Chapter 6: Creating Products Worth Wearing

I wore our products almost every day. Not because I had to, but because I genuinely loved them.

This wasn't a marketing strategy or brand-building tactic. I wore Stupid Cancer shirts because they were comfortable, the designs were bold, and I was proud of what they represented. When people asked about my shirt—and they always did—I could tell them the story with genuine enthusiasm because I was literally wearing my own work.

That authenticity mattered. I didn't want to create products I wouldn't wear myself. If I wasn't willing to put something on my own body and walk around New York City in it, why would I expect customers to do the same?

This principle shaped every product decision we made: create things we'd actually use, not just things we thought would sell.

The Design Process

Working with designers was one of my favorite parts of running the store. We used 99Designs to launch design contests where multiple designers would submit concepts based on our creative brief. The platform was perfect for a small operation—we could see dozens of different interpretations of an idea without committing to a single designer or approach upfront.

But what made it special was who showed up to submit designs.

Some of the designers were cancer survivors themselves. They understood the mission viscerally because they'd lived it. Their designs carried an authenticity that came from real experience—they knew what it felt like to want clothing that made a statement without being maudlin, that was bold without being insensitive, that captured the anger and humor and defiance that young adults with cancer often felt.

Others were independent designers who connected with our mission and were excited to create something meaningful. These weren't agency creatives churning out corporate work—they were individuals building their portfolios and their businesses, and they appreciated the opportunity to work on projects that mattered beyond just being paid gigs.

When we selected winning designs, we weren't just getting artwork. We were building relationships with creative people who became part of our community. Some designers submitted to multiple contests. Some reached out to offer ideas for new products. A few became advocates who shared our work with their own networks.

Community Co-Creation

The best product ideas didn't come from brainstorming sessions in our office. They came from listening to what the community was asking for.

Remember Jessica, who emailed about extended sizing? That single conversation led to expanding our size range to 3XL, which opened up an entirely new customer base. But more importantly, it showed us that our community would tell us exactly what they needed if we created space for them to speak and actually listened to what they said.

We started being more systematic about gathering input. Before launching new products, we'd post design mockups on social media and ask for feedback. We'd send surveys to our email list asking what products people wished existed. We'd pay attention to the questions customers asked and the requests they made.

This wasn't just market research—it was community engagement. People felt invested in products they'd helped shape. When we launched a design that came from community input, those same community members became our most vocal advocates because they had ownership in what we'd created.

The Quality Standard

Early on, we'd sold merchandise through CafePress and other print-on-demand platforms. The profit margins were terrible—maybe $2 per sale—but that wasn't even the biggest problem. The quality was inconsistent. Shirts arrived with crooked prints, colors that didn't match the mockups, or fabric that felt cheap and looked worse after the first wash.

When someone bought a Stupid Cancer product, it reflected directly on our organization. If the shirt was uncomfortable or poorly made, that became part of their impression of us. We weren't just selling merchandise—we were creating physical representations of our brand that people would wear into the world.

This is why the relationship with our supplier in Florida mattered so much. She understood that quality wasn't negotiable. When we specified the exact Pantone colors for our designs, she matched them precisely. When we tested different shirt brands and styles to find what felt best, she helped us navigate options and pricing. When we needed rush orders for events, she made it work.

Over the years, we developed standards that went beyond just getting products made:

Fabric quality: We tested different shirt brands extensively. Gildan was our go-to for basic tees because they were reliable and comfortable. But we also offered premium options for customers who wanted softer fabrics or more fitted cuts.

Print durability: Designs needed to survive multiple washes without cracking or fading. We learned which printing methods worked best for different types of designs and fabrics.

Fit and comfort: I wore the products myself, which meant I immediately knew if something didn't fit right or felt uncomfortable. If I wouldn't wear it all day, we didn't sell it.

Products as Conversation Starters

The best marketing we ever did was creating products that sparked conversations.

"Give Cancer the Bird" wasn't subtle. Neither was "Stupid Cancer" printed across someone's chest. These weren't products for people who wanted to quietly acknowledge their cancer experience—they were for people who wanted to make a statement.

And that's exactly what happened. Customers would email us stories about wearing our shirts to doctor's appointments, where other patients would stop them to ask about it. They'd tell us about conversations sparked at the gym, in coffee shops, on college campuses. They'd share photos of themselves wearing our gear at cancer walks, where they'd connect with other young adults who recognized the brand.

Every customer wearing our products became a walking billboard, but not in a exploitative way. They were choosing to represent something they believed in, using our products as a tool to start conversations they wanted to have.

This is why product quality mattered so much. When someone started a conversation about cancer because of our shirt, that interaction needed to reflect well on our community. The product needed to look good, feel good, and last long enough to generate dozens of those conversations.

The Products That Didn't Work

Not everything we created succeeded. Some designs that looked great in mockups didn't resonate with customers. Some product categories we thought would be popular barely sold at all.

We tried phone cases early in the smartphone era. Nobody bought them. We experimented with coffee mugs. They sat in inventory forever. We created stickers that were too small to read from a distance.

Each failure taught us something about what our community actually wanted versus what we assumed they'd want. The lessons were expensive—inventory that didn't move tied up cash we could have used elsewhere—but they were also valuable. We learned to test ideas in smaller batches before committing to large inventory orders. We learned to be more skeptical of our own assumptions about what would work.

Most importantly, we learned that product development wasn't about maximizing SKUs or filling out a complete catalog. It was about creating a focused collection of products that our community genuinely wanted to wear and use.

Wearing Your Work

There's something powerful about creating products you'd use yourself. It forces honesty in a way that selling things you'd never personally touch doesn't require.

When I wore our shirts around New York, I got immediate feedback. If people's eyes glazed over when they read the design, I knew it wasn't working. If they laughed or asked questions or wanted to know where to buy one, I knew we'd created something that resonated.

This wasn't scientific market research. But it was authentic testing in the real world, with real reactions from real people. And it kept me connected to the customer experience in a way that just analyzing sales data never could.

I became a walking billboard not because I was required to, but because I was proud of what we'd created. That pride showed in how I talked about the products, how I responded when people asked about them, and how I made decisions about what to create next.

The Designer Relationships

Some designers worked with us on multiple projects. They'd submit concepts for new contests, reach out with ideas for products we hadn't considered, and share our launches with their own audiences.

These weren't transactional vendor relationships. They were creative partnerships with people who understood our mission and wanted to contribute to it through their work.

When we found designers whose aesthetic aligned with our brand, we'd often come back to them directly for new projects instead of running full contests. This created continuity in our visual identity while supporting independent creatives who'd proven they understood what we were trying to build.

The cancer survivor designers brought something especially valuable: lived credibility. They knew what it felt like to be young and dealing with cancer. They understood the emotional complexity of wanting to acknowledge your experience without being defined by it. Their designs carried authenticity that came from personal understanding, not just creative skill.

Creating Something Bigger

The products weren't just merchandise—they were symbols of belonging to a community that understood what you were going through.

When someone wore a Stupid Cancer shirt, they were signaling to other young adults with cancer: "I get it. You're not alone. I'm part of this too." They were creating opportunities for connection with strangers who saw the shirt and recognized the brand.

This is what made product development feel meaningful rather than just commercial. We weren't just selling t-shirts—we were creating tools that helped people find each other, start conversations, and build the kind of community that makes difficult experiences more bearable.

The revenue mattered. The store needed to be sustainable. But the impact went far beyond what showed up in our financial reports. Every product we created had the potential to spark dozens of conversations, connect hundreds of people, and help thousands feel less alone.

That's what happened when we created products worth wearing: they became more than merchandise. They became part of how people navigated their cancer experience and connected with others going through the same thing.

And that made the creative process—working with designers, testing fabrics, refining designs, gathering community input—feel less like work and more like building something that actually mattered.