On the surface, Alex Christine looks like many young creatives in 2025—soft-spoken, quietly expressive, and deeply online. But when her voice comes through the speakers on “Help My Unbelief,” something else comes with it: the sound of a believer who is tired, scared, and still holding on to God with both hands.
Her record doesn’t arrive like a comfortable Sunday-morning choir anthem or a perfectly packaged CCM single. It feels more like a late-night voicemail to Heaven—a trembling confession from someone who refuses to lie about how heavy faith can really feel. In a world where everything is filtered, captioned, and curated, Alex dares to say out loud what most Christians only whisper in their own heads: “I believe… but I’m struggling to believe at the same time.”
This is not just a song. It’s a mirror held up to a generation that loves God, lives on the edge of burnout, and is still trying to breathe through the panic.
St. Louis, Missouri, has always had a way of producing artists with honest voices—people who don’t airbrush their pain to make it more palatable. Alex Christine walks in that same lineage, but her battlefield is internal: anxiety, doubt, fear, and the quiet guilt that often comes with all three.
On “Help My Unbelief,” she doesn’t pretend to be unshakable. One of the first gut-punch lines is simple and devastating: “When it gets too hard, I get so afraid.” That sentence carries the weight of hospital rooms, unpaid bills, unanswered prayers, and sleepless nights. It’s not written to impress theologians; it’s written for the person who is honestly tired of faking “strong.”
From there she leans even deeper into vulnerability with another confession: “When I have my doubts, I know you know all about them.” It is the sound of someone finally admitting that God has already seen behind the curtain. She’s not trying to negotiate with Him. She’s trying to live in front of Him honestly.
And then comes the heartbeat of the entire record—the line that feels like a modern echo of Mark 9:24: “I believe, please help my unbelief.” That one sentence is the reason this song exists, the reason people replay it at 2:00 a.m., and the reason it sits differently in the soul. It doesn’t celebrate a faith that never shakes; it celebrates a faith that keeps reaching while shaking.
In an era of performative perfection, Alex is building a brand around something more sacred: spiritual honesty.
If you only looked at her numbers, you might think this is just the beginning for Alex Christine—early-stage campaigns, faith-driven R&B energy, and a core audience still finding her in real time. But “Help My Unbelief” reveals something deeper: she’s not chasing a viral moment; she’s documenting a spiritual process.
Her background and city matter here. St. Louis is a place where the sacred and the gritty share the same sidewalks. The same streets that carry church families on Sunday carry the reality of depression, addiction, and economic struggle Monday through Saturday. You can hear that tension in her delivery. She doesn’t sing like someone who has lived in a bubble; she sings like someone who has survived enough emotional weather to respect the storm.
That’s why the record doesn’t explode into dramatic vocal runs or stadium-sized hooks. Instead, it sits low and intimate. The production is minimal—soft pads, gentle keys, space for silence, room for breath. The vocal sits close, almost like she’s standing beside your bed praying while you stare at the ceiling, wondering why your chest feels so heavy.
This isn’t worship as performance. It’s worship as survival.
At its core, “Help My Unbelief” is a spiritual dialogue caught on tape. The structure is simple by design, because the concept is heavy enough to carry the record.
Alex opens in the first person, not hiding behind metaphors. Her phrases feel like they were pulled straight from a late-night journal:
She’s young. She’s scared. And she’s not ashamed to say both in the same verse.
The songwriting leans on clarity rather than complexity. There are no theological tongue-twisters here, no overcomplicated wordplay, no attempt to impress the pulpit. Instead, the lyrics are written in the kind of language you’d use when you’re done pretending and just need God to hear you. It’s devotional without being preachy, and honest without being melodramatic.
Her cadence floats right in the pocket of modern R&B and indie gospel pop. She doesn’t over-sing. She doesn’t try to out-belt the beat. She allows the vulnerability to be the loudest part of the record. That restraint makes the chorus hit harder because it sounds less like a “hook” and more like a plea.
The line “I know you know all about them”—talking about her doubts—is one of the most important in the song. It resets the tone from shame to relationship. She’s not sneaking around God with her questions; she’s bringing them to Him in real time.
That’s what separates “Help My Unbelief” from a standard inspirational track. It’s not just pointing people toward faith; it’s giving them permission to admit when faith hurts.
Songs like this usually live in prayer rooms, late-night drives, or quiet headphone moments. But “Help My Unbelief” didn’t stay in the shadows. It found its way to mainstream digital radio rotation—proof that vulnerability, when done right, resonates far beyond the four walls of the church.
The record is now streaming on 99.7 DA HEAT MIAMI via iHeartRadio, bringing this soft, trembling prayer into a global digital ecosystem that usually favors club anthems and street records. There is something revolutionary about a song this honest sitting in the same digital space as high-energy hip-hop and pop.
For listeners scrolling through stations, stumbling onto “Help My Unbelief” is like unexpectedly walking into a room where someone is praying for their life. You don’t have to know Alex Christine personally to recognize the emotion. The fear, the longing, the tiny flicker of trust—it all translates in any city, any country, any demographic.
This isn’t just good “exposure.” It’s spiritual disruption. In between trap drums and pop hooks, a young woman from St. Louis is quietly asking God to help her keep believing—and thousands of strangers get to eavesdrop on that moment.
That’s the power of placing a song like this inside a station like 99.7 DA HEAT MIAMI. It doesn’t dilute the message; it amplifies the need for it.
If you trace the DNA of Alex Christine’s emerging ecosystem, one theme rises above everything else: she wants to be a safe space for people who love God but feel emotionally exhausted.
On Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube, the vision is broader than “go stream my song.” It’s more like: come sit with me in this tension we both feel. Her presence online doesn’t read as a polished influencer with a perfectly filtered devotional brand. Instead, she feels like the friend who will pray with you through the phone and then admit that she needed that prayer just as much as you did.
Her socials aren’t just promotion channels; they’re potential lifelines. A reel of her singing the hook can turn into a comment from someone who is on the verge of giving up. A short post about doubt can spark a message from a believer who hasn’t been able to say out loud that they feel disconnected from God. A YouTube clip of her explaining why she wrote “Help My Unbelief” can become validation for someone who thought they were the only one wrestling with spiritual anxiety.
The more you listen, the clearer it becomes: Alex isn’t trying to posture as the hero of anyone’s faith story. She is intentionally positioning herself as a fellow traveler.
Many worship songs are written from the mountaintop. The language is big, the declarations are bold, and the emotions are triumphant. “Help My Unbelief” is different. It’s written from the valley, where the air is heavier and the visibility is low.
That creative choice matters. There are millions of believers who don’t feel like they’re standing in victory. They feel like they’re standing in a fog. They’re still showing up, still praying, still singing—but their questions are louder than their confidence.
By anchoring her record in confession instead of conquest, Alex Christine steps into a rare lane. She becomes a soundtrack for people whose faith is “in progress,” not “completed.” She gives language to believers who feel guilty about their uncertainty, reminding them that God is big enough to handle both their worship and their questions at the same time.
The theology under the hood of this song is simple but potent: faith is not the absence of doubt; it’s the decision to reach for God in the middle of it.
“Help My Unbelief” feels like an opening chapter, not a final statement. It proves that faith-driven R&B and gospel-pop don’t have to choose between spiritual depth and emotional honesty. It also proves that there is an audience—especially among young adults—for songs that refuse to act like everything is okay when it isn’t.
Imagine a short series of records, each one functioning like a different prayer: one for anxiety, one for grief, one for identity, one for loneliness, one for gratitude that feels fragile. Imagine her YouTube channel growing into a digital chapel where stripped-down versions of those songs live alongside 3-minute devotionals. Imagine her live shows feeling less like concerts and more like communal therapy sessions led by worship.
In that kind of world, “Help My Unbelief” will be remembered as the moment she chose not to hide her internal war—and in doing so, gave other people permission to stop hiding, too.
There’s a strange irony in watching a song like this move through the machinery of modern promotion. Algorithms don’t understand prayer. They only understand patterns—likes, shares, comments, watch time. Yet the very things that make “Help My Unbelief” algorithm-friendly—the short, repeatable hook, the intimate vocal, the replay value—are rooted in something algorithms cannot measure: desperation.
Every time someone replays that chorus, it might not be because the melody is catchy. It might be because those words have become their own.
That’s the quiet genius of Alex Christine’s approach. She is not trying to game the system. She is telling the truth in a way that the system cannot help but recognize as engaging. Vulnerability becomes her marketing strategy, not because she’s exploiting it, but because she refuses to sing from a place she hasn’t really lived.
The more honest she is, the more the world leans in.
Plenty of songs get stuck in your head. Very few get stuck in your heart.
“I believe, please help my unbelief” has the potential to do both. For some, it will just be a beautiful line in a soulful record. For others, it will become an actual prayer they repeat in traffic, before job interviews, after panic attacks, or in the silence after a doctor gives them news they weren’t ready to hear.
That’s the difference between music that entertains and music that ministers. One passes through; the other stays.
“Help My Unbelief” stays.
The story of Alex Christine is still being written, but one thing is already clear: she is not interested in performing strength she doesn’t feel. She is committed to giving the world something far more dangerous and far more necessary—honest worship.
Her voice carries the ache of a believer who has seen enough disappointment to be cautious, but has encountered enough grace to keep reaching. Her pen writes from the middle of the process, not the end of it. Her record “Help My Unbelief” doesn’t promise that faith will suddenly become easy. It promises something better: that God is still listening when faith feels almost impossible.
As her song continues to flow across platforms, through playlists, and over the digital airwaves of 99.7 DA HEAT MIAMI, more and more listeners will find themselves in that chorus. Some will sing it. Some will cry it. Some will just sit in silence and let the words wash over them.
All of them will be reminded of one unshakable truth:
Believing doesn’t always look like victory. Sometimes it looks like a whisper:
“I believe. Please help my unbelief.”
