There are some smiles that don't just light up a room—they change the room. Third grader Averyl "Avy" Bradley carries one of those smiles. Born with limb differences, she has already faced more medical challenges in her young life than most people see in a lifetime. But ask anyone at Forreston Grade School, and they'll tell you her positivity is infectious, her independence remarkable, and her resilience unforgettable.

Avy lives "technically surrounded by fields," as she precisely explains—there's a road between her house and the cornfield, but fields everywhere else. Her home overflows with personality: three cats named Licker, Bobblehead, and a kitten that's lived there two years without earning a proper name, plus a guinea pig called simply "Guinea" (though Mom insists on calling it "La Ginya," much to Avy's horror). Like any third grader, she loves recess, lunch, and reading Owl Diaries. She dreams of being an artist, a YouTuber, a farmer, or maybe a zookeeper. But unlike most kids her age, Avy carries ten surgeries' worth of scars and the daily reality of prosthetic legs.

Her medical journey began at three months old when she met Dr. Benz, the surgeon who would shape her childhood. "He tries to steal my stuffies," she says with mock indignation, remembering his playful way of easing pre-surgery anxiety. Even now, semi-retired and teaching surgeons in Africa, he remains part of her story—she tracks his work overseas with the attention of someone who knows he changed her life.

The surgeries themselves were marathons of endurance. One lasted seven hours to remove a foot; another addressed a tethered spinal cord. Her most recent separated fingers that had been fused together. She remembers the blackened tissue afterward, how she couldn't bear to look at first. When they removed the bandage, "one tear came out of my eye." Just one. That single tear says everything about her strength.

Her mother Jill Sommer, and PE teacher Mrs. Mathieu describe independence that astounds them. Even in preschool, Avy insisted on doing things herself. By first grade, she was jumping rope—sometimes with friends, sometimes alone—and throwing herself over hurdles on obstacle courses. "Nothing is an obstacle for her," Mrs. Mathieu marvels. "She just—it's a joy to watch her participate."

Every year brings new prosthetic legs through UW Children's Hospital in Madison, each pair chosen with patterns Avy selects herself. They're heavier than most imagine—a pound per leg—building remarkable strength in her small frame. Her mom jokes that "it hurts when she kicks people," which became clear when Avy wanted to play soccer. The worry wasn't whether she could play, but whether her prosthetics might injure other kids—a complex reality of being both vulnerable and powerful.

To see Avy truly shine, catch her on Field Day. She brings her "booties"—old prosthetic inserts that let her fly across the ground. "I wanted to show everyone how fast I could be," she explains, though she admits feeling "extra shy" wearing them. This complexity—wanting speed but feeling exposed achieving it—shows how eight-year-olds process difference. Mrs. Mathieu, who's cheered her through countless gym classes, sees the future clearly: "I can't wait. I mean, I see Paralympian."

But speed doesn't define Avy—joy does. She treasures playing with Gracie, Grady, and Faelyn, the three classmates from last year who moved up with her. She lights up discussing mini cheer camp, where she'll soon raise her voice alongside the Forreston Cardinals squad. "I wish Field Day was every day," she sighs.

For all her challenges, Avy remains wonderfully, ordinarily eight: wanting a light blue bike with streamers and a bell, eager to make clay snails in art class, determined to be part of everything rather than set apart from anything. Her presence makes classmates braver, teachers prouder, and her community stronger.

At eight years old, soon to be nine on October first, Avy embodies what many adults spend lifetimes learning—that obstacles rarely match their appearance, that independence grows from persistence, and that the right smile can carry you far. Someday, as that farmer, artist, or zookeeper, she'll keep teaching these truths. For now, Forreston gets the privilege of cheering her on, one jump rope at a time.