying to make it belong to something. It stands on its own, and I finally trusted that a song can arrive by itself and still be complete.
Revisiting a song written from such a vulnerable place can be like reopening an old diary. Was it healing, uncomfortable, or surprisingly empowering to return to those emotions?
It was more like seeing a photograph of yourself you’d forgotten that had been taken. It’s a little dark, a little rebellious – and returning to it was a pleasure because the writing still holds. There’s an innocence in it I couldn’t manufacture now and a wisdom I didn’t know I had then. Those two walking hand in hand are what I’m always chasing.
Your partner encouraged you to release “Believer” because they believed other people needed to hear it. How important is it for you that your music serves as comfort as much as entertainment?
My creative partner tends to see a step ahead of me. He said “Believer” wasn’t just mine anymore, that other people needed it. He was right. I don’t treat comfort and entertainment as opposites; the songs I’ve kept with me my whole life do both. If someone plays this on a bad night and feels carried away while yet enjoying the ride, then the purpose of the song has been met.
The title “Believer” could apply to much more than love. After everything you’ve experienced, what else has life made you believe in again?
Being carried and covered. The song is really about letting your person go with you through the waves rather than insisting on swimming every stretch yourself. Life has made me believe again in that kind of surrender – and in timing. I used to think late meant lost.
There’s something beautifully unexpected about the accordion appearing in a contemporary pop record. How did reconnecting with an instrument from your childhood help you reconnect with your own story as an artist?
The accordion is the sound of a room I grew up in, so putting it into a contemporary record was less of a production decision than an admission. I had spent years building something polished and Western and, in some ways, edited. That instrument stopped the editing. The moment it entered, the song sounded like it belonged to a specific person (me) rather than to a genre.
You once resisted learning the accordion, yet today it has become part of your musical identity. Has growing older changed the way you view the things you once wanted to leave behind?
Completely. When you’re young, you mistake inheritance for limitation – you want to be self-invented. Later, you realise the things you tried to leave behind are the things not many have. I’m far more interested now in what I was given in my youth than in many things I chose.
Your music blends cinematic storytelling with modern pop. When you’re writing, do you see scenes unfolding in your mind before you hear melodies, or does the music create the story?
I see the scene first, always. “Believer” was inspired by *The Shape of Water* – that same charge of discovering yourself while discovering love, something strange, tender, and slightly dangerous. And it’s also built on the same figure as the Beethoven theme people describe as fate knocking at the door. So, the image and the motif arrived together, and the melody came to describe them. Cinematic storytelling is not a stylistic choice for me; it’s how the material shows up.
You’ve worked alongside artists including Eric Clapton, Erica Campbell, D Smoke and White Sun. What has collaborating across such different musical worlds taught you about finding your own voice?
That your voice is clearest in unfamiliar company. Each of those rooms had a different definition of excellence – devotional, gospel, blues, and hip-hop – and each time, I had to find what I could offer that no one else there could. I learned my own edges by standing next to people shaped completely differently.
Having grown up in Eastern Europe before building your career in Los Angeles, how have those two very different cultures shaped the way you write about love, resilience and identity?
Growing up in Eastern Europe gave me the assumption that love is something you survive as much as something you enjoy – minor-key realism, with an unembarrassed sentimentality alongside it. However, living life in the US gave me permission to imagine a good outcome. My songs happen where those two meet: I write about love with a straight face, but I always let it end well in an almost fairytale kind of way.
Many artists feel pressure to release new music constantly. By holding onto “Believer” for six years, you almost challenged that expectation. What has that experience taught you about trusting your own timing?
The industry’s clock and the song’s clock have completely different timing (hence living proof). There’s enormous pressure to stay visible, but visibility isn’t the same as having truly something to say. I don’t want to do anything in life just because…”Believer” waited because it wasn’t the right time. I ‘believe’ the song was on this earth long before I was even born, and when the time was right, it was given to me, and now it’s ready to be delivered.
“Believer” carries a message of hope at a time when many people feel disconnected or discouraged. Why do you think hopeful music is just as necessary today as music that reflects pain?
Because despair is easy to make and easy to sell, it’s all around us. I’m not against music that reflects pain – it’s been very good to all of us at times. But this song isn’t sweet hope; it’s the rebellious kind: fate is knocking, and you open the door. That takes more nerve than resignation, and I think we need that posture more and more.
Alongside your music, you’ve created FirstGen to celebrate immigrant women in America. How has your own journey influenced your understanding of success, and what legacy do you hope to leave beyond your records?
The subject is personal – I moved into an entire different country myself, and I think starting your life over somewhere completely different is almost a film plot in itself. Someone decides, on an ordinary day, that they will let their whole life start over, so to speak. FirstGen came out of that fascination. I recorded a podcast for a while, interviewing immigrant women whose stories genuinely inspired me, and I loved doing it. However, at some point, I thought my own work might do just as much: building something visible under my own name is its own argument for what’s possible. Therefore, success stopped meaning arrival for me and started meaning evidence. The legacy I want is quiet and structural: things that keep working when I’m not around and will help a few more women (and families) have their door of opportunity open for them.
Your songs often balance vulnerability with strength. Is there still a part of your story that you haven’t yet found the courage to write about?
Yes. There’s a period of my life that I’ve circled back to many times and have never written about. I think I’ll know I’m ready when I stop rehearsing how to explain it. Some material I’ve written (that is out) does speak to/encourage me privately – I’m still cooking and as a pretty good cook, I know I shouldn’t take it out of the oven before it’s finished.
If someone hears “Believer” on the very day they’ve decided to give up on love, what do you hope is the one feeling or thought they carry with them after the song ends?
That believing again is not naïve; it’s brave. The song doesn’t argue anyone out of their decision; it just holds the door slightly open to hope. I’d want them to finish it feeling less like they’ve failed at something and more like they’re between chapters.
As this marks your first release of 2026, does “Believer” represent the emotional direction of the music to come, or is it the closing chapter of a story you’ve finally been ready to share?
A door, not an ending. It’s a piece that stands alone – it tells a story without trying, which is rarer than a good hook. But the register it lives in is where I’m heading: darker with a guiding light, more dynamic, more cinematic, and less concerned with fitting in.
