A year ago, a good friend of mine returned from studying abroad, and as we made our way across campus to reach a classroom, every other student on the way deposited their mandatory welcome back, followed by an enthusiastic, "How was it?"

A year ago I watched this friend’s breath, a sharp intake, followed by the wheels in her head turning, how do I do this experience justice in under 30 seconds? A week ago I stepped into her shoes, facing the same questions, the same warmth sourcing from long forgotten hugs and genuine smiles. I noticed that the majority of the people who had studied abroad already refrained from asking me about my experience. These encounters were limited to warm smiles directed at the fact that I had made it back home safely.

What is it that makes the return so overwhelming? How does a much anticipated return suddenly come with jarring moments? How does familiarity start to feel so strange?

The adjustment period requires much patience, tenderness with oneself, and acceptance of transitioning back to a different reality. But why? When you go abroad, you’re faced with a world of unknown things, culture shock, and sometimes alienation. This can cause the return to be an anticipated event, because the desire for comfort usually lies in home.

However, when I asked around about this, April Jingco explained, “Adjusting to being home is much harder than adjusting to going abroad. You spend three or more months enthralled in an exciting new culture and a new place, and then you’re suddenly thrown back into your usual setting, which can be jarring at first. This transition isn’t necessarily a bad one, it’s just a very unusual feeling of adjusting to a place you thought you were already so familiar with, but now with the addition of knowing and seeing a whole new place, too.”

In my head, I started calling this the comparison factor, the fact that I now compare how people have changed in the time that I was gone, how I have changed in the past six months and most importantly, how life I lived in France differs from life in the United States.

So what’s the difference between the two places?

The biggest one is the language. Not only does my head now process words in a different language, it wants to continue to do this. And there is nothing wrong with that. However, it becomes difficult when you are no longer in an environment that supports this headspace. Surrounded by English and people who only want to hear English, my brain is now transitioning back to using a different tongue constantly, and there are slip-ups here and there (I still say "pardon" and "merci," naturally). But it’s of no help when people ogle at me, passing their judgements. I cannot count the number of eye rolls, or the number of people who’ve commented something along the lines of, "Oh, God, are you going to speak French all the time?" (Though I must include that in stark contrast to those people, there are also the ones who understand the transition and acknowledge that six months of a different surrounding result in a transition that takes time).

Again, not everyone reacts negatively, but as Christian Menendez puts it, “Everything in the Dominican was done so slow and sure it took a long time to actually accomplish anything there, but I think it was really good for my mental health. And then I’m not even back in the States yet, just trying to board a plane back, and people are so uptight and snippity trying to get on the plane the fastest. And I’m like, 'Wait we all have assigned seats! There’s no need for this!'"

So, you see, it’s not only the language that’s different, the lifestyle itself is unique to the one you’ve spent life familiarizing yourself with. And as a result, the people are very different too. When you’re making the transition between two very different places, the key is to be gentle with oneself, but also to surround yourself with gentleness.