For years, Dr. Sherika Newman has been the person others turn to when medicine becomes confusing, frightening, or deeply personal.

The board-certified physician and founder of Doctor in the Family built a reputation around a kind of care suggested by the name of her practice: accessible, compassionate, and grounded in the trust people often reserve for someone close enough to be considered family. Newman has also devoted significant portions of her career to hospice and palliative care, helping patients and their loved ones navigate some of life’s most difficult medical decisions.

But behind the physician accustomed to helping other people through pain was a woman who had spent years carrying her own.

Newman’s story includes childhood sexual abuse beginning at age 7, being forced into the responsibilities of a “parentified child,” abandonment, becoming a mother at 17, and surviving periods of suicidal despair. She continued forward, eventually fulfilling a lifelong dream of becoming a physician, but professional achievement did not automatically resolve what had been left unacknowledged.

That distinction sits at the heart of her memoir, Heal Thyself: From Childhood Trauma to Triumph.

The Doctor Turns the Stethoscope Inward

The title carries particular weight for someone who has spent her adult life practicing medicine.

Newman could care for families during some of their darkest moments. She could advocate for patients, build a medical career, raise a family, and become the trusted doctor people depended upon. What she eventually discovered was that surviving, accomplishing, and even succeeding were not necessarily the same as healing.

In Heal Thyself, Newman turns the examination inward.

The memoir moves through childhood trauma, teenage motherhood, medical school, relationships, career, and personal transformation while exploring the people and choices that helped Newman move toward wholeness. Each chapter begins with a story drawn from her medical practice before connecting those experiences to lessons from her own life.

It is an approach that places the physician and patient, healer and wounded, professional and person in the same conversation.

“I’m sharing my story because I want people reading this to know that trauma does not have to dictate your future,” Newman said in announcing the book. “I’m a Black girl from Pompano Beach who survived things no child should survive, became a teen mother, and still became a doctor. If I could find my way to wholeness, so can you.”

Perhaps just as important, Newman refuses to tell the story as though she made the journey alone.

Her therapist, friends, family, and the community that continued showing up for her are central characters in a story that challenges the mythology of solitary resilience. For Newman, healing required both the decision to confront herself and the willingness to allow other people to help carry her when she could not carry herself.

“There were seasons where I wanted to quit,” she said. “It was my community that pulled me back — my own family, my therapist, my closest friends who are family in every way that matters. I write about them by name in this book because I owe them everything.”

The Hype Magazine caught up with Dr. Newman about the catalyst behind Heal Thyself, the lasting impact of childhood trauma, what medicine taught her about living, the importance of trauma-informed care, and why achievement should never be confused with arrival.

Editor’s note: The following interview discusses childhood sexual abuse and suicide.

The Interview

You have spent much of your life caring for other people. What finally made you realize it was time to turn that same care toward yourself?

I began to notice patterns of behavior holding me back in areas of my life where I wanted more. I was overcommitting, saying yes when I meant no, and putting everyone else’s needs ahead of my own; classic people-pleasing. It kept me busy, but it kept me from being whole. There’s a phrase in the Gospel of Luke, “Physician, heal thyself,” and I felt that challenge in my bones for years before I finally did something about it. I could sit with a family through the hardest night of their lives and never once turn that same care toward myself. As I got to the other side of “healthy,” I wanted to empower others who share my trauma. I wrote this book in hopes it inspires others to start, or continue, their own healing journey. Even the cover captures that idea: I’m examining my own younger self, a stethoscope turned toward myself instead of a patient. JP Moore took an old childhood photo of me and restored it into that image, and it says what words sometimes can’t: That the most important exam you’ll ever give is the one you finally turn on yourself.

You describe yourself as having been a “parentified child.” How did carrying adult responsibilities so early shape the person and physician you eventually became?

A parentified child is a child who takes on adult responsibilities, whether that’s emotional caretaking, physical caretaking of siblings or parents, or managing household matters, before they’re developmentally ready for that role. I think it made me a natural helper. I love helping others. I was a teacher before I was a doctor, so helping is simply in me. Growing up making adult decisions creates a false sense of maturity. For me, it looked like I could handle anything, because I wasn’t given any other option. Healing has taught me that I can choose to help or not, and that I can be okay with the outcome instead of attaching myself to it. I’ve learned you can get mauled if you help when it isn’t your assignment. Most times, it’s not a Sherika issue; it’s an “other person” issue that little girl Sherika still wants to fix. Now I check in with myself first, to make sure I’m actually assigned to help before I step in. Parentified children usually don’t have that luxury. In hospice and palliative care, that same instinct shows up every day: knowing when a family needs me to lead and when they need me to simply sit in the silence with them. That discernment didn’t come from a textbook; it came from learning, the hard way, to check in with myself first.

You make an important distinction between surviving and actively healing. What does “active resilience” mean to you today?

Healing is a tough process on the way to wholeness, and it’s not passive. Toughing it out just means you’re surviving in silence; active healing means choosing wholeness on purpose, again and again. There’s a chapter in the book called “Achieved, But Not Arrived,” and it speaks directly to this. We tend to think resilience means we’ve achieved greatness, when really, achievement is often just the arrival point to the beginning of your greatness. Getting my medical degree was my arrival point to my best self, not the finish line I thought it would be. We should always be healing; otherwise we stall, and stalling causes infectious dysfunction. It doesn’t just sit still; it spreads into other areas of your life. In every moment of pain, you have to choose healing and remind yourself you’re worth getting to wholeness. It’s a decision you make new every day, not a finish line you cross once.

Each chapter of the memoir begins with a story from your medical practice before moving into your own experiences. Why was that structure important to you?

I’ve learned so much from my patients, and I wanted to honor them and the lessons they gave me. Patients like a man written off in his chart as “non-compliant,” until someone finally asked him the right question, taught me lessons I couldn’t have learned any other way. Their stories carry so much wisdom about how we live and how we let go, and it felt right to let that wisdom open each chapter before turning inward to my own. It also creates a shared human experience, so readers can see themselves in my patients and me. There’s something powerful about shared stories and shared meaning. When we see ourselves in someone else, there’s an instant relatability that draws us in and lets us draw from each other. I hope readers find themselves in one of the patient stories, not just in mine. We all face pain, choices, and the need to heal, whether it shows up in a hospital room or in our own homes. Starting with their stories reminds the reader that healing isn’t just my story; it’s all of ours.

The Village Behind the White Coat

Community is one of the strongest themes in your story. Why was it important to identify some of the people who helped carry you rather than presenting this as an individual triumph?

I wouldn’t be this Sherika, nor Dr. Newman, without every person named and unnamed in this book, so keeping them anonymous never felt honest. Many friends who anchored me have become family. My friend Brian, aka Big Brian, has been there since I was 13. We’ve traversed highs and lows together. He’s not in the book, but he was there at my mom’s final birthday party, and he carried her frail body for us. When I think about moments like that, my heart is overjoyed, and they create a reservoir I draw from during hard times. Naming names is how I say thank you out loud; it’s my way of making sure the people who carried me are seen, not just felt. Some of the people who shaped me most never even make it onto a page, and I’m learning that’s okay too; love doesn’t require a byline to be real. That kind of community isn’t limited to the people in these pages, either. I’m proud to be from Pompano Beach, Florida, Exit 36 off I-95, and more than 30 years later, over 20 people from my high school graduating class are still tightly connected. Ten of them traveled from Florida to Atlanta for my birthday and book launch. Two of my best friends are from that class, and we still talk daily. Blanche Ely High School anchors our whole community; it gives us purpose, a badge of honor, and bragging rights for life. Going home fills my spirit the same way church does; I can just be Sherika, and they love and accept me. The village defines who you become once you leave it. I know how to build community in Atlanta because that was my norm long before I ever left Florida. Any child from our community who lives in Atlanta has an auntie here, whether they know it or not. When negative narratives try to flood my mind, I recall the love of everyone in this book, named and unnamed, and lifelong people like Big Brian.

Looking back at becoming a young mother and eventually making your way into medicine, what kept you moving when the barriers might have convinced someone else to stop?

I was such a whimsical young lady; I just believed this was what I had to do to become a doctor. What I didn’t understand until much later is that the whimsy itself was a trauma outcome, one of the rare ones that actually worked in my favor. My trauma skewed my sense of scale, my baseline for how much weight something should carry. So I frequently underestimated what it actually took to do the things I did. I’d just whimsically decide and go for it, and a lot of the time I didn’t even recognize what I’d accomplished as a big deal until other people told me. Even then, I often stayed perplexed, dazed, almost numb about it. I remember being genuinely surprised when my whole family showed up to my FAMU graduation; it took me years to understand, and then embrace, the significance of that day. I knew getting into medical school was a big deal, but the trauma response in me didn’t grasp the full gravity of what I’d accomplished until years later. I think that’s actually why it worked. If I’d overthought it, my perfectionism would have convinced me I couldn’t do it, because I wasn’t doing it the “correct” way. But the whimsical trauma response just said, “To be what you want, you’ve got to be a doctor,” and somewhere along the way, that turned into there being no other option. You just had to do it. I also wanted better for my son than I had, and this was the only path I saw to providing it, so failure wasn’t really an option I let myself consider. On my low points, that motivation carried me: wanting better for my son, others telling me to keep going when I couldn’t tell myself, and the pure fear of failure. There’s a moment later in the book where I finally believe I belong in the room, and looking back, I think that whimsical belief in myself, even when I had no proof it would work out, was its own kind of faith, one I was building long before I had the language for it.

What Caring for the Dying Teaches About Living

Your work in hospice and palliative care regularly places you close to mortality. How has that changed the way you decide what deserves your energy?

It’s helped me determine what “really” matters. Years ago, a patient encounter taught me that people miss the small things when they’re seriously ill or dying: walking to the mailbox, sitting under a tree, laughing with friends. Not the big things, the simple ones. Now, whenever I’m overwhelmed, I ask myself, “Would this matter if I were dying?” It sounds macabre, but it helps me right-size how much energy I give a situation. I’m not saying I throw the whole thing out; I stratify how much it means and the value it holds, instead of treating every pressure in life like it matters the same. I think of patients who met the end of their story with a peace I couldn’t fully explain, and watching that kind of surrender up close recalibrates what actually deserves your fear. Proximity to death and dying has taught me that most of what we panic over isn’t actually life or death, and giving myself permission to weigh things this way has become the most freeing lesson in my personal and professional life.

You speak openly about surviving suicidal periods in your life. What do you hope someone who is experiencing that kind of darkness takes from your story?

Suicide is a very dark place; no light breaks through. It’s best to get help before you get there, because whatever the problem is, there’s another solution for it besides your death. It feels unsolvable, but the truth is, you just may need help solving it. I needed help, and I allowed my village to point me and kick me forward until I could help myself. There were seasons I couldn’t have named at the time; seasons therapy and faith and stubborn, persistent people helped me survive long before I understood what I was surviving. Transformation is real; I’m living proof of it. The same darkness that once felt permanent became part of my testimony, not because it disappeared overnight, but because I let people walk with me through it. If you’re in that place right now, I want you to know that “unchangeable” is a lie the pain tells you. Healing doesn’t erase what happened, but it can absolutely change what happens next. If you’re struggling right now, please reach out: call or text 988 to connect with the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

Bringing Trauma-Informed Care Into Medicine

Your personal experience also informs how you see patients. What do you want other medical professionals to understand about trauma-informed care?

Healthcare is human, and there are plenty of Sherikas we care for daily. I’m an advocate for everyone becoming educated in Trauma-Informed Care (TIC). It helps healthcare recognize the traumatized patient and change our approach. Dr. Esch and I spoke candidly about TIC and racism, because racism is trauma. He was open about the challenges of being a white male caring for Black patients, and using TIC in those encounters changed his perception completely; he felt empowered to care for that population. Nearly two out of three people have a traumatic past, and many will encounter healthcare, since ACEs (Adverse Childhood Experiences) are linked to at least five of the top ten leading causes of death in this country. That’s why it’s imperative that healthcare providers become trauma-informed. I don’t see this as an extra credential; I see it as basic practice, the same way we treat vital signs as basic practice. It changes outcomes because it changes how we see the person in front of us.

After writing a memoir about becoming whole, what does the road ahead look like for Sherika Newman personally and professionally?

Personally, I keep growing on my way to healing, and I hope my story continues to help others heal; that’s really the whole reason I wrote it. The work of becoming whole doesn’t end when the book does; if anything, it’s just given me better language for what’s next. Professionally, DITF is growing our advocacy services. We now offer two new services, 30-day crisis navigation and 90-day complex care, alongside our 30-minute quick question advocacy service. For patients and families who want a physician-led advocate available at all times, we offer Concierge Family Access, available year-round for up to 4 family members daily. We hope these options meet patients and families where they are, because no two journeys through illness or healing look the same. I want to use my skills in palliative care to advocate for others, to be the trusted voice in the room as I partner with your medical team to ensure patient-centered care. For everyone who’s felt misunderstood, overwhelmed, or mistrustful of the medical system, DITF is here to help bridge the gap, one family at a time. I also host a podcast, Healing with Dr. Newman, where we share other people’s healing journeys in hopes it inspires or helps someone listening. It’s available wherever you get your podcasts. We’d also love to have you as a guest if you have a healing story you’d like to share. You can contact us at 404-900-8654, or find the guest podcast link on all our social media platforms: Dr. Sherika Newman or Dr. Sherika.

Healing Beyond Achievement

There is an important tension running through Newman’s story.

On paper, hers is the kind of life that could easily be condensed into a familiar triumph narrative: a Black girl from Pompano Beach survives childhood adversity, becomes a teenage mother, pushes through higher education, enters medical school, and ultimately builds a career helping other families.

Heal Thyself complicates that version.

Newman’s message is not that achievement cures trauma. It is that a person can achieve extraordinary things while still carrying wounds demanding attention. The degree, title, practice, and professional respect can coexist with unresolved pain.

That may be one of the memoir’s most important ideas.

“Achieved, But Not Arrived,” as Newman calls it, leaves room for the accomplished person who discovers there is still work to do. It leaves room for the healer who needs healing, the helper who needs boundaries, and the person everyone else depends upon who finally learns how to depend on someone else.

Newman is still the “doctor in the family.”

The difference now is that she has learned she belongs among the people deserving her care.

Heal Thyself: From Childhood Trauma to Triumph was announced for release on Amazon. Newman is the founder and CEO of Doctor in the Family and a consultant with the Center to Advance Palliative Care. She also hosts the podcast Healing with Dr. Newman and can be followed on Instagram at @DrSherika.