Holding Afghan Home While Becoming Muslim Abroad

I converted three years after leaving Kabul, and some nights I wake up missing the small things more than the big ones. The way my aunt folded a chador into the corner of a closet, the clack of a crowded minibus on gravel as we went to the bazaar, the smell of cardamom tea at dawn. I try to bring those things into my new life, praying in a tiny living room rug while a kettle boils in the kitchen, saying dua for the faces on old photos. But I worry, quietly, about losing the language and the rhythms of home as I learn new rituals. How have others carried their home with them without feeling split in two?