TaniA Kyllikki has kept the teddy bear her entire life. Not in storage, not on some shelf in a childhood bedroom at her parents’ house, but with her, always—a small, worn witness to every recording session, every tour stop, every late night in unfamiliar hotel rooms. The bear is special not just because it’s hers, but because its twin belonged to her sister, who died at four months old. When TaniA talks about the bear, which she does without being asked, really, because it’s the kind of thing that comes up when you’re explaining who you are, she doesn’t get maudlin about it. She just says it’s very special to her, in the same tone someone else might use to describe a favorite sweater. But of course it’s more than that. It’s a stand-in for the person who should have been there, the mirror image who never got to grow up alongside her, the sister who left before TaniA could know her, whose matching teddy bear is somewhere else now, or lost.
Which is to say: TaniA Kyllikki understands loss in a way that shaped her before she even had language for it.
She’s in the studio when we meet, which is really the only place she ever seems to be lately, given that she’s preparing to release her album “Free-Spirited” in 2026 after health complications forced her to push back the original date. The studio is in Berkshire, and TaniA, who is 20-something and looks like what would happen if you asked AI to generate “glamorous pop star with a secret,” is wearing something that manages to be both sexy and modest, which is apparently her signature look—the kind of outfit that says I know exactly what I’m doing with my body without saying anything too explicit about it. It’s calculated in the best way: she understands that part of her job is to be looked at, and she’s chosen to control how.
Her hair is long and dark and falls in waves that would make early-era Gloria Estefan or Mariah Carey (whom she cites as an influence, along with Whitney Houston) nod in recognition. She has that thing that all great divas have, which is not just beauty but presence, the kind of face that photographs well but also commands attention in person, even when she’s just sitting at a mixing board drinking what appears to be tea. She’s aware of the effect she has—how could she not be?—but she wields it carefully, like someone who knows the difference between power and the appearance of power.
The studio itself is scattered with the detritus of creation: lyric sheets, a laptop with approximately forty-seven tabs open, someone’s takeout container from lunch or possibly dinner given that it’s now well past 10 p.m. TaniA is a night person, which you have to be if you’re serious about this work, and also possibly because her mind—which generates songs the way other people generate anxious thoughts about whether they turned off the stove—doesn’t really turn off just because the sun goes down. “I have strange dreams that I can’t explain,” she says. “Like something out of a Harry Potter scene. It’s fascinating how our brains function.” She laughs at this, a self-aware laugh that suggests she knows how that sounds but is also genuinely interested in the mystery of her own subconscious, which, if you think about it, is exactly the right attitude for someone whose job is to excavate emotion and set it to melody.
TaniA Kyllikki is riding the wave of her latest single, “I Promise I’ll Wait For You,” which is exactly the kind of title that tells you everything and nothing about who she is. On the surface, it’s a love song—and it is that, a promise to her husband Rynellton, who is not just her spouse but her creative collaborator, her business partner, her everything, apparently, in a way that would be suffocating if it weren’t so clearly mutual. But there’s something else threaded through the song, a kind of devotion that exceeds romance, that hints at the faith that structures her entire life and career. This is the tension that makes TaniA interesting, and possibly difficult to market: she’s a pop star who looks like she should be singing about nightclubs and one-night stands and champagne at 3 a.m., but instead she’s singing about waiting, about restraint, about a kind of spiritual discipline that is deeply unfashionable in an industry that runs on excess.
She has a five-octave range, by the way, plus that whistle tone that made Mariah Carey famous, which is the sort of technical ability that either makes you a legend or makes you a trivia answer depending on what you do with it. TaniA seems determined to be the former. Her influences are all over the map—classical, R&B, pop, jazz, soul—which is another way of saying she doesn’t really fit into a single category, and good luck to whatever marketing department has to figure out how to sell that. But this is increasingly the way music works now: genres are suggestions, and the most interesting artists are the ones who refuse to stay in their lane.
The big, big, big question—and I’m using Mariah’s adjective stacking here because it feels appropriate—is how TaniA navigates being a young, beautiful, talented woman in an industry that has historically chewed up young, beautiful, talented women and spit them out with substance abuse problems and tell-all memoirs. The short answer is: faith. The longer answer is more complicated.
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“Respect is the key,” she says when asked about handling the attention and adoration, the offers that come from people who see her and want something from her that she’s not offering. “I respect myself and my relationship with my husband and with God. I’ve set morals for myself, plus I need to be a positive example for those who follow and support me.” She says this while maintaining eye contact in a way that makes it clear she’s had plenty of practice declining advances, that she knows exactly what’s being offered and exactly why she’s saying no. It’s not naiveté that protects her; it’s strategy.
She talks about this in a way that doesn’t feel preachy or defensive, just matter-of-fact, like someone explaining how they avoid getting sick on airplanes (hand sanitizer, hydration, avoid touching your face). “The industry is filled with both positive and negative aspects, leaving individuals vulnerable to temptation if they lack awareness. Knowing the business, I made a promise to myself to never allow anyone to put me in a situation that compromises my integrity and values. I will, and have, turned down offers that didn’t feel right. I’d rather make it by going on the long hard road, than what seems like the easy path, but is really just a path to trap you.”
It would be easy to read this as the statement of someone who has always walked the straight and narrow, but that’s not quite right. When pressed about whether she’s had faith during her entire music career or is more of a reformed party girl, TaniA gets slightly coy in a way that’s more revealing than a full confession would be. “The truth is we all have a past; however, your past doesn’t determine your future. I’ve always had my own personal relationship with God since I was a child. My faith got me through some tough situations, some of which were my mistakes.” She continues, gaining momentum: “But as we grow into ourselves, we can either learn from our mistakes and blossom, or we can keep looping our poor choices. We can choose our path, right or wrong. And that’s where growth in ourselves plays an important role. I used to be weak-minded and surrounded myself with selfish people.”
There it is—the acknowledgment that she hasn’t always been the woman she is now, that there was a version of TaniA who made poor choices, who was weak-minded (her words), who ran with people who weren’t good for her. She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push, because there’s a kind of respect in letting someone draw their own boundaries around their past. What matters is that she got out, that she found her way to something more stable, more sustaining. “Now, I only want like-minded people in my life,” she says. “The positive aspect is that my past choices have taught me what to avoid in others, which is why I do not feel ashamed of my past.”
We talk for a while about social media, which she describes as making people “less social, oddly enough,” and about the world losing its morality. These are the kind of broad statements that could mean almost anything, but coming from TaniA, they feel like observations from someone who has seen both sides—who has been in the clubs and the churches, who understands temptation and restraint in equal measure.
What’s interesting is that TaniA manages to be both specific and vague when talking about hot-button issues. Asked where she stands on women’s rights, equality, and social justice—topics that young female pop artists are increasingly vocal about—she gives an answer that could have been written by a very careful publicist: “Politics, religion, and equality of rights all have their separate lanes. Sometimes they can have some similarities, but more often they don’t. This phenomenon is because we live in a multicultural world with many different opinions on various topics. I believe we can agree or disagree on whatever we are passionate and vocal about while still respecting one another and realising we’re all equal.”
It’s the kind of answer that commits to nothing while sounding like it commits to something, which is either very smart or overly careful, depending on your perspective. TaniA seems aware of this tightrope she’s walking—between being authentically Christian and being palatable to secular audiences, between being outspoken and being too outspoken. When asked if there are topics she can’t address because of potential backlash, she says no, she’s not bound by either secular or Christian communities, that “truth is like enlightenment, and it sets us free.” But the truth is—and here I’m speculating, which is what you do in this kind of piece when the subject is being diplomatic—the truth is that TaniA probably self-censors more than she realizes, or at least more than she admits. Everyone does. It’s a survival mechanism.
What doesn’t require speculation is the fact that TaniA has been through it, health-wise. She was born with life-long health conditions, is a survivor of abuse (she doesn’t specify what kind, and again, I don’t push), and faced emergency surgeries this year. This is the reason “Free-Spirited” got pushed to 2026, a decision that clearly pains her but that she frames as pragmatic. “As they say, the spirit is willing, but the body is weak. And I have to change my plans around my health battles.” She says this without self-pity, but you can hear the frustration underneath, the anger at a body that won’t cooperate with the ambitions of the mind and spirit it houses. “I have learnt to adapt my goals to my health’s unpredictability.”
How does she channel pain—both past and present—into her music without letting it consume her? “That’s a great question,” she says, which is what people say when they’re buying time to figure out their answer. “I do try to stay positive and push myself through it. But I can at times feel overwhelmed emotionally from the past and the present. It’s really challenging, frustrating at times.” There’s something almost mundane about this answer, like she’s describing a difficult commute rather than the existential struggle of turning trauma into art. Maybe that’s healthy. Maybe the only way to survive turning your pain into product is to treat it as just another part of the job.
We’re several hours into this conversation now, and the studio has that late-night quality where time becomes elastic and everyone speaks a little more freely. TaniA’s husband Rynellton has been in and out, contributing thoughts on a mix, bringing in food, existing as a kind of benevolent presence in the background. Their working relationship, she says, is built on chemistry and trust. “We both work well in what we do separately, but bringing our ideas to one another requires respect. We must express our needs, wants, and goals verbally and musically.” Sometimes they disagree—Rynellton’s idea differs from what she originally wanted, or vice versa—but “through the process we are fortunate that we continue to surprise and exceed what we’re trying to express.”
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It’s a very careful answer about what could be a very messy dynamic—working with your spouse is either the best thing in the world or grounds for divorce, and usually both at different times. TaniA makes it sound easy, which either means it is (unlikely) or that she’s very good at presenting a united front (more likely). Either way, the end result is what matters, which is the music, which is what we’re all here for anyway.
TaniA’s songwriting process is everything and nothing all at once: pen and notebook at 3 a.m., voice notes captured in unexpected moments, melodies that arrive fully formed or that have to be excavated through hours of work. “Literally all the above; every instance you have mentioned has been one of my processes. Sometimes separately and other times simultaneously.” She’s been writing songs since she was a child—”I acquired a love of music from a very early age. It was instant. I would sing to music my mother played on the stereo or in the car. I rapidly became embedded in singing, and then words became lyrics, which became songs. I was also writing songs at a very early age. It was as if I harboured my own private radio station within my mind.”
This is the kind of origin story that every artist has some version of—the childhood revelation, the sense of calling, the understanding that this is what you were put on earth to do. What makes it interesting in TaniA’s case is the way her faith intersects with it. She’s been compared to music legends, praised for that five-octave range, but when asked who made her feel seen, whose sound or message shaped her own, she deflects: “I can’t say that there was just one particular artist that inspired me. I listened to a vast number of music artists with various genres and styles. They all played a part in helping me identify my voice.” (Though earlier she specifically mentioned Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey, so maybe this is just the kind of thing you say when you want to avoid being pinned down to one influence.)
The album “Free-Spirited,” whenever it finally comes out, represents something important to TaniA beyond just a collection of songs. “It represents the growth of myself as a person and an artist. It’s letting my fans get to know more about me as I evolve musically. FREE-SPIRITED also represents freedom. Freedom to do what I want, when I want it, and however I want it.” She’s echoing Janet Jackson here, whether she knows it or not—that same declaration from “Control” about doing it her way, on her terms, which in Janet’s case meant escaping her father’s management and her first husband’s shadow. This is the paradox at the heart of TaniA Kyllikki: she’s a woman who has structured her entire life around discipline and faith and restraint, and yet the album she’s most excited about is called “Free-Spirited.” But maybe that’s exactly the point—maybe real freedom, like Janet discovered and like TaniA is discovering, isn’t about doing whatever you want but about having the strength to do what you believe is right, even when it’s harder, even when it’s not what everyone else is doing.
We talk about other things, smaller things that fill in the picture: She’s obsessed with “Heartland,” a TV show about horses, because she’s been riding since she was a child and is “just a country girl at heart.” She loves to draw and paint, anything in the artistic realm, as she puts it. She’s passionate about cooking large-scale meals and baking for loved ones—she made her husband a German chocolate cake when they first met, which is either very domestic or very strategic or both. These are the small ways she expresses care, the domestic rituals that ground her in something outside of music and faith and the constant forward motion of a career.
These small, ordinary details—the baking, the painting, the love of horses and “Heartland”—create a portrait of someone navigating multiple worlds at once: her health issues that force constant adaptation, her past that she’s made peace with but doesn’t fully disclose, the expectations of an industry that wants her to be one thing while her faith demands she be another. The teddy bear sits nearby in the studio, a small reminder of survival, of the sister who didn’t make it, of the person TaniA became because of loss rather than in spite of it. She carries that absence with her, not as a weight but as a talisman, the way some people carry a lucky coin or a saint’s medal.
Before I leave—it’s well past midnight now, and TaniA still has work to do—she talks about being recognized as one of “THE TOP TEN WOMEN REVOLUTIONISING THEIR FIELDS.” “To be honest, it’s a privilege to be recognised for what I’ve done; however, I’ve just begun. It’s motivating and confirmation that I must have done something right. This just means I have to continue to put in the work and effort to be the best I can be.”
She says this in a way that makes you believe her, that makes you think maybe she will be one of the ones who makes it, who doesn’t get chewed up and spit out, who figures out how to navigate this impossible terrain between art and commerce, between faith and fame, between who you are and who everyone wants you to be. Or maybe she won’t. Maybe the industry will demand compromises she’s not willing to make, or maybe her health will continue to interrupt her momentum, or maybe she’ll just fade away like so many other talented people who couldn’t quite break through. But she has what it takes. The talent. The looks. The will to overcome any obstacles fate has put in front of her.
But for now, in this studio, at this moment, TaniA Kyllikki is exactly where she wants to be: making music, staying faithful to her beliefs, keeping her sister’s bear twin close by. Navigating a world that hasn’t always been gentle with her, but moving forward nonetheless—adapting her goals to her health’s unpredictability, holding firm to her values in an industry that doesn’t always reward that kind of discipline. Free-spirited, in her own carefully bounded way.
