Three years ago, Hulvey was just another promising name in Christian hip-hop, grinding out singles and chasing his shot. Today, he’s navigating a very different reality: headlining tours, building a growing fanbase, and trying to make preschool drop-off before catching a flight. Somewhere between stage lights and snack time, he’s learning how to stay grounded—without losing momentum.
“I want to be the kind of dad who’s at dads and donuts in the morning,” he says, “even if I’ve got a show that night across the country.”
It’s the kind of tension plenty of twentysomethings feel—especially those juggling ambition, family, and a faith that doesn’t always fit the easy categories. For Hulvey, that tension isn’t something to resolve. It’s the story he’s telling.
“When I’m home, I gotta be home,” he says. “We’ve been living by this idea of quality over quantity. That means throwing a ball with my son, sitting on the couch watching a show, or just being there, fully. That kind of presence doesn’t happen on accident. You have to fight for it.”
That fight shows up in all the quiet ways: turning down gigs, cutting travel short, letting his wife speak into how pride or burnout might be creeping in. The platform might be growing, but the mission hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s gotten clearer.
“My wife reminds me, ‘Keep the main thing the main thing,’” he says. “The world can get another artist. My family doesn’t get another husband or dad.”
It helps to have people in his corner who aren’t impressed by numbers or noise. His mentor, he says, doesn’t let him forget what’s real. “He told me, ‘All this is gonna fade. Your family needs you more than your fans ever will.’ That stuck with me.”
He’s still learning what that looks like—especially in an industry that rarely respects boundaries. But one phrase keeps coming up in conversation: intentionality. Intentional about time. About humility. About creating music that tells the truth.
And lately, that truth is getting a lot more vulnerable.
His latest album, which released last fall, is the most personal project he’s ever made. It’s not a breakup record or a “Jesus fixes everything” playlist. It’s more of a reckoning—part confession, part praise report, and entirely rooted in the kind of honest, complicated gratitude that can only come from walking through fire and still believing God’s in it.
“It’s about reimagining what it means to cry,” Hulvey says. “Not just sitting in the pain, but actually being thankful that God meets us there. The title sounds sad, but it’s actually hopeful. It’s about how He takes what hurt and turns it into something sacred.”
There’s a track about Christian culture—how churches say “everyone’s welcome” until the wrong kind of people actually show up. There’s one about his teenage years in church, and the ache of not feeling like he belonged. But through it all, there’s a steady thread of invitation.
“Jesus invites everybody to the table,” he says. “Not just the ones who look the part. I think the Church forgets that sometimes. We want to welcome people, but then we’re surprised when they come.”
That willingness to push back—gently, but firmly—might surprise longtime fans. Hulvey’s earlier music leaned more toward worship anthems and clean production. This record still carries that clarity, but with more edge, more honesty, more risk.
“I was scared I couldn’t keep the momentum going after all the singles,” he admits. “But it felt like God was saying, ‘Don’t worry about all that. I’m going to tell the story.’”
And He has. The album moves like a testimony, but not the polished kind. It’s full of doubt and tension and the kind of joy that comes from surviving. At one point, Hulvey almost sounds shocked by what came out of it.
“Every time I listen back, I’m like—this wasn’t just me. God really did this.”
Part of what makes the album land is its timing. Christian hip-hop, once treated like the awkward cousin of both the faith and rap worlds, is now exploding. And not just with niche audiences. Thanks to TikTok and a growing base of young creators, it’s become a genuine movement.
“TikTok changed everything,” Hulvey says. “You had Christian rappers just putting songs out—raw, real stuff—and it started to blow up. People were ready for it.”
But the virality isn’t just about beats and algorithm tricks. It’s about hunger. A generation raised on loss and cynicism is looking for something real. Hulvey thinks people are exhausted by the usual messages of violence, flexing, and self-destruction.
“The culture is tired. People want life. They want hope,” he says. “Not just in hip-hop, but across music. You can hear it—the sounds are getting brighter. People are looking for something that feels alive.”
That’s what he hopes this album delivers: a sense of aliveness. Of being human and flawed and still fully known by God. It’s not a formula, and it’s definitely not sanitized. But it’s real. And if Hulvey has anything to say about it, that’s more than enough.
“I want this album to challenge people,” he says. “I want it to remind them who Jesus really is. Not the filtered version. The one who meets you on your worst day and still pulls up a chair for you at the table.”
That’s the paradox Hulvey is learning to live with: the higher the platform gets, the more pressure there is to perform. But the real work—the meaningful work—is in staying rooted. Staying honest. Staying human.
“I’m being pretty bold in what I’m saying,” he says. “But the point is to remind people who Jesus really is.”
That means making space for tension. It means calling out what feels off in church culture. It means showing up for your kid’s donut breakfast, even if your schedule says you shouldn’t. And for Hulvey, it means telling the truth, even when it’s messy.
Because at this point, he’s not interested in putting on a show. He’s interested in making it count.
