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FORT GEORGE G. MEADE, Md. — The hallway outside her classroom was quiet. Students sat inside the class with another instructor, their voices a low hum behind the door. In her hand, the phone pressed against her ear felt heavier than usual.
“I’m really sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your lab results came back and it’s cancer,” the voice from Walter Reed National Military Medical Center said.
U.S. Army Staff Sgt. Sharifa Newton didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She didn’t crumble to the floor. Instead, she took a breath, steadied herself, and thought about the next step.
“I wonder if the Army is going to kick me out because of this,” she recalled thinking.
Her mind had already leapt to the mission, to consequences and her version of the worst-case scenario. When she stepped back into her classroom, her students were on break.
U.S. Army Sgt. 1st Class Sherrod Percell, her teammate and platoon sergeant, noticed her face before she said a word. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
Newton’s voice broke just enough to let the truth through. “It’s cancer,” she said.
Early in her career, Newton never imagined she would spend any of her time in the Army teaching public affairs. Her first enlistment wasn’t in communications at all.
“I started off as a 92A, automated logistics specialist. Basically, Army UPS,” she joked.
The job had her moving crates and tracking supplies, but after three years, the Army told her she was in an over-strength field. She had to choose a new path.
Photography caught her eye. The Army would pay for her training, and she saw an opportunity to turn an interest into a career.
When she first transitioned, the field was known as photojournalism, but it later evolved into today’s 46S public affairs mass communication specialist. Her assignments across multiple duty stations eventually led her to DINFOS.
Teaching, however, wasn’t just an assignment. It was something she said she had always wanted to do.
As a child, Newton dreamed of standing at the front of a classroom. Now, as a noncommissioned officer, she found herself teaching Soldiers on the job, preparing them to succeed.
“In the military, you’re put in front of people who need skills and direction,” she said. “As an instructor, I get to truly do that.”
She finds joy when students return excited to share what they’ve learned or how they’ve applied their skills. And her students, in turn, keep her humble.
“I want them to see that I’m approachable,” she said. “Because when you’re scared, you don’t take in knowledge. You just get by. And I don’t want them to just get by; I want them to be better than I am.”
She acknowledged that students absorb information differently and said that at times she’s reminded of generational gaps, like when she references a character such as Rambo and realizes many of them have no idea who he is.
What matters most to her, though, is creating an environment where students feel comfortable admitting when they don’t understand, so she can meet them where they are and clarify.
Teaching wasn’t just a job for Newton, it was a calling. And just as she was settling into her role, then came the lump.
The process was anything but straightforward. Discovering a lump during a self-examination led her to doctors who initially couldn’t find what she felt. A mammogram came back inconclusive.
“So, then they usher me into a really dark room,” she recalled. “It's got a bed and some computer junk with an ultrasound attached to it. They have you lie down, and they use the ultrasound machine, and they go over your chest a couple of times with some warm jelly.”
After several nurses paraded in and out of the room from failed attempts to locate the lump, the head nurse finally located and confirmed it. Then came a biopsy.
“They use a clamp, like an ice cream scoop,” she recalled. “You hear it cutting flesh inside you. They put it in a test tube, send it off, and then you wait.”
The snap of the tool echoed in her memory long after the procedure ended, sharp and metallic, a sound she said she could still hear when she closed her eyes. Waiting for the results stretched time unbearably, days moving in slow motion, nights filled with restless thoughts and whispered prayers.
Two weeks later, Newton stood in that hallway when she received the fateful phone call. The words, “It’s cancer,” hung in the air like thick smoke that couldn’t be fanned away.
Her knees felt weak, gripping the phone as though the box of plastic and gears could steady her. She could hear her own breathing louder than the voice on the line.
In that moment, the world outside the hallway, the chatter of students, the everyday rhythm of classes, seemed to vanish. The words were simple and clinical, but they landed like a heavy blow.
With that, she underwent a partial mastectomy, which involves removing a portion of the breast and surrounding tissue. Newton believed the ordeal was over. But another call came. The cancer was still there.
“This is ridiculous,” she told her doctors. “You need to take both.”
So they did. Recovery was brutal. The pain was unlike anything she had known. At times, it was a tightened chest that made it seem hard to breathe; other times, a dull ache radiating through as though her body was remembering what it had lost. Phantom pains haunted her. Tubes and drains snaked from her sides. Every drawer handle and cabinet knob in her house seemed designed to catch them, yanking until she cried out.
“I remember stepping out of the shower, turning to grab my towel, and it yanked on the cord,” her voice cracked as tears rolled down her cheek from remembering the feeling. “The pain was so much I just started crying. At that point I was like, ‘Forget pride.’ I called for my husband. I needed help.”
For someone fiercely independent, learning to ask for help was its own battle.
“I’m a do-it-yourself type of person. Being vulnerable enough to ask for help was hard,” she admitted.
For a woman who prided herself on solving problems often before others even noticed them, surrendering to dependency felt like a different kind of wound. Each time she asked for help, whether it was for a glass of water or for her husband to adjust her surgical drains, she had to remind herself that strength sometimes meant letting others step in.
Yet even in the darkest moments, Newton found humor.
“I remember the first time I was ready to take a shower, and I looked at; I guess what was left from the procedure,” she giggled. “I was like, ‘Ew, that looks ugly.’ I felt like Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas, stitched together. But at least I was alive. It could be worse.”
She admitted that behind the laughter was the burden of fear. The scars stitched across her skin were a permanent map of survival that she wasn’t sure she was ready to carry. But humor, even dark humor, gave her a way to keep moving forward. She could laugh about it, but she didn’t carry the weight alone. Her strength was reinforced by the support of those closest to her.
At DINFOS, she found a second family.
“I think I found my home here,” she smiled tearfully. “My command has been really understanding. My leadership, my teammates, they’ve been there for me.”
One friend brought flowers to the hospital and others visited her house with fruit bowls and movies, simply to sit and distract her from the pain.
One of those friends is U.S. Army Staff Sgt. Rachel Wilridge, a fellow instructor who also calls Newton a close friend. Wilridge remembered the first time she walked into Newton’s hospital room after her double mastectomy at Walter Reed.
“Walter Reed was under renovation, so it felt strange,” she recalled. “There was even a bird hopping around inside near the elevator. The hallway was dim, the tiles peeling. Then, you walked into her room and there she was, bright and smiling like nothing could shake her. That uplifted me right away.”
Wilridge had brought flowers and a basket of fruit, things she knew Newton loved, but it was Newton’s spirit that surprised her most.
“She was just lying there smiling,” Wilridge said. “That’s typical Sharifa. She had her drains tucked away because she knew I can’t stand the sight of blood. In the middle of everything she was going through, she was still thinking of me.”
Wilridge recalled being surprised by Newton’s demeanor, noting that she appeared calm and upbeat despite what she had endured.
Newton assured her the surgery had gone more smoothly than expected and kept spirits high by joking with the nurses and even making lighthearted bets with her doctors.
For Wilridge, it was a reminder that humor was Newton’s way of coping and pushing forward.
For Wilridge, that moment was unforgettable, not just because of Newton’s resilience, but because of how it reminded her that friendship, in and out of uniform, means showing up in the darkest hours. She said she remembered them laughing more than the situation should have allowed, their voices cutting through the dimness of the ward.
Their conversation that night was filled with laughter, some tears, and a lot of reassurance. For Wilridge, it was another reminder of the kind of friend and instructor Newton is, one who carries others even when she herself is hurting.
Wilridge remembered the first time Newton confided in her. They were walking between classrooms when Newton mentioned she had a lump and needed further testing. At first, Wilridge assumed it was a routine appointment and didn’t grasp the seriousness until Newton stopped her and clarified what it could mean.
Later, when Newton confirmed the diagnosis, Wilridge recalled standing with her and another colleague in a hallway at DINFOS as Newton said through tears that it was cancer.
“I didn’t react right away,” Wilridge admitted. “I tend to process things slowly. But I knew in that moment she needed us to just be present with her.”
From that point onward, Wilridge watched the DINFOS team rally around their fellow instructor.
“Our leadership never left her hanging,” Wilridge said. “They gave her the space and the time she needed without making her feel like she was letting anyone down. That’s not always the case in the Army, but here, the command was solid. They showed that ‘people always’ isn’t just words.”
Newton herself echoed that sentiment, explaining that her leadership not only gave her time to heal but checked in often, reminding her she was valued beyond the job.
When Newton returned home from the hospital, she continued to have the support of her family and friends. They visited her often. Whenever she tried to get up and move too soon, they stopped her gently.
“Tell us what you need,” they implored. “We’ll get it for you.”
Her parents traveled to spend time with her and help with a move so she could live closer to work. Her husband was by her side daily, post-surgery, emptying drains and reminding her she didn’t have to do it alone. And her son, ever the jokester, told her, “Don’t die on me, Refa. If you die when I’m not here, I’ll be really mad.”
It was a raw, childlike plea wrapped in humor, and in its own way, it steadied her. His words reminded her of why laughter had to win out over despair.
She laughed, replying, “Don’t you think it’s more traumatizing if I died in front of you?”
It was this community and humor that kept her grounded.
Newton often chose laughter over despair. When she was told she didn’t need both breasts removed, Newton argued that she wanted to. Despite this, the surgeon was convinced to keep one. Later, when she got the call that the cancer returned, she couldn’t help but laugh at the irony.
“I laughed,” she chuckled. “It probably made [the surgeon] uncomfortable, but what else could I do? I find humor in dark things.”
That outlook was shared at home, too. Before her mastectomy, her husband joked about bringing in Kevin Hart to cheer her up after surgery.
“Of course, we couldn’t afford that,” she said. “But it kept us laughing in a moment that could have broken us.”
The Army teaches Soldiers to push through adversity, but Newton learned something deeper.
“Mission first, people always,” her voice cracked from holding back tears. “There’s always a mission, but you have to remember each individual has needs. One of mine was time and space to heal. My team gave me that.”
Her tone carried both pride and exhaustion, a reminder that resilience was not just about enduring silently but about knowing when to lean on others.
Her leadership never pushed her to overextend during recovery. Instead, they emphasized that her well-being came first, making it clear that she wasn’t valued only for the work she produced, but for who she was as a member of the team.
“I wanted to push through,” she explained. “But I had to step back and remember, I’m a person too.”
Today, Newton is still recovering, but she will continue teaching and showing up with the same energy she asks of her students. She doesn’t downplay the difficulty, some days are exhausting, but she remains grateful.
“I’m not super religious, but my faith has helped me hold on,” she said optimistically.
“Yes, I have cancer. Yes, I had a mastectomy. But I still have my life. I’m grateful I’m not dead.”
For Newton, survival is not just about living past cancer but about embracing the strength found in family and community. As she continues her recovery, she carries with her the unspoken truth that real strength is not about being unbreakable but about allowing oneself to be rebuilt.
| Date Taken: | 08.27.2025 |
| Date Posted: | 12.30.2025 15:25 |
| Story ID: | 555202 |
| Location: | FORT GEORGE G. MEADE, MARYLAND, US |
| Web Views: | 21 |
| Downloads: | 0 |
This work, Strength in the Struggle, by PO1 Asheka Lawrence-Reid, identified by DVIDS, must comply with the restrictions shown on https://www.dvidshub.net/about/copyright.
