On July 27, I woke up to a text from one of my captains asking to call. I found this unusual because it was the middle of the summer. Because of these circumstances, I knew something wasn’t right.
I picked up the phone, and on the receiving line, I heard her voice. It was blunt, numb and monotone. No words are ever good when they are spoken in this way; I had experienced loss before. I didn’t ask what happened, I asked, “Who?”
“Who” — it was Kerry. Kerry, one of the first people I met at Princeton. The kind of person who was way too good for this world. Humble, calm, shy, and beautiful. Incredibly intelligent, sporty, good at everything.
Too good for this world, so much so that she was taken away.
The day before, Kerry passed after being struck by a car while cycling near her home in Johannesburg, South Africa.
I panicked, spiraling into an immediate sense of shock. I called my parents, unable to form a coherent sentence. They were away, but traveled home to support me.
In moments like these, one never knows what to do with themselves. I turned on the TV, I played a game of Uno with my grandma hoping it might pull me away from the reality I was facing. Inevitably, when the distractions faded, the truth came to the forefront .
And it hurt.
After calming myself down, I picked my phone back up — remembering this pain was not individual. I called a couple of my teammates.
We sat over the phone in shared mourning as we traveled in and out of the realization together. It came and went in waves.
I'm not a religious person, but I asked my Christian teammate, “What does God say?” desperately seeking answers. Now, to make myself feel better, I like to think that if there is a God, he looked down on earth, saw Kerry and said, “She’s a good one, I’ll take her.”
It was tough being so far away from everyone.
But I suppose that’s the nature of an international team, which represents 10 countries. There are extraordinary people from different corners of the world who have the pleasure of meeting each other. That’s how we met Kerry.
I am impressed by our captains who, tasked with an emotionally difficult job, gracefully delivered the news to us all one by one.
A couple of days later, we had a team Zoom call where we shared memories of Kerry. It was nice seeing everyone’s faces. I desperately wanted to be back together.
In the following weeks, I tossed and turned at night. Her face was there. I turned. Her face was still there. In my dreams I met her — maybe my brain was protecting me from the nightmare reality. There, I could walk up to her, and I was able to say goodbye.
All I want to do is say goodbye to her.
I am far from alone in this experience. My teammates have expressed this endlessly, too. We knew that although we weren’t able to say goodbye, she knew how infinitely loved she was by everyone. Even though nothing will ever provide solace, it eases the pain.
For the rest of the summer, it was hard to find tranquility. Any time I was able to forget, I felt guilty. I kept asking the question: “How is it that I can still go about enjoying my summer in this way, while knowing that someone who should be, cannot?”
We all felt this way. We worried about returning to campus, knowing we had to exist in the Orange Bubble without Kerry.
When we returned to Princeton, being able to embrace and support one another physically was relieving.
The first time we went down to the boathouse, we took time to reflect. The Class of 2027’s lockers had all been newly designated to the juniors’ side of the locker room.
My locker was next to Kerry’s.
It was filled with beautiful photos that the team had collected over the summer. This idea was thoughtful. It means we see her smiling face and feel her courage every day before embarking on a training session.
But during our first week back, none of us talked about what had happened. It was a gnawing feeling, an elephant in the room. I waited and waited for somebody to talk about Kerry.
Finally, the entire boathouse gathered on Sept. 9 in Mathey Common Room. We read and listened to letters and notes for Kerry. This was the first time I felt like we had given the situation the attention it deserved. It was cathartic.
After this, we didn’t stop talking about it. A space had been opened for anyone to share when they felt inclined.
Our group chat had come to life. When someone saw a turtle they sent a picture — “Saw Kerry on my run.” When someone repeatedly encountered the same baby deer, they shared their glimpse of Kerry. Another teammate told me they see her in the sunrise and sunsets.
During class, it was hard to concentrate. Every thought would trace back to what was missing: Kerry. I heard people say, “Hi, I am an Econ major.” I felt bad they’d never be able to study alongside Kerry. In one of my classes, the professor talked about the ‘Office.’ Kerry would have loved that class.
Her impact is immeasurable, her intelligence remarkable, and her calm, humble presence enduring. She appears in places and times you least expect. But it became very apparent that this was not the same reality for those around me. It felt like no one outside the team said anything about our loss to any of us.
Kerry was a part of our team. I thought that anyone who knew this would say something, anything, to show that they at least read the emails or saw the social media posts about her.
But to my surprise, and disappointment, no one said anything.
Despite the busyness of Princeton life, it’s important to recognize these sad happenings and pause to check on the people around you, even if you didn’t know the person yourself.
After seeing me struggle profoundly over the summer, my dad told me something I will never forget: “Grief never goes away, but its weight begins to spread out across time.”
Living out his message, I understand that I just need to give it time, return to a normalcy parallel to pre-July 26, and find a reality where I can live peacefully alongside post-July 26, with her in my heart.
Our team has become closer in this shared experience. After all, this was the type of thing you only ever hear about; you least expect it’ll happen to you. But it did. It happened to all of us. And it is all of our responsibility to carry her memory forward.
For Princeton rowing, talent is threaded throughout the entire team — and Kerry was exceptional. There is always the question of what could have been had she still been woven in the thread.
So we weave her in. She’s the thread through it all.
When we leave the locker room, we see her smiling face. When we pick up the oar, we remember her gentleness. When we get in the boat, we find her rhythm, her harmony. When we race, we race for her through every stroke. I know she will be there with us, in spirit, and in the form of a turtle watching silently on the edges of Lake Carnegie.
Devonne Piccaver is a junior on the women’s open rowing team.
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