Never Stop Walking: A Memoir of Finding Home Across the World

by Christina Rickardsson

I have carried with me my memory of the slingshot, the bird, and playing Indians as a sort of proof that it’s important to be aware of your goals, strengths, and rewards.

“I don’t think so, honey, but if God did, what would you want to talk to God about?” “I would ask why some kids are white, some are brown, and some are black. I mean, there are so many other colors, so why not make green kids or red kids?”

At the same time, I can’t help but think of all the girls and women who have been and are being exploited and who don’t have anyone to show them the way. Living with what happened hasn’t been pain-free, but I have had love to counterbalance the evil. What happens if you only have the evil to bear?

What would home be for me in Brazil? The cave? The favela? The streets? The orphanage? I’m quite certain that the folks at the orphanage no longer think I belong there. My home, right now anyway, is in Sweden. Who knows, maybe in ten years my home will be in the US or Australia or Norway. My home is where I’m happy, where I feel safe, where my friends and family are. My home is where I work and where I feel at home.

While she bought the ugly tomatoes, I tried to understand why all the tomatoes needed to end up in the stew. The pretty tomatoes would surely be bought by rich, white people whereas Mamãe and I, who didn’t have enough money, would have to settle for the bad ones. It was always like that.

When you know that no one cares, the tears are all you have. You need them to be able to go on, to be able to feel hope, because they relieve the pressure.

She was a year older than I was. Of course, I thought, the princess bed belonged to a white girl.

It’s not where you come from; it’s where you belong that matters. And it’s OK to feel like you belong in more than one place.

Accept that a relationship is only a loan, and when it’s not there anymore, you should rejoice at having had the honor of having it at all, of receiving so much without needing to give.

Maybe mostly because of Patrick. Those two had a strong bond. Anyone who claims that blood is thicker than water, that the ties in a family who share the same genes are stronger, does not understand how love works.

Two normal women and a girl have made all the difference in my life. I think that we often underestimate the significance we have to others.

my biological mother when I was lost and alone at the orphanage. Nothing can beat the way I felt when my adoptive mother gave me Helen Exley’s book To a Very Special Daughter or

I can honestly tell you that I don’t think I could have handled coming to a new country and not feeling welcome. I wish we could all stop for a second and ask ourselves: What are we doing for these children and these people? What can we do? How would we want to be treated if this happened to us?