Still stumbling over the Arabic in my salah

I reverted last year and most mornings I walk to the small mosque near my flat in Bursa, cane in hand, tea mug still warm in my coat pocket. The imam's recitation is smooth like the old radio in my classroom, and I sit there with the prayer mat creases visible, my lips hesitating on words that feel foreign. I find myself slipping to the back row or praying at home because I am ashamed to pray next to people who grew up with this language. I want to be part of the congregation, but the embarrassment knots my throat. How do you live with that small, aching awkwardness?