What I Did On My 2025 ASCO Cancercation

RETURNING TO THE SCENE

I first walked into ASCO as a punk. A scrappy nonprofit kid with a hand-me-down badge, a Motorola DROID, just enough audacity to pass for charm, and an ever-balding scalp worthy of a clean head shave.

I didn't know what I was doing, only that I didn't want to do it alone. One could say that I was accidentally "falling with style" and just trying to get my bearings as Stupid Cancer started to take off. Thanks to the LIVESTRONG Young Adult Alliance for helping kick the AYA cancer movement into high gear.

That was 2008.

Fast forward 17 years: I'm walking those same halls—same city, same month—with a fedora, two bulging lumbar disc issues, a book deal with Wiley, and a not-so-quiet mission that's finally getting traction.

My body now requires more recovery time than a Phase I trial, but the soul is still on fire. (Thank you, Excedrin – not a sponsor)

This year's ASCO was different, not because of some groundbreaking trial (though there were plenty), not because of a keynote or some "Wow" moment of AI jargon. It was different because—for the first time in a long time—I was utterly and wholeheartedly independent.

I was just representing me. And somehow, that was enough.

THE CONFERENCE THAT LOVES TO BE HATED

ASCO is many things: A walking marathon disguised as a scientific meeting. A place where badge ribbons breed like bacteria. A labyrinthine ode to fluorescent lighting and self-congratulatory jargon. And still—it matters.

[SPOILER ALERT] If you're reading this, you probably already know that ASCO is not for patients. It never was. And yelling at that reality is like trying to teach a glacier empathy. It's not going to change. So I stopped trying.

These days, I just show up knowing what it is—and making it work for what I need and how I can continue my path to support the cancer community at large. Because despite its design flaws, ASCO remains the only place on earth where the cancer Illuminati converge. The science, the pharma, the startups, the skeptics, the advocates, the cautiously hopeful. If you're in the business of changing the cancer game, this is your pit stop.

It's a wedding, a wake, a weird spa retreat, a War Room, and a tinge of 1980s Arcade all rolled into one.

FEDORA, LOUD SHIRT, OPEN BAR

Let's not lie to ourselves: part of the charm of ASCO is the chaos. The serendipity. The party circuit. The random rooftop run-ins that birth revolutions (or at least decent LinkedIn content). This year, I leaned all the way into that energy harder than usual because, instead of hoping I'd find out about these somewhat "invite only" experiences, this year I was invited to all of them.

And in traditional and expected fashion, it was "Matthew Zachary's Fedora vs the World," with my ever-accompanying world's loudest shirt so recognizable it might as well be an NFT.

The result? Spontaneous hugs from humans I haven't seen in five years. Drinks with C-Suites, who also started out in the proverbial "Life Science Mailroom," and late-night talks that reminded me why I started doing this in the first place.

I don't go to ASCO for the cappuccinos. I go for the subtext. The moments between the panels. The hallway therapy. The chance to say, "Hey, you still breathing? Me too."

Because when you've survived cancer—and 20+ years in advocacy—that counts for more than any keynote.

THE WHISPERS OF "WE THE PATIENTS"

This year, something else was in the air.

Everywhere I went, someone leaned in: "Hey, what's this I keep hearing about your book? Congratulations! Tell me more!"

Or, "Is We The Patients a thing now?"

Or just: "It's time."

It was subtle, unspoken, but loud as hell to me. For the first time in a long time, I wasn't explaining myself. I was being seen. My next chapter, the one I've been teasing, building, and planning for under the radar—isn't just coming. It's here. And to those whom I explained it under cover of FrieNDA, you know what the Rock is cooking.

And the right people are already listening.

I didn't need a billboard, a podcast booth, or a branded tablecloth. I just needed 29 years of post-diagnosis receipts and a few thousand steps to plant seeds with people who get it.

ASCO gave me something I wasn't expecting this year: not validation—but momentum.

GRATITUDE IN SIXTY-SEVEN PARTS

Let's talk about the people. My people. This community.

To every single human who sought me out, thank you. To those who stopped me, hugged me, bought me drinks, and told me I helped you get through something, thank you. To the organizations that invited me to briefings, lounge meetings, secret sessions, and way-too-loud rooftop parties—thank you.

To the clinicians who give a damn, the scientists still asking real questions, the oncology nurses who will never give up, and the industry leaders trying (really trying) to make space for lived experience: don't stop. Please don't stop.

Even if it doesn't feel like it yet. Even if the ROI isn't clear on your CRM dashboard. Even if some dude in comms still thinks "patient influencer" is a social media strategy and not a revolution waiting to happen. It matters.

The somber overtones of DOGE fuckery be damned. This, too, shall pass because the moral arc of the universe bends toward justice.

THINGS I DID NOT MISS

• That time the Blue Line stopped working right after I landed, coupled with the resultant 2-hour Uber and Taxi lines.

• The existential dread of getting in line at the McCormick Center Starbucks and being shamed by endless stanchion ropes.

• Forgetting to "unbadge" after leaving McCormick and walking the streets of Chicago only to have strangers say "Hi, Matt."

• The hourly game of "Where the hell is Booth 34623, and how do I get to the North building's basement in 90 seconds?"

• The "I could have sworn the bathrooms were right here last year" pee-pee dance in front of your cohorts.

THINGS I ACTUALLY LOVED

Everything else.

ASCO FOR PATIENTS (OR, THE POLITE SHRUG)

Is ASCO patient-inclusive? No. And it doesn't pretend to be. It is not a patient conference. It is a science and education conference, and I've finally stopped trying to turn it into something it isn't.

The PAL (Patient Advocacy Lounge) exists, and I'm grateful for that space. It's happily expanded over the years from one airwall to four. We'll take the progress wherever ie manifests. However, anyone still trying to "reform" ASCO into a patient-first utopia is playing the long game without a rulebook.

We're not there to be featured.

We're there to infiltrate. Sometimes, that means knowing where the real meetings are, who to talk to, who NOT to talk to, and when to ghost the panel session for something more meaningful in the hallway.

THE BODIES WE BRING WITH US

Eighteen years ago, walking 45,000 steps in three days didn't require post-conference physical therapy. Now I'm snorting THC gel and crushed ibuprofen. But I kept moving. Because that's what we do. Cancer taught us how to keep moving through pain, through exhaustion, through the crushing weight of pretending to be fine in a place where no one really is. We show up. That's the work.

So what now? We go back to work.

For me, I write the book, build the platform, and finish what I started.

We The Patients isn't a slogan.

It's a signal. A rally cry. A bat signal to every human who's ever screamed into the void of our healthcare system and wondered if anyone else heard them. Dare I say that We The Patients is a genuine revolution hiding in plain sight? (Inquire within)

And I'm still here—fedora and all—trying to turn that scream into a chorus and that chorus into a voter bloc.

To everyone who met with me, followed up, opened a door, floated an idea, or just said, "Keep going," I will. Thank you. And to ASCO, so long, and thanks for all the fish (again.) I'd tell you to "never change," but you've succeeded all on your own, and for that, we are a grateful cancer patient community.

See you in 2026. Same fedora. Louder shirt. Different mission.