The Sunset Effect

Why the Sunset Club Became My Unexpected Remedy for College Stress

by Cheryl Brown

As days bled into weeks, I began to suspect my roommate had gone mad. Faith Kreps, an honors student juggling a packed schedule, seems to thrive under pressure. But on certain evenings, as the sun sinks below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the sky, she bursts out of our cramped dorm room with an infectious energy that borders on manic. I can’t resist teasing her whenever she darts out the door.

“Off to your cult meeting?” I’ll call after her, a grin tugging at my lips. She always shoots me a mock glare, pretending to be scandalized.

“Stop making defamatory remarks about my Sunset Club!” she’ll retort, her laughter echoing in the hallway. And just like that, she’ll be gone, leaving me alone with my homework, the quiet of our room settling around me like a heavy blanket.

At first, I couldn’t help but view her enthusiasm with skepticism. Why would someone so busy waste time on what seemed like a frivolous activity? But as I learned more about the Sunset Club here at the University of Iowa, it became clear it is much more than just a quirky distraction. 

Founded during the COVID-19 pandemic, it boasts over 700 members in the club’s group chat. Each day, they gather at the Old Capitol steps to watch the sunset together and snap photos. As the day winds down, club president Andrew Kovar makes his rounds, asking members to rate the sunset and share their thoughts.

Curiosity gnawed at me, and I decided I had to go to one of these meetings to see it for myself. But I didn’t want to go alone, so I dragged my friend Aden Niebuhr along. Aden, an honors student like Faith, was even more skeptical than I was.

“So they just… sit and watch?” Aden asked, giving me a look that told me they already had their answer. I could see their confusion.

In college, where most students race from one responsibility to the next, the idea of setting aside time to just sit still seemed strange. Nevertheless, after some serious prodding, Aden finally agreed to join me for an evening.

Armed with my curiosity and Aden’s reluctant company, we showed up on the Old Capitol steps one evening just before sunset. A group of a dozen students was already there, spread out on the front balcony or leaning back on the steps, all facing the sky.

Phones were absent; there was no small talk or noise — only the soft shuffle of people getting settled. Aden and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes: We were both feeling wildly out of place. 

I tried not to fidget as we sat down on the bench, shifting my weight from one hip to the other, then adjusting my hands in my lap, unsure what to do with them. My mind raced through a million things I could have been doing instead.

I kept sneaking glances at the other club members who sat calmly, heads lifted toward the sky, as though they were waiting for something magical. I felt silly for being so restless — this was just the sky, after all. But as the light started to shift …

… the colors in the sky melted from bright orange to deep pink, slowly deepening into shades of purple and blue. I felt my muscles relax a bit. It’s not that my mind stopped altogether, but somehow my usual worries seemed to settle, slipping into the background as I watched the colors blend. I was just … there. In that moment. And nothing more.

As it got darker, the faint glow of screens flickered to life around us. One by one, club members whipped their phones from their pockets and bags, their faces glowing as they snapped photos to preserve the sunset’s beauty for later.

After a while, I peeked at Aden, expecting to see them eyeing their watch. Instead, Aden was sitting still, their gaze fixed on the fading light. Finally, as the last sliver of sun sank below the horizon, Aden looked over at me and nodded.  

“That was … nice,” Aden admitted, almost reluctantly. “I don’t know if I’d come every week, but I get it.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. Watching the sunset, without the rush of deadlines or assignments, was a little like hitting a reset button I didn’t realize I’d needed. It felt freeing, like stepping back from the constant hustle to just breathe for a moment. Just then, Kovar approached us with a big smile. 

“Hey there! What did you think of the sunset?” he asked, his enthusiasm contagious. “On a scale of one to 10, how would you rate it?”

Both Aden and I exchanged glances, feeling a mix of amusement and sincerity in the moment. 

“I’d give it an eight!” I chirped, and Aden nodded in agreement. As Kovar beamed at us, I couldn’t help but think maybe I had been a little too quick to judge this club. 

Reflecting on Faith, I finally understood why she returned to this club night after night. For her — and maybe now for me — it was a way to stop moving so fast, to let life slow down for just a bit.

Later that week, I spoke with Dr. Shaun Vecera, the director of the UI Honors Program, and he explained why that pause could be so meaningful for students.

“I suspect honors students often create stress for themselves,” he said. “Having high expectations can keep you motivated, but you have to be careful with them, or they’ll burn you out.”

As an honors student, the constant pressure to stay ahead and juggle assignments had become second nature. The weight of responsibilities was always on my shoulders. But that evening at the Sunset Club, watching the colors melt across the sky, I felt something different. For the first time in a long while, it was OK to just exist without the need to produce or achieve.

In the softening light, I realized how rarely I allowed myself the luxury of simply being.

“Everybody knows they need to eat right and exercise,” Vecera continued. “But when it’s abstract like that, it’s easy to push it aside in favor of something that feels more pressing.”

Before joining Aden at the club, I had dismissed sunset-watching as unnecessary — a waste of precious time. Watching the horizon shift and settle, however, made me realize it was something much deeper: a chance to reconnect with something real and beautiful, beyond the never-ending cycle of assignments.

I used to joke with Faith that the Sunset Club felt like a cult, yet after that evening, I had to admit that maybe, just maybe, she was onto something. Either that, or I’d been successfully indoctrinated into the cult of sunset appreciation.