No Ceiling, Only Sky: Finding My Way Forward at Camp WAO
Beth McLaughlin, September 2026
My name is Beth, and I attended the NAC Camp We Are Ocean (Camp WAO) in August 2026. Before I share what a life-changing opportunity it was, I’d like to tell you a little about myself and my cancer experience.
I am in my 50s, and I live outside Boston, Massachusetts. Aside from college in Vermont and six years in the San Francisco Bay Area, I’ve spent most of my life in Massachusetts. Today, I live with my husband and our two kids, who periodically migrate home from college. Our sweet pup and feisty cat round out the household. My professional career is in the arts, and I currently work as a museum curator.
My experience with cancer had always been both limited and intensely personal. Few people in my life had faced it, with one major exception: my mom, who had four different types of cancer—colon, breast, skin, and liver. There was no known genetic link to my mom’s cancers, so I never really thought the disease was something that would affect me, at least not until later in life. Sadly, I was wrong.
In the summer of 2025, following a routine mammogram, I was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer (TNBC). Thankfully, it was caught early, at Stage 1. But TNBC is aggressive, and the intensive treatment pulled no punches.
A few weeks after my diagnosis, I had my port installed, with my daughter by my side—on her 18th birthday, no less. A week later, I began IV chemotherapy: four rounds of Adriamycin and Cytoxan followed by four rounds of Taxol. Sixteen weeks in all. During chemo, I lost all the hair on my body, developed neuropathy in my hands and feet, and felt like I had been hit by a truck most days.
Cancer was something I had always feared but never truly expected. Then suddenly it arrived at my doorstep, unbidden and unwelcome, and I had no choice but to let it in and figure out how to cohabitate until I could show it the door. Over the following months, I was poisoned, cut, burned, poked, prodded, stitched, and restitched—and that doesn’t begin to account for the mental and emotional toll. But I am still here, and I am profoundly grateful for that.
Following IV chemo, I had a lumpectomy to remove the tumor and four lymph nodes. They also removed my port, which felt like an AirTag implanted under my skin. I hated it. Thankfully, the chemo had mostly done its job. Only 10% active cancer cells remained in the tumor, my margins were clear, and my lymph nodes showed no signs of disease. Huzzah! But because the cancer hadn’t been completely eradicated, six months of oral chemotherapy was added to my treatment plan following radiation. Boo!
In February 2026, I began 19 daily radiation treatments, which left me with severe burns, numbness, and crushing fatigue. That spring, I began six months of oral chemotherapy—eight pills a day. I’m looking forward to taking the last of them in just a few weeks.
Throughout most of my treatment, I was very private about my diagnosis. I knew I could access a much larger support network through my hospital, my own circle, and the abundant cancer resources available across the country, but I hesitated to reach out. Instead, I kept my circle small. I did what my oncology team told me to do and counted the days until I could leave this whole “journey” behind. In retrospect, I think I dissociated from much of the experience. It often felt as though it all was happening to someone else.
As summer arrived, however, I began to catch a glimmer of that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. I also began to understand that I couldn’t simply go back to who I was or to the life I had before cancer. I needed to figure out how to move forward and step into whatever came next. For me, that meant opening my circle and connecting with other people who had experienced cancer. With only a few months of treatment remaining, I was ready to shed my cocoon and allow the light of other people’s experiences to illuminate the path forward. But how? Where would I even start?
Then, as if by divine intervention, a post for the NAC Camp We Are Ocean appeared in my Instagram feed. Without hesitation—or, frankly, without reading very much about it—I submitted my application. Less than an hour later, I learned I’d been accepted.
I was going to cancer camp! 
Only then did I read the information more carefully and realize the program was geared toward young adults, a characterization that hasn’t applied to in a decade (or two). I emailed NAC to make sure my age wasn’t a disqualifier, and they graciously welcomed me with open arms.
Eight weeks later, I was packing the essentials for my Camp WAO adventure at Emerald Bay on Catalina Island: sunscreen, bug spray, water shoes, bathing suits, swim shirts—and, of course, a week’s worth of my chemo pills. I arrived in Long Beach the day before we were scheduled to ferry over to Catalina. I was excited but nervous, feeling like the new kid on the first day of school.
The next morning at the San Pedro terminal, those nerves quickly disappeared as I met the Camp WAO staff and participants gathered for the trip. The warm smiles of staffers Gaby, Alex, and Ashley immediately put me at ease. One of the first participants I met was Janette, a vibrant woman around my age who also had TNBC. Within minutes, we were sharing stories, comparing treatments—and, naturally, chemo curls. That immediate sense of connection was just an inkling of what was to come.
It’s difficult to describe the impact of my week with Camp WAO. Listening to other people’s experiences was a privilege—and, at times, heartbreaking. Hearing what my fellow campers had endured, and in many cases were still enduring, was humbling. I felt enormous gratitude simply to be in communion with this extraordinary group of people.
For once, I wasn’t the person in the room who was “the one with cancer.” I didn’t have to explain the emotional, mental, and physical challenges to people who, no matter how much they loved me, simply couldn’t fully understand. My campmates and the incredible Camp WAO staff knew.
They knew what an emotional rollercoaster cancer can be. They understood the fatigue, the side effects, and the isolation. They knew what it was like to look in the mirror and not recognize the person looking back. They understood the anxiety about what comes next, the persistent fear of recurrence, and the anger and grief over what had been lost along the way. Those conversations—and that sense of belonging—were like a balm to me.
And then there was the ocean.
Within hours of arriving at Emerald Bay, I was wading into the Pacific, which was surprisingly warm! Later, our group ceremoniously jumped from the pier—one by one and in groups, with cannonballs and front flips. Somewhere in those first hours, I felt a peace that had been missing since my diagnosis. I could breathe again.
That immersion in the ocean continued throughout the week, one meaningful experience after another. I paddled an outrigger canoe for the first time in my life. I watched dolphins leap and seals play during an epic catamaran sail. I swam among kelp forests and let the sunbaked rocks of Doctor’s Cove warm my skin.
The magic extended beyond the water. Our nightly campfires offered opportunities to reflect, to share, and even to dance! On evening, we experienced a beautiful sound bath with Alex playing singing bowls and Ashley giving us the gift of Reiki. I tried my hand at archery and bedazzling—and wasn’t half bad at either. We even had a Catalina Island Fox wander into our cabin and jump into my bunk for snuggles. Along with my amazing bunkmates, we carefully helped the little critter back outside and sent her on her merry way. What an unforgettable encounter!
There are countless memories from that week that I’ll carry with me forever. But when I think about Camp WAO, what comes to mind first isn’t any one excursion or activity—it’s the people.
It’s the incredible staff who made sure we felt safe and supported while gently encouraging us to step beyond our comfort zones and embrace new experiences. It’s the camaraderie, the laughter, and the tears shared around the pavilion tables over delicious meals prepared by the camp chefs. It’s the conversations with my fellow campers—funny one moment and heartbreakingly vulnerable the next. It’s the freedom from judgment among people whose bodies had also been through the wringer and no longer looked or felt quite like they once did. It’s the comfort of being among people who simply got it.
What I didn’t understand before I arrived was how profound—and how necessary—that community would be.
I arrived as one of the camp “elders,” but the truth is that I learned far more from the younger campers than I could ever have taught them. I learned from their vulnerability and honesty and from their willingness to share their experiences publicly to raise awareness and help others feel less alone. I gained so much from witnessing the ways they continue to live vibrant lives, despite their diagnosis. I saw courage that had nothing to do with pretending not to be afraid and everything to do with living fully despite that fear. 
For nearly a year, my response to cancer had been to turn inward. I wanted to endure it, finish treatment, and move on. Camp We Are Ocean helped me understand that moving forward doesn’t necessarily mean leaving cancer behind. It means acknowledging and accepting what happened while also making room for joy, adventure, connection, and whatever comes next. Even writing these reflections is a big step toward my own healing and growth. I am so grateful to NAC Camp WAO for the opportunity to attend the program and share my experience here.
I went to Catalina thinking I needed to figure out how to become myself again post-treatment. Instead, surrounded by the ocean, the sun, and an extraordinary group of people, I began to understand that there’s no going backwards. I get to embrace the next chapter and welcome whoever comes next. And for the first time in a long time, I’m excited to meet her.
One last moment from camp seems to capture that feeling perfectly. Early one morning, Alex was leading a gentle yoga session on the dock. At one point, she invited us to raise our hands overhead, reaching toward “the ceiling.” Then she paused and corrected herself with a phrase that has stayed with me—and I suspect will for years to come:
“No ceiling here, only sky.”
You can donate in Beth’s honor and help her pay it forward to future campers here.
So beautiful, thank you for sharing this…