If you spend even a few minutes with eighth grader Addison Howland, you notice something rare—quiet, steady intentionality. She doesn’t rush. She gathers her thoughts with care. And when she speaks, she says exactly what she means. In a world that often rewards volume over depth, Addison has learned something far more valuable: she listens first.

At Galesburg Junior High School, that strength shows up everywhere—whether she’s settling into math class, diving into science, or catching those first moments with friends before the day officially begins. School is a good place for her, a place where she’s stretched, supported, and surrounded by people who see her clearly. She smiles when she mentions her favorite teachers—Ms. Steele, Ms. Z, and Ms. Golinghorst—and even that short list reveals something: Addison attaches meaning to people who make her feel safe, challenged, and understood.

Outside class, Addison’s world expands in color and imagination. She’s an artist, drawn especially to anime. She creates two recurring characters—Chris and Ash, the latter distinguished by a mysterious scar whose origin she hasn’t quite decided. The fact that she doesn’t know doesn’t bother her. Some stories, like some people, reveal themselves slowly. She’s patient enough to let them.

Patience has shaped much of Addison’s journey. Diagnosed in childhood with apraxia of speech, she’s had to work harder than most to make her voice known. Apraxia—where the brain knows the words but the muscles struggle to cooperate—presents real challenges. But with those challenges came strengths no one could have predicted. Addison not only learned to communicate—she developed clarity, precision, and an extraordinary internal filter that helps her decide what truly needs to be said.

From preschool on, she has used a device called a NovaChat, an Augmentative and Alternative Communication (AAC) tool that gives her access to thousands of words. The fact that she had one before entering kindergarten is a testament to her family’s fierce advocacy. Her mother, Lindsay, and grandmother, Linda, spent years navigating evaluations, clinics, and trial devices—from Western Illinois University to Easterseals in Peoria—determined to get her what she needed. “It was hard to get one,” Lindsay says, but they pushed anyway. Addison deserved a way to communicate fully, and they made sure she received it.

Her father, John, sits quietly during the conversation until he’s asked how it feels to see his daughter now. His answer is immediate: “Proud.” Nothing more is needed.

Addison’s life at school has been equally shaped by educators who learned alongside her. Tara Krisher, now Galesburg’s AAC specialist, first met Addison when she was in first grade and Tara was her Speech-Language Pathologist. Tara remembers those early days—using the device for spelling, for building sentences, for telling stories from home the staff otherwise never would have known. “Her articulation skills have come a very long way,” Tara says, beaming. Even after transitioning into her districtwide AAC role, Tara still carries the Howland family in her memory. She went to high school with John. She watched Addison move from hesitant communication into confident self-expression. She knows exactly how much ground the family covered to get here.

And Addison is still moving forward. She looks ahead to high school with excitement—more math, more science, more opportunities to learn, to create, to find her people. She jokes about her siblings, including Weston, who “loves to talk all the time,” and identifies other children she knows who also use AAC. There’s no pity in her voice—only connection. She recognizes others who share pieces of her path.

When asked how she became such a thoughtful young woman, she doesn’t point to a single event. But the answer is written all around her. She has giants—the people who steadied her, advocated for her, and refused to let communication barriers define her future. She has educators who adapted, encouraged, and understood. She has a school district committed to tools that open doors instead of closing them.

Most of all, she has herself.

Addison is not defined by apraxia; she is shaped by resilience, introspection, creativity, and extraordinary heart. She thinks before she speaks, draws before she explains, and listens before she reacts. The result is a young woman who influences a room not by controlling it, but by grounding it.

Her voice is her own—thoughtful, intentional, and unmistakably strong. And Galesburg is better for hearing it.