Chapter 1: Looking Bigger Than We Were

Stupid Cancer started as two guys in a room—Matthew Zachary and me—trying to change how the world talked about young adult cancer. We didn't have a big team, substantial funding, or established infrastructure. What we had was a provocative name, a clear mission, and an acute awareness that we needed to look more legitimate than we actually were.

This wasn't dishonesty. It was survival. In the cancer advocacy space, credibility matters. Healthcare providers won't partner with organizations that look amateur. Funders won't write checks to operations that feel temporary. Young adults dealing with cancer won't trust their most vulnerable moments to a brand that seems thrown together.

We needed to project professionalism and stability even while we were figuring things out as we went along. Every decision about quality, platforms, and presentation was filtered through one question: does this make us look like we know what we're doing?

Eventually, we became what we were projecting. But in the beginning, there was a significant gap between the appearance we cultivated and the scrappy reality of our operations. That gap was strategic, necessary, and—as it turned out—the foundation for everything that came after.

The CafePress Problem

When I started at Stupid Cancer in 2010, our merchandise was scattered across the internet like a digital yard sale. Wristbands on Amazon and LoserKids.com. Everything else—t-shirts, hoodies, mugs, and about 10,000 other products—lived on CafePress.

CafePress made sense for a small nonprofit with no inventory budget. Upload your logo, pick products, set your markup, and let them handle everything. No upfront investment, no fulfillment headaches, no risk.

But the economics were brutal and the quality was inconsistent. A $25 t-shirt netted us maybe $2 in profit. More problematically, the products themselves often looked cheap. Crooked prints, colors that didn't match mockups, fabric that felt thin and looked worse after the first wash.

Every time someone bought a Stupid Cancer shirt through CafePress, they were getting a product that didn't match the bold, professional brand we were trying to project. The merchandise was undermining our credibility instead of strengthening it.

This created a fundamental problem: we needed merchandise to build awareness and generate revenue, but the merchandise we could afford to produce made us look less legitimate than we needed to be.

Quality as Brand Strategy

The decision to launch our own store wasn't primarily about better margins—though that mattered. It was about control over quality, because quality was our brand promise made tangible.

When someone wore a Stupid Cancer shirt, they were representing our community to the world. If the shirt was uncomfortable, poorly made, or looked cheap, that became part of how people perceived young adults with cancer and the organizations serving them.

Quality wasn't a luxury we could add later when we had more resources. It was the foundation that made everything else possible. A poorly made shirt told the world we were amateurs playing at nonprofit work. A well-made shirt told them we were professionals who took our mission seriously.

This principle came from my time at the pharmacy. When Ms. Hill picked up her medication, the quality of that interaction—the accuracy, the care, the attention to detail—reflected directly on our legitimacy as a healthcare provider. Sloppiness in any aspect of service suggested sloppiness everywhere.

The same applied to merchandise. We couldn't afford to look amateur in any customer touchpoint, because every touchpoint either built credibility or eroded it.

Choosing Volusion

When we decided to launch our own store in 2012, I spent weeks researching ecommerce platforms. We needed something that looked professional, functioned reliably, and wouldn't require a computer science degree to operate.

One of our board members had been successfully running an online store on Volusion, which gave me confidence in the platform. More importantly, Volusion felt manageable for someone learning ecommerce on the fly. I could build out the store, configure products, set up sales tax collection, and integrate payment processing without needing technical expertise I didn't have.

The platform also looked legitimate. The storefront templates were clean and professional. The checkout process felt secure and trustworthy. When customers landed on our store, they'd see an operation that looked established, even though we were figuring things out in real-time.

This mattered more than features or pricing. We needed a platform that would make us look bigger than we were while we learned how to actually become bigger than we were.

The First Products

I ordered our first batch of inventory with money we didn't really have, from a promotional products company in Florida run by a single mother who understood what we were trying to build. The products weren't fancy—basic Gildan t-shirts with screen-printed designs—but they were solid, consistent, and significantly better than anything CafePress had delivered.

The decision to use Gildan wasn't about premium quality—it was about reliable quality. Gildan shirts were comfortable, durable, and consistent. When someone ordered a medium in black, they got exactly what they expected. The prints didn't crack after a few washes. The colors matched what they'd seen online.

This consistency was crucial for an organization trying to build credibility. We couldn't afford to have customers receive products that didn't match their expectations, because every disappointed customer told their story to friends, family, and online communities. In a space as connected as young adult cancer advocacy, word spread quickly.

I also made a personal commitment: I wouldn't sell anything I wouldn't wear myself. This wasn't just a quality standard—it was an authenticity test. If I wasn't willing to put something on my own body and walk around New York City wearing it, we had no business selling it to our community.

The Professional Appearance

Every aspect of the store was designed to project professionalism and legitimacy:

Product photography showed clean, well-lit images that looked like they came from an established retailer, not a nonprofit side project.

Product descriptions were detailed and clear, answering questions before customers had to ask them.

Checkout process was streamlined and secure, with all the trust signals (SSL certificates, clear shipping policies, professional email confirmations) that made people comfortable entering their credit card information.

Customer service used professional tools (Zendesk) and provided responses that sounded like they came from an established operation, not someone checking email between meetings.

Shipping used quality packaging materials and included branded inserts that reinforced the sense that this was a real retail operation.

None of this was expensive or complicated. But it all contributed to the appearance that Stupid Cancer was an established organization with professional operations, even when the reality was one person managing everything from a TriBeCa office.

The Migration to Bigcommerce

By 2014, we'd outgrown Volusion—not because of volume, but because of limitations in the platform that were preventing us from doing things we wanted to do. The migration to Bigcommerce was a major undertaking that could have destroyed everything we'd built if handled poorly.

The decision to migrate wasn't about features alone. It was about choosing a platform that could support the next phase of growth while maintaining the professional appearance we'd worked hard to establish. Bigcommerce offered better inventory management, more sophisticated marketing tools, and a more modern storefront design.

But the real value was that Bigcommerce made us look even more legitimate. The platform was known for supporting serious ecommerce operations. Using it signaled that we were a real retail operation, not just a nonprofit with a merchandise page.

The migration process itself became an opportunity to reinforce professionalism. We communicated clearly with customers about what was changing and why. We tested extensively to make sure nothing broke. We maintained continuity so customers didn't experience disruption.

This attention to detail wasn't about operational excellence for its own sake. It was about never giving anyone a reason to question whether we were legitimate, capable, and worthy of trust.

The Gap Between Appearance and Reality

Here's the honest truth about those early years: there was always a gap between how we appeared and how things actually were behind the scenes.

The store looked like it was run by a dedicated ecommerce team. In reality, it was me, managing everything between my actual responsibilities as Chief Operating Officer.

The product photography looked professional and carefully styled. In reality, I was taking photos with my phone and editing them with basic software.

The customer service seemed responsive and sophisticated. In reality, I was answering emails at 11 PM after finishing my actual work for the day.

The inventory management appeared systematic and well-planned. In reality, I was learning as I went, making mistakes, and figuring things out through trial and error.

This gap wasn't fraud—it was aspiration backed by genuine effort to deliver quality. We were learning to walk while trying to look like we could run. But the commitment to quality and professionalism was real, even when the infrastructure supporting it was improvised.

Why the Appearance Mattered

In the nonprofit world, especially in healthcare advocacy, perception shapes opportunity. Organizations that look established get meetings with healthcare providers, partnerships with corporations, and credibility with the communities they serve. Organizations that look amateur get passed over, regardless of the quality of their actual work.

The professional appearance of our store opened doors:

Healthcare providers felt comfortable recommending our resources to patients because we looked legitimate and trustworthy.

Corporate partners were willing to explore sponsorships because our operations looked sophisticated enough to deliver on commitments.

Media outlets took us seriously because our brand presentation suggested we were established and credible.

Community members trusted us with their stories and their money because everything about our presentation suggested stability and professionalism.

None of these opportunities would have been available if we'd looked like what we actually were in those early days: a small operation learning as we went, trying to build something bigger than our current capacity.

Eventually Becoming What We Projected

The remarkable thing about projecting professionalism while building toward it is that eventually, the projection becomes reality.

By 2015, we weren't pretending to be a legitimate ecommerce operation—we were one. The systems, processes, and infrastructure had caught up to the appearance we'd been projecting. The gap between how we looked and how we operated had closed.

We had professional fulfillment through a 3PL in Pennsylvania. We had sophisticated automation connecting our platforms. We had established relationships with suppliers who understood our quality standards. We had proven systems for everything from customer service to inventory management.

The store that had started as one person trying to look bigger than he was had become a legitimate operation that could function professionally at scale.

This progression—from aspirational appearance to earned reality—is how most successful operations actually develop. You don't wait until you've built everything perfectly to project professionalism. You project professionalism while building toward it, using that professional appearance to open doors that help you actually become what you're projecting.

The Lesson About Standards

The most important lesson from those early years was that quality standards and professional appearance aren't luxuries you add later—they're foundations you build from the beginning.

Every decision about quality, presentation, and professionalism either reinforced legitimacy or undermined it. There was no neutral ground. Either we looked like we knew what we were doing, or we looked like amateurs.

Choosing to invest in quality even when resources were limited. Selecting platforms that made us look established even when we were just starting. Maintaining professional standards even when no one would have blamed us for cutting corners as a small nonprofit.

These weren't about perfectionism or vanity. They were strategic decisions about building credibility in a space where credibility determined whether we could serve our mission effectively.

The gap between appearance and reality created tension. It required working harder to maintain professional standards while still learning how to operate professionally. It meant never letting customers see the chaos behind the scenes.

But that gap was also generative. It pulled us forward, creating pressure to actually become what we were projecting. The professional appearance we cultivated became a commitment we had to deliver on, which forced us to build the infrastructure and capabilities to match the image.

Starting Right

You don't need to have everything figured out before you start. You don't need perfect infrastructure, unlimited resources, or complete expertise.

But you do need to commit to quality and professionalism from the beginning, even when—especially when—you're still learning how to deliver on that commitment.

Choose platforms that make you look legitimate. Set quality standards that match the brand you're trying to build. Pay attention to every customer touchpoint and ask whether it reinforces or undermines credibility.

And understand that there will be a gap between how you appear and how things actually are behind the scenes. That's normal. That's how growth works. The question isn't whether the gap exists—it's whether you're committed to closing it by building the infrastructure and capabilities to match the appearance you're projecting.

Stupid Cancer started as two guys in a room trying to look bigger than we were. We used quality standards and professional presentation to open doors that helped us actually become bigger than we were.

That journey from aspiration to reality started with the decision to never compromise on the appearance of legitimacy, even when the operations behind it were still being figured out.

Start by looking like you know what you're doing. Then do the work to actually become what you're projecting.

The rest follows from there.