People clap for my new faith, not my quiet losses

When I said the shahada, everyone from my teaching staff to my distant cousins hugged me and sent sweets. They called it brave, they called it blessed. Nobody sat me down and said, you will miss the sound of aunties singing at midnight, the marigold garlands at our house, the way the whole street used to gather for the festival fireworks. I feel so full in salah and so hollow when a familiar song plays on the bus and I start to cry. I did not expect to grieve the small rituals that shaped my childhood. Has anyone else felt this strange, tender ache? How did you hold it?