By Devin Lyall, Founder of Recovery Revolution
Music has always been part of my story.
Long before recovery became part of my vocabulary, before Recovery Revolution existed, and before I could have imagined creating a benefit concert called Mend the Hills, there was music.
And before there were festivals, stages, crowds, or concerts, there was my grandpa.
Some of my earliest memories of the magic of music are much simpler. They are memories of sitting in the living room listening to my grandpa pick old hymns and bluegrass songs—the kind of music that didn’t need a stage or bright lights to make you feel something.
And then there were Monday mornings at the cattle sale, where people from all walks of life would gather under one tent, instruments in hand, and just start picking together. Different ages, different stories, different lives—but for a little while, none of that seemed to matter. The music gave everyone a common language.
Looking back, I think that’s one of the first places I learned what music could really do.
That was Appalachian music to me: not always something performed for us, but something we created and experienced together.
There was something magical about it that I don’t think I fully understood as a child.
Music wasn’t something we had to go somewhere to experience.
It was something that lived with us.
It was in our homes. In our families. In our churches. At the cattle sale. On front porches. In living rooms. It lived in the stories passed from one generation to the next.
Those old hymns and bluegrass songs carried stories of hardship, faith, loss, love, redemption, and hope. Long before I understood how much I would need some of those very things in my own life, I was listening to them through music.
Music Became Part of Who I Was
I danced for 16 years and later taught competitive dance.
Through dance, music had a way of pulling me into something and bringing it to life. A song could tell a story before a single word was spoken. It could create emotion, movement, connection, and belonging.
Growing up here in Wilkes County, that connection to music was everywhere.
Then came MerleFest.
I remember attending as a kid and feeling that same magic on a much bigger scale—the crowds, the instruments, the energy, and thousands of people gathering in the place I called home because music connected them.
But I have other MerleFest memories, too.
As I got older, my relationship with those experiences began to change.
I remember being a young adult and being escorted out after passing out on the lawn because I had consumed a little too much of what I considered “fun” at the time.
I remember many years spent at the MerleFest campsites under the influence, convinced that drugs and alcohol somehow enhanced the experience.
I thought they made the music better.
I thought they made the connections deeper.
I thought they made the nights more exciting.
I thought they made me more free.
Looking back now, I can see they were doing exactly the opposite.
I thought I was enhancing the moment, but I was actually missing it.
I thought substances helped me connect, when in reality they were slowly disconnecting me—from the people around me, from the music I loved, from the things that brought me joy, and eventually, from myself.
Addiction began consuming the things that had once made me feel alive.
Dance had been such a huge part of my identity. Music had been part of my family, my community, and my story.
But eventually, addiction became louder.
Life became less about creating, dancing, connecting, and experiencing things and more about surviving.
And then came recovery.
Learning How to Experience Music Again
I still remember attending one of my first music events after getting into recovery, and I sat alongside people I knew from recovery meetings.
That part matters.
In early recovery, walking back into spaces where drinking and using had once been such a big part of my experience wasn’t necessarily easy. But I wasn’t doing it alone. I was sitting with people from meetings—people who understood where I had been and why simply being there sober was a big deal.
I found safety in sitting beside other people in recovery.
There was comfort in knowing I didn’t have to explain myself. I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t uncomfortable. I didn’t have to prove anything. I could just sit there, surrounded by people who understood, and begin learning how to experience something I loved in an entirely new way.
For the first time, I was learning something that sounds incredibly simple until you’ve lived through addiction:
I was learning how to have fun again.
One of the moments that really changed my perspective came when I returned to MerleFest in recovery.
There I was, at the very same festival where I had spent so many years drinking and using, believing that substances made the music better, the friendships deeper, and the whole experience somehow more meaningful.
Except this time, I was sober.
And this time, I had people in recovery beside me.
I remember sitting there and watching people who were clearly under the influence. Some were stumbling. Some were loud. Some were messy. And for the first time, I felt almost like an outsider looking in.
Then it hit me:
That’s what I used to look like.
I had spent years believing that drugs and alcohol were helping me connect more deeply with the people around me. In my mind, I was having the time of my life.
But sitting there sober, surrounded by people who made me feel safe, I suddenly saw the same festival through an entirely different lens.
I noticed the people who weren’t intoxicated. I noticed how present they were. And I realized that they noticed the messiness, too.
That realization was uncomfortable.
All those years when I thought no one noticed, they probably did.
I had believed I was more connected, more carefree, more fun.
But from the outside looking in, it didn’t look like freedom at all.
It looked messy.
And for the first time, I understood the difference between simply being at an experience and actually being present for it.
That realization didn’t make me look down on the people I was watching. Quite the opposite.
I recognized myself in them.
I knew what it was like to believe that whatever was in your hand or your system was making the moment bigger, the music better, and the connection stronger.
I had believed that for years.
But sitting there sober, I began to understand something I hadn’t known then:
The magic was already there.
It was in the music.
It was in the people sitting beside me.
It was in the safety of knowing I wasn’t alone.
It was in dancing and laughing.
It was in hearing a lyric and actually allowing myself to feel it.
It was in remembering the entire night.
And I didn’t have to alter myself to experience any of it.
I was learning how to stand in a crowd and listen to music without needing something else to change how I felt.
I was learning how to laugh, dance, sing, connect with people, and remember the night the next morning.
Most importantly, I was learning how to be present.
And I think that’s part of what eventually shaped the vision for Mend the Hills, too.
I wanted to create the kind of space that had been so important for me—a place where someone in recovery could come experience live music and know they weren’t alone. Maybe they come with someone from their meeting. Maybe they recognize a familiar face in the crowd. Maybe they’re early in recovery and aren’t quite sure yet whether they can have fun without drinking or using.
I want them to be able to look around and find safety, community, and a sense of belonging while discovering for themselves that recovery doesn’t mean giving up the experiences they love.
For years, I thought drugs and alcohol were helping me experience life more fully.
Recovery taught me what it actually meant to be present for it.
Recovery didn’t take the music, the festivals, or the fun away from me.
Recovery gave them back to me.
And maybe, in some ways, recovery brought me back to that little girl sitting in the living room listening to her grandpa pick.
Back to those Monday mornings at the cattle sale, watching people from all walks of life gather under one tent and find connection through a song.
Back to the magic that had been there all along—before I ever believed I needed something else to create it.
Music Can Reach Places Words Sometimes Cannot
One of the things we don’t talk about enough in recovery is that recovery isn’t simply about removing substances from someone’s life.
We have to build something in their place.
We need connection.
We need community.
We need purpose.
We need joy.
We need belonging.
And we need experiences that remind us what it feels like to be alive.
For me, music has always had the power to create those moments.
Research has also begun to examine the role music can play alongside traditional substance use disorder treatment. A Cochrane systematic review of 21 randomized trials involving nearly 2,000 participants found that music therapy, when added to standard treatment, may help reduce substance cravings and increase motivation for treatment and change.
Music isn’t a replacement for treatment.
But the research reinforces something many of us have experienced firsthand:
Music can reach places that words sometimes cannot.
It can bring back a memory.
It can give us permission to feel.
It can help strangers feel connected.
It can remind us of someone we’ve lost.
And sometimes, it can remind us of who we were before life got complicated—and who we still have the opportunity to become.
That Is Where Mend the Hills Was Born
Over time, I began imagining what it would look like to intentionally bring together two worlds that have shaped so much of my life:
Music and recovery.
Not a recovery conference with a little music added.
Not a concert where recovery organizations happened to set up a table.
I wanted to create something where the two truly merge.
A place where an artist can stand on a stage and share their talent—and maybe their experience with addiction.
A place where local artists can share the same space as artists in recovery.
A place where someone with 20 years in recovery can stand beside someone with 20 days.
A place where families who have been impacted by addiction can experience joy together.
A place where someone who has never personally experienced addiction can show up simply because they love great music—and leave understanding recovery a little differently.
And maybe even a place where someone who is quietly struggling can look around at the people laughing, dancing, singing, and celebrating life and think:
Maybe recovery doesn’t mean my life is over.
Maybe there is a place for me here, too.
That is Mend the Hills.
And when I think back to those Monday mornings at the cattle sale, maybe the idea isn’t so different after all.
Different people. Different stories. Different walks of life. All gathering in one place, with music becoming the thing that connects us.
Ten Years of Music, Stories, and Connection
What started as an idea has grown into something I don’t think I could have fully imagined when we began.
Over the years, we’ve had the privilege of welcoming some incredible musicians and storytellers to the Mend the Hills stage.
Artists like Willi Carlisle, Matt Heckler, Logan Halstead, The Wilson Springs Hotel, and so many others have brought their songs and stories to Wilkes County. They have reminded us why storytelling through music is such a powerful part of Appalachian culture—and why a song can sometimes say what the rest of us struggle to put into words.
Just as important to me has been the incredible North Carolina talent that has graced our stage.
Louie Pardue, CJ Ballard, His & Hers, Josh Perryman, and many more local and regional artists have helped make Mend the Hills what it is today.
That has always mattered to me.
This isn’t about bringing something into Wilkes County and asking our community to simply watch it happen.
It’s about creating something with our community.
It’s about giving our own musicians a stage, bringing artists from outside our region into the hills we call home, and letting those worlds meet.
And this year feels especially meaningful.
This is our 10th annual Mend the Hills.
Ten years.
Ten years of music.
Ten years of recovery stories.
Ten years of families coming together.
Ten years of remembering people we’ve lost and celebrating people who are still here.
Ten years of watching people dance, laugh, cry, hug old friends, make new ones, and experience what happens when music and recovery share the same space.
And for our 10th year, I couldn’t be more excited about who will be joining us.
Tommy Prine is coming to Wilkes County to headline Mend the Hills.
Tommy is the son of the legendary singer-songwriter John Prine, whose music demonstrated the extraordinary power of a simple song and an honest story. Tommy has stepped into his own voice as a singer-songwriter, carrying forward a love of storytelling while telling a story that belongs uniquely to him.
There is something incredibly meaningful to me about welcoming an artist connected to that kind of songwriting tradition to Mend the Hills.
Because this event has never just been about putting musicians on a stage.
It’s about stories.
Stories of where we come from.
Stories of what we’ve survived.
Stories of grief and love.
Stories about people we’ve lost.
Stories of second chances.
Stories of recovery.
And stories that remind us we are still here.
To think that ten years into this journey, Tommy Prine will take the stage right here in Wilkes County as part of that story feels pretty special.
And I can’t help but think about that little girl sitting in the living room listening to her grandpa pick—or standing under that tent at the cattle sale watching people come together through music.
Music has a funny way of bringing things full circle.
Mending the Hills Means Celebrating Where We Come From
Wilkes County has an incredible history.
We’re often known as the birthplace of NASCAR and for our moonshine heritage.
We’re also part of an Appalachian culture rich with bluegrass, Americana, gospel, storytelling, craftsmanship, and generations of people who have used music to tell the stories of these mountains.
Those stories haven’t always been easy ones.
They include hardship and loss.
But they also include resilience.
And I believe recovery belongs in that story.
I want Wilkes County to be known as a community that chose to celebrate recovery.
A community willing to bring people together instead of separating them by labels.
A community where recovery isn’t something whispered about behind closed doors, but something we can celebrate on a stage.
Mend the Hills gives us an opportunity to take something deeply rooted in Appalachian culture—music, storytelling, and gathering together—and use it to create something that honors where we’ve come from while showing people what is possible for our future.
We want to invite local musicians, artists in recovery, and performers from beyond our region to create an experience right here in Wilkes County that people might otherwise have to travel hours to find.
But I also want people to come simply because it’s a great music event.
You don’t have to identify as being in recovery to belong at Mend the Hills.
You don’t have to have experienced addiction.
You don’t have to know the right language or understand everything about substance use disorder.
You can come because you love music.
You can come because you love Wilkes County.
You can come because someone you love is in recovery.
You can come to remember someone you’ve lost.
You can come because you believe people deserve second chances.
Or you can simply come because you want to spend a day surrounded by music and community.
Recovery may be at the heart of Mend the Hills, but community is the invitation.
Recovery Deserves a Soundtrack
Some songs take us straight back to the hardest moments of our lives.
Others remind us of people we’ve lost.
Some make us remember who we used to be.
And then there are songs that somehow find us exactly when we need them.
They become the soundtrack to rebuilding.
Music was there when I was a little girl listening to my grandpa pick old hymns and bluegrass.
It was there under that tent at the cattle sale, watching different people find common ground through a song.
It was there throughout 16 years of dance and the years I spent teaching others to dance.
It was there when I was a kid experiencing the magic of MerleFest.
It was there when I was a young woman who believed drugs and alcohol could make that magic even greater.
It was there as addiction began taking pieces of my life.
And thankfully, it was still there when I found recovery and began putting those pieces back together.
Today, I get to experience music differently.
I get to remember it.
I get to feel it.
I get to be present for it.
I get to share it with the people I love.
And through Mend the Hills, I get to help create that experience for someone else.
Maybe that is what mending the hills means to me.
It isn’t pretending our communities haven’t experienced addiction, overdose, grief, and loss.
It is acknowledging those chapters while refusing to let them be the end of our story.
It is filling these hills with something else, too:
Music. Hope. Connection. Recovery.
Come Mend the Hills With Us
Mend the Hills is a benefit concert, but my hope has always been that it becomes something much bigger.
I want it to become an experience people associate with Wilkes County.
A place where incredible music meets Appalachian culture.
Where recovery meets community.
Where artists meet advocates.
Where families meet resources.
Where someone can dance without explaining their past.
Where someone struggling can see hope without ever having to announce that they’re struggling.
Where a person in long-term recovery can look around and feel proud of how far they’ve come.
And where, for a few hours, thousands of different stories can share the same soundtrack.
Because whether we’re celebrating years of recovery, remembering someone we’ve lost, supporting someone we love, or simply showing up because music moves us, there is room for all of us here.
Long before Mend the Hills had a name, I think a piece of it existed in my grandpa’s living room.
It existed under that tent at the cattle sale on Monday mornings, where different people picked together and music made the differences between them seem a little smaller.
It existed in those old hymns and bluegrass songs.
It existed on the dance floor.
It existed at MerleFest.
It existed during some of my darkest moments.
And it was waiting for me when I found recovery.
I just had to learn how to hear the music again.
And now, ten years into Mend the Hills, we get to keep writing that story together.
This is where music and recovery meet.
This is Mend the Hills.
And I hope you’ll come experience the magic with us.
10 YEARS OF MEND THE HILLS
Come experience where music, recovery, Appalachian storytelling, and community meet.
Join us for the 10th Annual Mend the Hills, featuring headliner Tommy Prine, plus an incredible lineup of local and regional artists.
