If the front office of Knoxville Junior High had a heart, it might sound a lot like Kellie Basley.

Officially, she’s the school’s secretary. But ask around, and you’ll hear something more layered: part triage nurse, part counselor, part calm in the storm. She’s the first voice many parents hear on the phone, the first face students see when they walk through the door, and the one who often meets them in their most unguarded moments.

“I think what I do is a lot more than paperwork,” Kellie says with a warm, self-effacing smile. “I’m here to be a support system for families—for students and parents—and to help wherever I can.”

That help has come in many forms. Sometimes it’s answering a parent’s panicked call about a late bus or comforting a tearful child who’s had a rough start to the morning. Other times, it’s literally medical triage—managing a scraped knee or making sure a sick child is safely cared for while they wait to go home.

“You never know what’s going to walk through that door,” she says. “And you’re usually already juggling three things when it happens.”

But Kellie is used to intensity. Before joining Knoxville Junior High four years ago, she spent years as a social worker, including time in child welfare and mental health services. It was hard work—good work—but draining.

“I loved helping kids,” she says, “but it was taking a toll. I needed something that felt just as meaningful but didn’t follow me home in the same way.”

She found that in education.

“I still get to be around students. I still get to support families. But it’s less heavy—and a lot more joyful.”

Kellie grew up in Rushville, a small town not unlike Knoxville, and now lives in Galesburg. But it’s Knoxville that feels most like home. Her stepson is a fifth grader in the district, and she takes quiet pride in seeing him walk the same halls she supports each day.

“It’s nice to be in a place that feels familiar,” she says. “Knoxville reminds me of where I came from. And that’s a good thing.”

Her days are full—and not just with clerical work. Kellie describes her job as being “whatever people need me to be.” A go-between. A buffer. A moment of stability.

“Sometimes I have to be the one who greets a parent who’s upset,” she says. “Or the one who calms a student down before they talk to the principal. And I try to be that comforting face—someone they know will listen without judgment.”

That calmness—her ability to center people when the day starts to spin—comes from deep inside, and from someone Kellie misses every day: her mom.

“My mom passed away five years ago,” she says, her voice catching. “She had cancer for thirteen years. And she was the bravest, kindest person I’ve ever known.”

Kellie remembers the moments that modeled how to live. Like the time their family dog yanked a leash so hard it pulled down a porch column. “I was panicked,” Kellie laughs. “But my mom just looked at it and laughed. She had that kind of clarity. She knew what really mattered.”

She also remembers how her mother taught her to “kill them with kindness”—a phrase that still guides how Kellie shows up for students, staff, and families.

“I just want to be someone they can come to,” she says. “No judgment. Just support. Just kindness.”

She’s already seen former students come back to visit, and she knows that even if she’s not front-and-center in the classroom, she’s part of their story.

“I may not be the one giving the lesson,” she says, “but I can be the safe place where they catch their breath, regroup, and keep going.”

In a world where kindness can be rare, Kellie Basley has made it her quiet superpower. One smile. One answered phone. One peppermint in the office—offered not just as candy, but as connection.