In the rolling hills just outside Nashville, where the Cumberland River bends and the Tennessee sun paints long shadows across open fields, a 100-acre plot of land is quietly becoming one of the most ambitious acts of redemption in modern music. Jelly Roll—born Jason DeFord, the tattooed, larger-than-life country-rap star behind hits like “Son of a Sinner” and “Need a Favor”—is turning raw earth into a fully funded, completely free rehabilitation campus for people in recovery. No insurance. No fees. No barriers. Just hope, hard work, and the kind of second chance he once desperately needed.
The vision is as expansive as the acreage itself. The campus will offer a traditional 28-day, 12-step program modeled after the proven frameworks that saved Jelly Roll’s life more than a decade ago. But it won’t stop there. Intensive outpatient therapy, trauma-informed mental health care, vocational training, family reconciliation weekends, and even “guest weekender” retreats—where alumni in long-term recovery return to mentor newcomers—are all part of the blueprint. “Imagine drug addicts like you and me,” Jelly Roll says in a raw, unfiltered vlog filmed on the property, his voice thick with emotion. “Poor kids, down bad, life kicking our ass. Now think about the resources we have today. We’re finally building what could’ve helped us back then.”
The land sits on the far side of a quiet creek, bordered by old-growth oaks and wild blackberry thickets—a place Jelly Roll describes as “sacred ground.” It’s not just geography; it’s autobiography. This is where a boy who grew up in Antioch’s public housing, who cycled through juvenile detention and county jails, who sold drugs to survive, now plants the seeds of survival for others. “I’ve been the guy with nothing,” he told Billboard earlier this year. “I know what it feels like to believe you’re disposable. This campus says the opposite: You are not.”
Construction is already underway. Phase one includes 60 residential beds, a commercial kitchen staffed by culinary trainees in recovery, a music studio for therapeutic songwriting, and a gym where physical healing mirrors emotional repair. A walking trail loops through the woods, each mile marker engraved with affirmations from former addicts who’ve walked similar paths. Solar panels will power the entire facility, a nod to sustainability and self-reliance—two pillars Jelly Roll credits for his own sobriety.
Big Mike, Jelly Roll’s childhood friend and recovery sponsor, appears in the vlog standing knee-deep in creek mud, grinning through a beard as wild as the land around him. “This ain’t charity,” he says. “This is payback. The community that pulled Jason out of the fire? He’s building a firehouse now.” Mike, who’s been sober for 19 years, will serve as program director, ensuring every staff member—from counselors to cooks—has lived the struggle they’re now helping others escape.
Funding comes entirely from Jelly Roll’s music revenue, merchandise sales, and private donations funneled through his newly established Backroad Redemption Foundation. He’s vowed never to take a dime in government grants or insurance reimbursements. “If it’s free for them,” he says, “it’s gotta stay free. No red tape. No bureaucracy. Just results.”
Early renderings show a central lodge with a wraparound porch, rocking chairs facing the sunset, and a fire pit where nightly meetings will be held under the stars. There’s a barn converted into an art therapy studio, a greenhouse for horticultural healing, and a small chapel—non-denominational, open to all faiths or none. “Spirituality saved me,” Jelly Roll admits. “But it don’t have to look like church to work.”
Perhaps the most innovative feature is the “Mud Weekend” program—intensive, immersive retreats where long-term recoverees return to “get in the mud” with newcomers. Picture this: a former felon turned mentor, sleeves rolled up, helping a trembling 22-year-old plant a garden bed. Or a mother in year five of sobriety teaching a teenage girl how to write a resentment letter and burn it in the fire pit. These aren’t polished facilitators in lab coats; they’re survivors with track marks and tear-stained cheeks, proof that the other side exists.
Jelly Roll’s campus isn’t just a treatment center—it’s a living testament to the idea that those who’ve been broken can become builders. As he walks the property in the vlog, boots caked in red clay, he stops at a clearing and spreads his arms wide. “This,” he says, voice cracking, “is where shame comes to die.”
When the gates open in late 2026, the first class of residents will arrive with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a flicker of hope. They’ll leave—28 days, 90 days, or a year later—with skills, community, and a story worth telling. And somewhere in the distance, across the creek where the wildflowers bloom, Jelly Roll will be waiting. Not as a celebrity. Not as a savior. But as a man who knows exactly how far 100 acres of grace can carry a soul.
