Kayla Grace has an energy about her that seems to buzz with anticipation - fitting for an artist on the cusp of releasing music she describes as the most personal work she's ever made. At 22, she's spent the past year crafting a follow-up to her debut EP 'Glass Child', a record that introduced listeners to her raw, confessional style. Now, she's back with 'Cats Can Surf', a seven-track offering that sees her coming to terms with early adulthood, grappling with heartache, self-discovery, and the messy terrain in between.

"I've just been at rehearsals with the band today," she says by way of greeting, sounding buoyant about what lies ahead. "Getting super excited for my headline show now! It's so unreal to hear the tracks come to life and to just play with such talented musicians." Indeed, 'Cats Can Surf' has given her a fresh opportunity to push beyond bedroom demos and stripped-back recordings. She's stepping out with a full band in tow, bringing her songs to life on stage. If her own excitement is any indication, audiences will soon discover the strength of her ambition for themselves.

That ambition took root long before she headed into a studio. She points back to a childhood shaped by a near-constant love of music, recalling the moment she picked up a guitar and realised she didn't just want to sing along to her favourite tracks — she wanted to write her own. "I've loved music since I emerged from the womb, pretty much," she laughs. "When I got bored of singing other people's songs as a child, I picked up an old guitar that was laying around in my sister's room. It was my grandma's old nylon string guitar, a bit of a rubbish guitar really, but sentimentally valuable to me. I realised I could make my own music if I just learned to play a few chords. So I just started writing really, super dramatic little songs in my bedroom."

From there, she tapped into a natural inclination toward introspection and emotional honesty. "Eventually, I found my voice as a writer and really utilised it as an emotional outlet," she explains. "I'm someone who is hyper-sensitive and emotional, and sometimes that can be so difficult to regulate and to keep up with my friends and stuff. As cliché as it sounds, music really helped me to process situations and feelings." That safe space for grappling with complex emotions became the bedrock of her sound: confessional, sometimes starkly vulnerable, but never without a sense of wit. Even at her most introspective, there's a playful sparkle that lights up her stories.

When she started plotting her path to a wider audience, she discovered it almost by accident: "It started with YouTube videos mostly," she explains. "When I was a teenager during COVID, I released some music via some distribution website. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I just took a bunch of emo-looking pictures of myself as artwork and submitted it." If the process felt off-the-cuff, it turned out to be the first in a series of steps that led her to real industry connections. "I eventually met my manager through some of those videos and really found my sound before properly releasing my first EP."

With 'Glass Child', Kayla staked out her corner of indie-pop: candid, diary-entry songwriting delivered with an assured voice that belied the painful subject matter behind it. It weaponised vulnerability in a way that made industry gatekeepers sit up straight, delivering diary-scribble confessionals wrapped in indie-pop hooks that could puncture even the most carefully constructed emotional armour. The encouraging first green shoots of streaming numbers followed, sure, but more impressive was the devotion – fans who found in Grace's unfiltered honesty a mirror for their own messy emotions.

She found herself sharing stages with like-minded truth-tellers in an ecosystem that typically prefers its feelings filtered through an Instagram preset. When she casually lists "opening for Baby Queen" and "landing the cover of Our Generation on Spotify" among her highlights, it's with the endearing nonchalance of someone who measures success in genuine connections. Grace's refusal to sand down her rough edges feels like the most radical act a pop artist can commit.

But it isn't always easy. "It's definitely a tricky ride being an artist; you're basically baring your soul for scrutiny by strangers and middle-aged men in the industry, and you could write the most heart-wrenching authentic song and not get enough views or streams and suddenly lose some self-belief," she notes, showing a certain resolve to stay true to her instincts. "I'm super stubborn about this stuff; I always take numbers and figures with a pinch of salt because I just think self-belief and authenticity are the most important parts of creating and sharing art."

That ethos runs through her new EP, 'Cats Can Surf'. Released on Manifest Music, it gathers seven distinct tracks reflecting the swirl of experiences she's navigated in the last two years. Kayla herself explains it's a collection of songs that she wrote during her transition from late teen years to early adulthood. The title-track is "a fun satirical song about unrequited/forbidden love, and about being in denial about wanting someone," she explains.

Don't be fooled by the playful title or breezy melodies, though – Grace dives headfirst into mental health struggles, complicated breakups and identity revelations with the confidence of someone twice her age. These aren't polite explorations of youth's challenges but rather unflinching dispatches from emotional frontlines. In an era where pop often defaults to either vague platitudes or calculated vulnerability, Grace's unfiltered perspective feels genuinely refreshing.

In fact, each track marks a specific emotional checkpoint. "The EP has a big variety of topics covered. For example, '99 and counting' - one of my favourite songs I've ever written - is about my mental health journey and about choosing to live despite some previous experience with suicidal thoughts," she explains. "On the other end of the spectrum, 'Berlin' is about a problematic breakup on holiday, while 'woe is me' and 'in for the kill' are self-pity, self-sabotage anthems. I like to think there's something for everyone on this EP, with 'a leith ross song' being a love song about my queer awakening and 'til the lady sings' being a song about the painful transition from lovers to strangers. Anything that made me feel something in the past couple of years of my life has basically found its way onto the EP."

While the subject matter often runs deep, she's careful to maintain an undercurrent of brightness. "The EP is super cinematic; the producer, Barns Noble, really helped me find the perfect sound to match how dramatic I am as a person," she laughs, letting a playful tone break the gravity. "It's beautiful, and all of it started with me and my acoustic guitar. I've never been more proud of a project before."

Part of that pride stems from how the songs blossomed in the studio, an environment that encouraged her to experiment and push the boundaries. "I started bringing these songs I'd written into Barns' home studio around a year ago. It's near Legoland, which I find really funny," she says. "He has a cute little setup in the countryside, which gave me a nice little break from London - lots of trees and grass, all that fun stuff."

It wasn't just a change of setting, though; it was a chance to overcome the creative block she had been feeling. "I think the scenery definitely informed the world that these songs landed in, sonically and also lyrically. We built these songs and wrote a couple more together, and suddenly, we were looking at a whole body of work. It was so much fun and it really brought my love for music back after a few months of creative block."

Even though she clearly loves everything on the EP, the question of picking a favourite makes her pause. "This question is so impossible. I would say '99 and counting' is the song I really wish I could play to my younger self," she admits, emphasising its personal resonance. "But 'Cats can surf' is definitely my favourite to listen to when I'm not in a bad mood, which is occasionally the case, believe it or not."

Of course, putting out a body of work means facing the inevitable verdict of strangers and fans alike. Kayla's hope is simple yet profound: "I think if someone said it was an unskippable EP, that would make my year," she says. "I'm someone who loves to listen to great bodies of work, front to back, in order, without skipping any songs. If someone thought my EP was genuinely worthy of that specific listening process it would mean so much to me. I made this EP to be consumed as an EP, you know, rather than a few scattered singles."

She does, however, keep an open mind about how those listeners might shape her direction. "I am definitely receptive to fans' reactions to songs, but I think the next music is already finding its place, honestly," she says. "I've been working a lot with my friends Hugo Silvani [of Pale Waves], Ben Francis Leftwich and of course with Barns Noble, and I think we've got some great new stuff going on." In other words, there's more on the horizon, and she's poised to continue evolving. "A bunch of fun depressing music for after 'cats can surf'," she jokes. "Was that an oxymoron?"

While new songs percolate, Kayla's calendar brims with live commitments. "I'm playing my first ever headline show on 8th April. Also, a bunch of festivals: 110 Above, The Great Escape, Oberkampf in Paris!" she says, rattling off the upcoming schedule. "I'm so excited to play in Paris, actually. That will be so much fun. Also a lot more writing and maybe some fan hangs when it gets a little warmer in the UK." Live performance is where her music finds its fullest expression, and she's determined to savour every moment. She knows from experience how listeners respond when they get to see her pour out a confessional lyric on stage, unguarded and immediate.

Then again, she isn't just about music. She nurtures a quieter existence away from the crowds, often enjoying the company of her cat and a taste for relaxed meetups with friends. "I am basically a cat lady so I just like to lay in the sun with my cat," she confesses, embracing a slow-paced alternative to the adrenaline of live shows. "Sometimes I like to bake or cook Indian food and disappoint my Indian mother with the quality of it... I also love yoga. I was a little gymnast when I was younger so I think a few funky poses awaken my inner child." If that conjures up an image of Kayla balancing in some complicated yoga position, the next line reveals her other preferred way to unwind: "I also just love to grab a bottle of something and sit on Primrose Hill with my friends. Picnics are my favourite activity ever. Picnics are the way to my heart."

For someone who's spent so much time unpicking her own thoughts, she's noticeably enthusiastic about sharing the mundane joys, too. Baking mishaps, idyllic picnics, lying in the sun with a beloved cat—they're slices of normality that ground her, even as she pours herself into the sometimes-disorienting business of building a music career. You can almost feel what Kayla Grace values most: connection, gratitude, and a determination to embrace every weird, joyous, painful twist along the way. The new EP, in her mind, is a distillation of that spirit. It's the story of moving from late teenage years to adulthood, about grappling with mental health crises and heartbreak, but also about landing on stage with talented bandmates or revelling in the hush of a countryside studio. Through it all, she never shies away from the dramatic.

Kayla's journey from teenage acoustic strummer to fully fledged musician on the festival circuit may still be ongoing, but she's carrying with her the conviction that honest songwriting has a way of resonating with those who need it. In a time when almost everything around us feels endlessly cynical, her stubborn faith in authenticity stands out like a bright patch of sunshine - ready to be shared, whether on a stage or at a picnic in Primrose Hill. ■