If you want to understand fourth-grader Kylia Edmonson, start with this: she does cartwheels in the living room—so many, in fact, that her family eventually realized they ought to take this girl somewhere with mats. That's how gymnastics began. A video from Uncle Willie, sent to her dad. A nudge: "I think Kylia could do this." And then, suddenly, tumbles everywhere. "I always do  cartwheels in the living room," Kylia explains.

Now, five years later, Kylia is an advanced tumbler at All the Wright Moves in Mount Morris, training six hours a week—Tuesday 6 to 8, Wednesday and Thursday 4 to 6—under coaches Mary Wright and Lilllie, who recently left the gym to travel to Spain.. Her mom takes her "every single day." She's a pure tumbler, a floor specialist who can flip, twist, and land skills that make adults hold their breath. She also trains trampoline and double mini, where Mary pushes and encourages her to try new skills, including a double back. Before Lillie left for Spain, she worked hard with Kylia on advanced skills.  They are hard and mentally challenging, but Kylia keeps working and getting better.  That's the kind of kid she is.

Gymnastics is demanding work, but she doesn't describe it that way. She talks about how it keeps her energized—how she loves learning something new. If you ask how a person learns a trick they've never done before, she gives a simple answer: "My coach just tries to push us to get something new." To her, bravery is normal.

Her family is big, close, and warm. Her mom is "nice and funny," supportive in every way. "She lets me do almost whatever I want to," Kylia says with a grin. Dad is fun, encouraging, and steady. Her older siblings belong in what she calls her velvet rope room—reserved only for the people who matter most. Her brother JJ—real name Jekyven, turned 17 on November 27th, Thanksgiving—is the kind of big brother who doesn't need to say much. "Like when he doesn't come to my meet, he just says, good job, picks me up, and gives me a hug," Kylia says. One embrace tells her everything she needs to know. Her older sister Kalexus, who lives in Texas, also came to support her this summer at the Junior Olympics in Houston.

School feels like family, too. Kylia loves walking into Byron Elementary each morning. She is a big reader—right now she's into Sunny Rolls the Dice—and speaks with affection about her 3rd grade teacher, Ms. Love, who invited the entire class to her wedding. Kylia wore a beautiful dress and loved every moment of it.

She has quiet confidence that comes from the many people who have poured into her life, but she also carries something she has earned: resilience. That resilience shows up when she tries a skill again after missing it, when she helps other kids at the gym. She's now one of the longest-tenured athletes there—"the second longest  that's been there"—and the younger kids look up to her.

At recess one day—before the snow arrived—she and her friend Gracie performed synchronized round-off flip-flops for Principal Hogan, who then surprised everyone by throwing a cartwheel of her own. "I was sore," Mrs. Hogan admitted later. The new turf behind the playground has become their impromptu tumbling strip, a place for laughter and stunts.

Kylia's life isn't all gymnastics. In her free time, she watches TV in her room and plays with her French bulldog, Mamba, named after Kobe Bryant. Mamba was "such a tiny little baby" when they got him, and Hercules—the family's much larger dog—didn't quite know what to make of him. "They kept fighting every single time," Kylia says, but they eventually figured each other out, the way families do.

If she could talk to her first-grade self, Kylia knows exactly what she'd say: Don't give up. Chase your dreams. If people hate on you, keep going. Gymnastics hasn't just made her stronger; it has taught her confidence, resilience, and the power of getting back up. As she grows, those lessons will stretch far beyond the gym.

One day, she wants to be a gymnast. For now, she already is one. A good one. A determined one. A joyful one who flips across playground turf, who lifts younger athletes without realizing she's doing it, and who carries a belief that feels big enough for a lifetime: dreams matter, effort matters, and there is no reason to quit on either.

In Byron, that's exactly the kind of story people love to cheer for.