Reflecting on the 2024 Solar Eclipse

By Faith Christian-Ferri, ’27, Communication and Media Studies, Honors Program

At around 3:00 p.m. on April 8th, the atmosphere of Post University’s Fleischer Circle was electric with anticipation as attendees gathered for the Great North American Eclipse watch party. Though Connecticut was not in the path of totality, students and faculty waited eagerly with eclipse glasses ready for the rare chance to witness a partial eclipse.  

The last American eclipse was seven years ago, in 2017. I missed it then, and was content to miss this one, too. I knew what an eclipse was, and what it looked like. I had seen pictures and videos already. If I could watch a total eclipse — the kind that makes the sky go dark and turns the moon into a giant, unblinking eye with an iris of heavenly light—I would be much more enthusiastic, but a partial eclipse didn’t seem like a particularly incredible sight. Still, I figured if the watch party was held right on campus, I might as well go. 

As soon as I stepped outside, the excitement in the air was palpable —and contagious. It was a little funny to see crowds of people grinning at the sky with their eyes hidden by silly-looking cardstock glasses. Of all the chatter coming from all directions, the phrases I caught most often were “Oh, my God,” and “Wow.” I wanted to see what they were seeing, so I awkwardly positioned a pair of eclipse glasses over my prescription lenses and craned my neck upwards.  

Then I understood. 

Maybe a better writer than I could describe that view in a way that would halfway do it justice, but I don’t think it’s possible to replicate an eclipse in any medium, because it’s not really about what you see with your eyes. All I saw was an orange crescent glowing against a pitch-black background. I could have Googled “partial eclipse” later and seen the exact same thing magnified in high definition. But you can’t capture that kind of feeling with a camera. 

When I stood in Fleischer Circle, facing the sun alongside dozens of other people —some I knew, most I didn’t —I felt completely and utterly human. I wasn’t weighed down by anxiety and self-consciousness. I wasn’t a college student with a hundred things to do and bills to pay and deadlines looming over my head. I was just a tiny human being of flesh and bone, faced with something far greater: the magnitude of the universe and the wonderous nature of existence. I thought, how lucky am I to be here, to be alive, to feel the cool air on my face and the ground under my feet and gaze at the great sun and moon as I have never seen them before?  

For a few moments, I was completely present, and overwhelmed with what could only be described as pure joy — unabashed, childlike joy. I laughed aloud and my voice melted with all the others around me, because I was only one of dozens in Fleischer Circle and millions in North America, and we were all experiencing the same extraordinary event together.