I Wrote a Book During Chemo. Then I Took It Off the Market. Here’s Why.

If you had told me years ago that I was going to write a book about cancer, I would’ve called you a liar. Writing a book always seemed like something other people did—people who were more organized, more polished, more ready than I was. And then I was diagnosed, and “ready” stopped being a requirement for anything.

I didn’t set out to write a book. I set out to survive a night. And then another one. And then I realized I had a lot of things I wanted to say, and I wanted them all in one place.

3 AM and a Phone Full of Notes

Let me tell you about the insomnia. Chemotherapy started in October, so the weather was changing and I figured I’d ride out the winter at home and hopefully get through it. But immediately after the first infusion, so much changed so quickly. I could not sleep for more than an hour at a time. This went on for months.

I tried exercising. I tried a narcotic sleep aid once—once—because that experience was so out-of-body I refused to ever take it again. I tried every natural remedy I could find. None of them worked. So, I was left with the hours. Wide awake at 2 AM, 3 AM, 4 AM, night after night, with a body full of drugs and a mind full of everything I couldn’t say out loud.

I joined a few Facebook groups on natural remedies. I read research on functional mushrooms and other healing sources. And that’s where I started to get frustrated. In one of the groups—over twenty thousand members—there was a woman who had latched onto a particular herbalist and positioned herself as a secondary expert on ‘all things health’. When I clicked on her page, she didn’t embody any of what she was preaching. And I thought: health is not just taking herbs. It’s also exercise. It’s also water. It’s also the mental piece. All of it plays a role.

But what really broke me was watching people come into that group desperate—looking for help for a relative, a child—seeking alternatives from people who were not medical professionals, while an entire scientific community had spent decades studying these very things. People had donated their DNA to science so that I could live. And here were strangers on the internet, consumers of third- and fourth-hand information, acting like they knew more than my oncologist.

That’s when I decided to write a book. Not because I had all the answers. Because I was living on both sides—actively receiving traditional medicine through chemotherapy, drugs, and steroids while also using natural remedies to recover faster. And they were working. Both of them. Together. I wanted to bridge those two worlds from the perspective of someone who was standing in the middle.

So, I whipped out my phone at 3 AM and started writing in my notes. I outlined what I wanted to say. I wanted people to feel how it felt—the emotional roller coaster of the diagnosis, the treatment, the identity shift of being someone who could never picture herself in chemo but was now sitting in the chair. Because we don’t know how we’ll react to a life-altering situation until we’re actually in it. People forget that.

The more I wrote, the better I felt. It took all the random thoughts, the frustrations, the internal conversations I was having with myself, and turned them into something physical—something I could hold and share. It wasn’t about money. Anyone who’s written a book knows it’s not a financial ‘come-up’. It’s a body of work that becomes part of your legacy. That’s why I chose to donate one hundred percent of the proceeds to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

I called it, “Healthy People Get Cancer, Too: Sharing My Story, Examining the Struggle Between Modern Medicine & the Natural Community”.

The Bitterness I Didn’t See Coming

Here’s the part I didn’t expect. The hardest thing about cancer wasn’t always the cancer. Sometimes it was the people around it.

We’ve been so bombarded with information—much of it contradictory—that people genuinely believe they know everything about everything. And they become bold about it. Unsolicited opinions about how you should save your own life. From people who’ve never sat in the chair.

I remember being in remission and deciding to have a girls’ day—just getting out to a winery, enjoying the weather. It wasn’t really about the wine. But as we were talking about the whole process, one of the women at the table said: “Doctors just give you anything. If it was me, I would’ve really thought about it and read the side effects before I decided to move forward.”

I rolled my eyes and responded immediately: “Well, I knew the side effects of not doing chemo was certain death. And when I knew I would live, I figured I could work out the kinks later.”

This happened so much—during treatment and after—that I became used to it. I got more snappy in my responses and less apologetic for ‘checking’ people.

And then there was the other side. The people who loved me so much it paralyzed them. I took a taxi to surgery one day—I think it was for the initial biopsy in my chest, visiting the thoracic surgeon. The driver was making pleasant conversation and asked why I was going. I told her it was for a biopsy, potential cancer. She pulled the car over, completely lost it, and asked if she could get out and give me a hug.

I was sitting in the back seat, completely calm. And I found myself wanting to comfort her. Which was strange, because I didn’t even know if I had cancer yet. But here was a stranger, nearly inconsolable, and I remember thinking: is this what I’m going to be dealing with? Because it happened again and again—with family, with friends. I’d share the news and watch people treat it like a death sentence while I was fighting to stay positive. There’s a whole chapter in the book about this—things you shouldn’t say to someone who’s been diagnosed, things you shouldn’t do, how to actually support someone going through it.

And at the time, I was right about the facts. But I was harsh in the delivery.

What Distance Taught Me

It wasn’t until years later that I reread the book and literally cringed at how bitter and critical I was of the people who really just loved me and wanted me to be here.

Here’s what I didn’t understand when I wrote it: I had accepted that this was going to be my journey, and whatever the outcome, God allows, and that’s what I had no choice but to accept. But for my family and friends, if things had not gone the way we hoped, they would have had to live with that grief forever. That realization—that their emotional reactions weren’t about doubting me but about imagining a life without me—completely shifted my perspective.

They had no idea what I needed. They had no idea how to respond. And they responded authentically—followed by second-guessing whether they were being too positive or too negative. But they showed up. And that’s what mattered.

Who am I to criticize how someone processes the potential loss of someone they love?

Why I Took It Off the Market

I don’t use the word “trigger” lightly. I tend to go the opposite direction when a term feels overused. But in this case, rereading my book triggered me in the truest sense of the word. It triggered an emotional response of anger. It triggered the feelings of anxiety before every surgery. It triggered watching my nephew cry. It triggered all the conversations my son had with his friends trying to make sense of what was happening.

I was about a year removed from treatment when I made the decision. I struggled to reread it. It was too personal. The mission—raising awareness, donating to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society—had been accomplished. But the book itself had become something I couldn’t carry anymore. Not because I was ashamed of it. Because I had outgrown the version of me who wrote it.

Why a Second Edition Isn’t About Correcting the First

The science has evolved since I wrote that book. My understanding of inflammation markers, treatment options, and natural remedies has deepened in ways I couldn’t have anticipated during treatment. That’s the nature of science—it’s always revolving. And we can never be so firm in our beliefs that we’re not open to new discoveries that change everything. That realization is what made me a lifelong learner, and it’s a thread that runs directly into everything I’m building with Earthkiss.

Now—seven years in remission—I feel ready to reread it again. Not to relive it. To revisit it with the maturity and distance that only time and rebuilding can give you.

A second edition wouldn’t be about correcting the first. It would be about completing it. Adding the wisdom that only comes from surviving and then doing something with the survival. Updating the science. Softening what needed softening. And keeping what still rings true.

The chapter about death? I don’t think much changes there. I have very specific thoughts about funerals and makeup and ugly wigs—but that’s another story entirely. I’ll just say this: if something happened to me tomorrow, my husband and my son know exactly what type of Gladlock container to put my ashes in.

And the chapter about the angels who saved me—the doctors, the nurses, the people who carried me through—I wouldn’t change a single word. I’m still friends with many of them. I’ve gone back and reached out to my initial oncologist, the ER doctor, the nurse who talked me through my first visit. One doctor gave me his personal cell phone number because he was that worried about what he’d seen on the x-ray. That chapter stays exactly as it is. It was the most emotional to write, and on the other side of it, I smile—because the one thing that’s been unwavering through all of it is my faith in God and my belief in divine order.

This book was written by a woman in treatment. It was pulled by a woman who was healing. And if it comes back, it will be revisited by a woman who rebuilt. That’s not failure. That’s the whole point.

Your Turn

Have you ever created something from a painful place and then outgrew it? That’s not failure. That’s growth. The question is: are you ready to go back and finish what you started? I’d love to hear your story. Drop a comment or send me a message—I read every one