It’s been over two months since we, we, the Bonnaroovians, heard the heartbreaking news that the festival would not go on. I know this may sound dramatic, and I won’t apologize for it, but ever since that moment, life has felt like a feverish, blurry dream. I’m still carrying the grief of what should have, would have, and could have been our most unforgettable Bonnaroo yet.
I dedicate this post to my fellow Bonnaroovians, because I know the whirlwind of emotions I’ve weathered has swept through so many of you as well. Let this article serve as a chronicle of the creative ways we found to cope. This is by no means a complete picture, so please share your stories: how did you and your crew navigate this experience?
First and foremost, Bonnaroo has always felt like a sacred ritual to me. It’s one of those rare occasions when friends from every corner of the country come together to vibe and live side by side for days on end. When the cancellation landed, it brought a heartbreak I never imagined possible. And yet, standing among friends and strangers alike on that Friday the 13th, as the news washed over us, became a poignantly beautiful moment of shared resilience.
Friday the 13th
All day we lived in limbo as rain poured around us, clutching our phones for any hint of news. We hunkered down and turned our homey campsite into a party cove: speakers bumpin’, tapestries and fairy lights strung between poles, camping chairs circling an array of snacks, and laughter rising above the restless tension. Even without updates, we made the most of our togetherness, sharing stories, swapping snacks, and dancing whenever a new song lifted our spirits.
Elsewhere on the campgrounds, a giant slip ’n slide stretched across the grass and a mud-wrestling match was in full swing!
When our phones finally found service around eight that evening, we scrambled to refresh the Bonnaroo Instagram page. The camp fell silent as a friend read the statement aloud. At the mention of the cancellation, I watched my friends move through the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance in a matter of minutes. Neighbors wailed in disbelief and my own tears fell as the unbelievable news sank in.
One of my friends suggested we all go for a walk to help process the news. Someone asked, “Where are we going? Centerroo is closed…” and another replied, “Nowhere, let’s just wander.” So that’s exactly what we did.
After all, a little hot girl walk never hurt anybody!
We gathered as a group, our totem raised against the gloomy sky, and we set off without a plan.
Along the way we spotted other crews doing the same thing. Totems were held high, bubbles drifted on the breeze and music blasted from speakers strapped to backpacks. With no destination in mind, we moved through mud and chaos, sharing our grief in every step. By then many had already packed up and headed home, and passing empty campsites and cars queued for the exit made the walk feel even more poignant as the reality of the cancellation sank in.
We made our way to the food vendors in front of The House of Yes, where everyone was determined to make the best of the moment. Even the broccoli stand had its own dancing mascot, bouncing to lift our spirits. Seeing joy bubbling up through the sadness felt unexpectedly beautiful, a reminder that two very different emotions can exist side by side.
About half of my crew headed over to the DeBussy stage, while the other half returned to our campsite. I heard the DeBussy stage threw down and everyone had a blast, but I needed a quiet moment to wander through camp before our goodbyes in the morning.
Watching my friends find comfort in their own ways felt deeply soothing. It reminded me that our resilience carries us well beyond the festival grounds.
The weekend
Saturday morning arrived and, like many of you, we did not want to go home. Half our crew was headed back to North Carolina with Asheville along the way. In true impulsive fashion, my friend booked a mountain Airbnb that could sleep about twenty of us. Those that were willing and able to, stayed at this mountain house, and turned the house into our own little festival, with speakers in the corners, lights set up around the house and an endless playlist keeping the energy alive.
We carried our campsite vibe right into the Airbnb, hanging camping lights and tapestries, blowing up balloons and spinning flow toys. The music pulsed through every room. Even though we’d left the Bonnaroo grounds, the Bonnaroo spirit was still alive in us. As we wandered around Asheville, we ran into other Bonnaroovians doing the same thing, lingering with their crews for one last hurrah before heading home.
As I scrolled through my Instagram feed, my heart swelled seeing fellow Roovians carry the Bonnaroo spirit far beyond the farm. I watched people parade down Broadway in full festival attire, spontaneous shows light up Nashville, and fans find endless ways to celebrate Roo wherever they were. Even friends who headed home right away found comfort by diving into their local concert scenes.
In a gesture that perfectly captured the spirit of our impromptu Asheville festival, a friend who hadn’t attended Bonnaroo drove up with his guitar and treated us to an intimate concert. It happened on the exact day Hozier was scheduled to take the stage, so we laughed that this wasn’t the Hozier we expected, but the Hozier we needed.
Going home & lessons learned
Monday morning arrived and the grief came back with it. Even though we squeezed every drop of joy from our makeshift festival, as I know many of you did, we couldn’t shake the sadness for the weekend we’d envisioned. It served as a gentle reminder that it’s okay to mourn the moments we planned, even when the moments we lived were still beautiful.
This experience also reminded me why I love festivals like Bonnaroo. They offer a space to be fully present, to let go and just BE however we please without fear of judgment, and to share music with friends in a way that transforms every song into something greater than ourselves.
I shared a similar sentiment on the r/bonnaroo subreddit, where we traded stories about how we coped, and I’d like to bring some of those reflections here too.
On Thursday, before the cancellation hit, I heard friends talking about saving their energy for the Ferris wheel and the big lineup the next day. It struck me that tomorrow is never guaranteed. There’s only the next day, whether it matches our plans or finds us drenched in rain and grief. Bonnaroo is our sacred escape, the ritual that invites presence, freedom and playfulness. Instead, we found ourselves fully present in disappointment and loss. Yet Friday night carried a soft glow of hope as music blared, games were played and strangers comforted each other, choosing connection even when everything had shifted. The cancellation of our dream weekend reminded me that all we have is the present moment. We can’t control what comes next and sometimes reality falls short of our dreams, but amid the heartache there was still a spark of Roo magic that may stay with us even longer than the one we imagined.
With lots of love and light,
Liezl
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