Jillian Vandall Miao, 39, is senior director of publicity at Random House Children’s Books. She is also the author of the upcoming children’s book series Baby Botanicals, set to launch in February 2026. She lives in New Canaan, Conn., with her husband and two daughters.
It’s the end of a very important month—October—which now means more to me than just the start of fall, crunchy leaves underfoot, pumpkin spice lattes, and Halloween. It’s also Breast Cancer Awareness Month. As it comes to a close, I’m writing this essay in the hope that it motivates you—or someone you love—to get a mammogram, to advocate for your health, and to listen closely to your body. If it weren’t for other survivors sharing their stories, I wouldn’t have known to be so vigilant. One of those survivors even wrote a book about her experience—and that book quite literally saved my life. And in turn, I hope this essay of thanks to Clea Shearer inspires you today.
A necklace saved my life. And Clea Shearer—without knowing it—restored my faith.
On March 9, I was putting my four-year-old daughter to bed, our nightly ritual that often stretches for hours. But that night, she fell asleep quickly. I stayed beside her, absentmindedly untangling my beaded necklace from a button on my shirt.
In the process, my hand grazed my chest—my left breast, at the 11 o’clock position—and I felt it: a small, pea-sized lump.
I froze. Next to me, my daughter was already drifting into dreams—simple, innocent ones about visiting the garden center with me, planting seeds in a mouse-shaped pot, or playing on the floor with our dog, Weezy, who still hasn’t decided if she’s a fan of her.
But I lay there, afraid. I was 38. How could this be? Why me? It had to be cancer. Breast cancer wasn’t in my family, but cancer was—my late mother died at 58 from leiomyosarcoma, one of the rarest kinds. For years, I’d been told it wasn’t genetic. Doctors brushed it off when I mentioned it. But maybe they shouldn’t have. Maybe we don’t know enough about genetics. Maybe I should have been screened earlier.
Still, I’m not here to dwell on the what-ifs. I’m here to write about Clea—and to say this: if you are a woman, get screened. Take the breast cancer risk assessment test. Advocate for yourself. You know your body best.
Clea Shearer’s journey—and her recent book for adult readers, Cancer Is Complicated—changed my perspective on life before I even had a diagnosis. As a publicist, I worked on her debut children’s book with co-author Joanna Teplin, The Rainbow Cleanup. I remember walking a few steps behind her at the Today show, clutching her picture book, ready to hand it to any producer who needed it. But my thoughts that morning weren’t on my job—they were on her.
Here was a woman who had faced cancer and was still showing up—still working, still smiling into cameras and speaking to a national audience, still rebuilding her health. I didn’t yet know how much I would need that example.
On March 17, I was diagnosed with stage 2 hormone positive breast cancer. After my double mastectomy, we learned it had reached one lymph node. I was technically cancer-free after surgery, but that one node meant the kitchen sink would have to be thrown at me—just like Clea. Sixteen rounds of chemotherapy. Four rounds of AC (the “Red Devil”), and 12 rounds of Taxol. Then 25 sessions of radiation. Then years of hormonal therapy, medically induced menopause, and a lifetime of vigilance.
They say treatment is a “season” that will pass. But when you’ve had cancer, it’s never really over. Cancer Is Complicated makes that clear—even in its title.
I have the great fortune of working at Penguin Random House and having access to books well before publication, so I knew Clea had a memoir coming about her experience with breast cancer—long before I was diagnosed myself. When I learned she had written it, I quietly filed it away in my mind.
On the day I received my diagnosis, I went straight to my computer, printed out her manuscript, and cried. Now I had something tangible—something I could hold, dog-ear, and return to whenever I needed strength. I’ve read it four times since, taken her advice to heart, and felt a little less alone each time I turned a page.
I’ve had the privilege of working on publicity campaigns with extraordinary people just like Shearer—like John Cena, who has granted more Make-A-Wish requests than anyone in history, and Ms. Rachel, whose work has transformed the lives of countless children with speech delays and whose advocacy extends even to children in places like Gaza. They’ve both inspired me to be better. But Clea’s decision to share her breast cancer diagnosis so publicly has had an even deeper impact on me because of the strength, vulnerability, and awareness she brought to something so personal.
I like to think everything happens for a reason—that I was meant to work on her books, to walk behind her on set, to tuck away the knowledge that she had a book about her diagnosis coming. Because when it became my diagnosis, I already had a lifeline waiting for me.
Before opening her book, I didn’t know how complicated cancer could be. Now I do. And I know I’m not alone. And as a current breast cancer warrior—like Clea—there’s one last thing I want you to know: you never truly know what someone is carrying, so meet everyone with kindness and patience.
I am in active treatment now. Yet in most daily interactions—whether grabbing coffee at a local Starbucks or dropping my daughter at camp—you wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t see the port in my chest. You wouldn’t know I’ve had a double mastectomy. You wouldn’t guess I’m navigating chemo cycles. (Thank you, Penguin Cold Caps, for saving some of my hair.)
That’s the thing—cancer is complicated. But strangely, I’m thankful for it too. It has awakened parts of me I didn’t know existed. It’s made me see that every day is a blessing. That everyone deserves respect. That the small stuff truly isn’t worth sweating. Yes, traffic is frustrating—but it passes. You’ll get home. And when you do, I hope you slow down, take a breath, and take care of yourself. Because you are the most important thing. Treat yourself gently, with care.
Thank you, Clea—for your book, for your honesty, for sharing your journey, and for continuing to do so with such vulnerability. You are lifting the spirits of countless people, myself included.
