I’m Writing a Book: My Ah-Ha Moment
When I set out to write my book on May 7, 2026, I'm so glad my friend Cara suggested I read Write a Must-Read by AJ Harper first.
Because honestly — I had no idea where to start. Do I just start writing stories? How would I know where they'd fit, or if they'd even provide value?
After reading the first few chapters, one thing became clear: this was going to take a long time.
“MISERY MAKES
THE HARD THINGS HARDER.”
-Claire
But it became clear in other ways too.
I wasn't writing for me — though it is pretty healing. I was writing for someone else. The past version of me who could have used this guidance years ago. The present version of me who's proud of herself for making a shift. And the future version of me who will live so many more happy days than anxious ones, and be deeply grateful for it.
I thought my book was going to be a longer version of my keynote. I even considered calling it Shift Happens: How to Thrive Through Hard Times. But as I worked through the exercises — writing my reader statement, developing my core message, solidifying my promise — I realized that was just one piece of the book.
The core message is so much bigger.
My ah-ha moment came when I had to reschedule Sloane's next routine scans.
She was originally set to have an MRI on July 21, but we had a vacation planned. Over the last three years, our summers have been shaped by cancer treatments. This year is our first "off." We decided we weren't going to let scans change our plans — the scan would have to move.
Because she's in short-term survivor care, her scans aren't considered urgent. That's a good thing. But it also meant the next available MRI shifted to August 28 — a full month later than expected. An extra month where cancer could show up and we wouldn't even know.
And in that moment, I realized I was still living scan to scan. Or rather — not living at all.
I found myself anticipating anxiety all summer. Wondering what was happening behind the scenes. Wondering if the cancer would come back. Anticipating anxiety about anticipating anxiety — double anxiety, if you can imagine.
I thought: I just can't wait until those scans come back clear.
I can't wait to get through the summer. For the summer to be over.
Wait — what?
I was wishing away the free summer I'd been dreaming of for three years. I would rush through every moment, miss so much joy and laughter and lightness, just trying to get to the other side of the hard stuff.
And here's the terrifying reality of neuroblastoma, the cancer Sloane was diagnosed with in 2023: after relapse, the survival rate drops below 10%. Sloane relapsed in 2025. Even though she's in remission for a second time and doing beautifully, she still lives inside that statistic.
We know families whose children went years in remission only for the cancer to return — and not end well.
Can you imagine living your entire life focused on that number? That wouldn't be living. That would be waiting to die.
If we're always searching for the light at the end of the tunnel, we may never find it — because the hard things aren't going away. The scary statistic is our reality. It doesn't disappear if we spend enough time worrying about it.
But living in sadness and fear doesn't make the hard things go away either.
Misery just makes the hard things harder.
So instead, we choose to live — fully, loudly, joyfully — in the middle of the hard. Not waiting for it to be over. Not holding our breath for easier days before we allow ourselves to feel happy.
Because peace, hope and happiness aren't waiting on the other side of uncertainty.
They're available right here, in the middle of it.