I just returned home from six months abroad. It was a whirlwind of an experience, and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but I can't help but dread when people ask me about it.

I know I can't expect anything different from my friends and family who have been anxiously awaiting my return, no doubt expecting story after story and photos upon photos, and I am so glad to have them interested in my experience. I went on this journey hoping to learn more about myself and the world full of people we live with, so it's only natural that I should come back ready to share my story. It's only natural that as a writer, I would want to tell everyone about everything I saw and felt, and that I'd be able to do it with some grace and decorum -- doing justice by the amazing sights and people I met.

But somehow, when people ask me how it was, or where my favorite place was, or what was the best part, or what I remember most, all my six months of intense growth and learning and life-altering experiences are reduced to three words:

"It was great!"

Somehow, even in writing, I'm unable to really explain what it felt like to figure out train schedule after train schedule, how humiliating it was to miss a flight while sitting next to our gate, how fascinating it was to get around without speaking the language, how incredible it was to finally feel like I wasn't afraid of getting lost, or how humbling it was to realize that there are so many things in the world that I'll never get to know.

They always say that we're supposed to "show not tell," but there's so much more to traveling abroad than can ever be communicated in pictures alone, and I'd have to start now on my memoir if I wanted to try and "show" everyone what it was like to be there, living it. Don't get me wrong, I would do it. I wish that I could figure out how to give everyone a real answer when they asked me what it was like. I wish that I could figure out the right sentence to capture how I really feel about the last six months of my life, and most of all, I wish I could tell them how much it meant to me just to be able to go and see as much of the world as I did.

But instead, I've found that it comes out in bits and pieces over time. Someone will comment on my fork-in-left-hand, knife-in-right eating style and I'll explain that I just sort of picked it up after watching everyone else eat that way. We'll be talking about how crowded it is somewhere, and I'll recall all the times in the Paris metro when strangers were breathing on me and I could barely stand it. I'll remember random anecdotes about friends in Sweden or a funny story from Spain, and eventually it will all be heard.

That said, it's still tough to explain why I can't seem to "Tell us all about it!" at every opportunity. I love talking about my time abroad, because it was so important to me, and it's obviously been a large factor in shaping who I'm becoming (fork and knife habits aside). You'll just have to bear with me -- and all of us college-age world travelers who are trying to adjust to being back home again -- when I tell you how "great" it was. The details and stories will come, just as naturally as they happened.