A guest blog by Dan Stott

(A tribute to the man who handed me the first thread.)

I didn’t walk away from Mack Bailey’s program with just a guitar in my hands—
I walked away with something more important:
a reason to pick up the pen again.
Years ago, I was part of Mack’s very first music therapy retreat when he was still with
Challenge America. I couldn’t strum chords the way others did—muscular dystrophy made
sure of that.
But I could still feel the strings he was pulling inside us all.
He said something then that I’ll never forget:
“I started this program so you’d have something to reach for in the middle of the
night—besides a bottle or a gun barrel.”
And even though I couldn’t learn guitar, that retreat gave me something else to reach for—
something that didn’t require working hands,
only an honest heart.
I remembered I could write.
That I wanted to write.
That maybe my pain wasn’t just mine to carry—but mine to release.
Since then, I’ve put words where wounds used to be.
I’ve turned darkness into dialogue.
I’ve reached not for escape, but for expression.
That journey started because of Mack.
I briefly served on the board when he stepped out in faith and created Music Therapy of the
Rockies.
I watched him give shape to a dream that would serve countless others—
veterans, trauma survivors, therapists, songwriters—
anyone with a story buried so deep it scared them to speak.
He’s since renamed it Music Therapy Retreats.
The name may have changed.
But the mission hasn’t.
It’s still about healing through music.
It’s still about giving people another option in the silence of suffering.
And it’s still about Mack being Mack—
quietly changing lives one verse at a time.
I’m proud to have been there at the beginning.
Prouder still to say it’s one of the reasons I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still writing.
Because in that space,
in the mirror of the man,
I started to understand:
Proximity doesn’t equal presence.
Refraction is greater than reflection.
Convergence heals the fragmentation.
And the pen is mightier than the sword of self-sabotage.
Mack gave me the space—
and helped me begin to spin the ball of yarn I’ve slowly turned into a blanket.
The very blanket that spun the Backroads Bard.
And which I’ve wrapped around myself in the dark more nights than I can count.

So I’m not just sharing my story.
I’m handing the next thread to whoever needs it.
Because healing doesn’t come all at once.
It comes one thread at a time.
If you’ve ever wondered how to help—this is it.
Even $5 can help the next person find their own rhythm.
Even a share can help someone feel seen before it’s too late.
Let’s pass it on.
The melody. The pen.
The blanket.