Amy Jones carries the calm, steady confidence of someone who has lived several distinct lives, each one adding a layer that now benefits the students of Litchfield High School. She's a science teacher by title, yes, but that barely scratches the surface. Ask her where she started and she'll tell you about growing up in Jersey County, roaming twenty acres of woods while her dad built the family home with his own hands. She remembers wandering beneath the canopy, collecting owl pellets, pulling apart the tiny bones inside, marveling at what the natural world hides until you go looking for it. Even her older brother sending those pellets flying with a teasing smack couldn't erase the moment. If anything, it made it sharper. She learned early what curiosity feels like, and later, what it feels like to protect it.

Today, she teaches biology, physics, and dual credit environmental science—courses that often intimidate students until they meet her. She brings an unusually rich background to the work, shaped by nine years teaching in Southern California near Long Beach and Huntington Beach, exploring mountains, deserts, and kelp forests. She became a scuba diver there, sinking to the sandy bottom just to watch how the grains shifted with the current. "Every little tiny detail, there's a reason behind everything," she says. "Every motion that occurs, there's something moving it." That instinct—to look closely, to understand the why—never left her. It shows up in the way she talks to her students, the way she pushes them gently but unmistakably forward, the way she builds confidence one question, one discovery, one small success at a time.

Before returning home to Illinois, she worked with Living Lands and Waters, serving as the education coordinator on the organization's barge. She traveled the Mississippi, the Ohio, and the Illinois rivers, guiding field trips, visiting remote towns, and picking up debris that had been lodged in riverbanks since the flood of '93. It was rugged work, the kind you can only do for a season of your life, but it shaped her. When she eventually came back to the Midwest, she realized the bluffs along the river road were every bit as breathtaking as the landscapes she left behind in California. It reaffirmed the sense of place she carries with her now.

Her students get the benefit of all of it: the first-generation college graduate, the scientist, the wanderer, the river worker, the diver, the kid with owl pellets in her hands. And that's why when she looked around Litchfield's science offerings and realized something was missing, she didn't wait for someone else to fix it. She saw untapped talent. She saw potential sitting quietly in classrooms. She saw kids who, with the right opportunity, could shine.

Science Olympiad is not a simple club to run. It's a national program with 23 separate events, ranging from written exams to elaborate engineering builds like hovercrafts, boomilevers, towers, and electric vehicles. When she arrived in Litchfield ten years ago, she waited to understand the rhythm of the school, then tried to launch a team. The first attempt was tough—and then COVID canceled everything. It would have been easy to let it go. But that's not who she is. Two years ago, she tried again. This time, with deep roots in the district, she gathered a team of 15, plus alternates. In a small school, that's no small feat.

She sees the impact up close, student by student. She talks about Cal Frerichs, who started in her lower-level freshman science class. She recognized his ability immediately. "This kid's really smart," she told the guidance counselor. "He needs to be in biology and chemistry next year." Today, Cal is a senior, a multi-year Science Olympiad member, a hovercraft builder, and someone who takes advantage of every opportunity she offers. Then there's Connor Favre, who found his niche in fossils, earning first place two years ago and then winning state with his partner last year. State champion. These moments aren't small to her. They are proof that talent exists everywhere, that students bloom when given a stage.

She speaks with humility about her role. "I really just feel like I'm just the opportunity provider," she says. "It's a buffet, but they have to come to it to eat." She admits coaching doesn't come naturally—she's more comfortable teaching content than cheerleading—but she's learning. "I've never been a coach," she says. "I'm learning year after year now how to be a better coach." That vulnerability, that willingness to grow alongside her students, is precisely what makes her effective.

For Litchfield, her work is more than a program. It's a signal of what strong science education looks like when it's driven by curiosity, shaped by experience, and offered with humility. "Every school has talent," she says. "It's just about the opportunities that they're given to stand out." She has built something here—something that not only elevates the science department but widens the horizon for every student who walks into her classroom wondering what might be possible.