They congratulated me but I mourned my songs

I was at a bus stop in Lahore when someone congratulated me on converting. Their smiles were warm, and I felt grateful, but as the sun set I realised something no one mentioned. I grieve the small, ordinary things I grew up loving. The cassette my uncle played at weddings, slow morning chai in my mother's kitchen at fajr, the lane lit by fairy lights on festival nights. I teach primary school and write about patience, so I notice tiny miracles, yet there is this quiet tug when a song or smell passes by. Becoming Muslim felt like finding home in prayer, but also leaving pieces of my old calendar. Has anyone else felt this ache? How did you hold both the gratitude and the grief?