A story about time, dignity, and encounters in a society that has lost its grip
Homelessness in Sweden has been growing for a long time. It has become a statistic, a line in a report, something that slips past between the weather forecast and sports. But behind every number there is a life. A face. A situation that slowly unraveled—often without drama, without headlines—just through a series of small shifts where nothing held anymore.
For several years, I helped with food distribution during Christmas and New Year through Johannes Church in Gothenburg. I didn’t do it to be seen, not to save anyone, not to feel virtuous. I was there to help. To carry bags. Serve food. Pour coffee. Clear tables. To be present.
What makes this story important is the context of where I was in my own life at that time. Because while I met people who lacked the most basic necessities, I myself was living a life that was simple—but secure. Stripped down, yet stable. A life in motion, with direction.
Scotland – responsibility that never went ashore
I had just returned from Scotland.
For a long period, I had been working onboard as a cook. Preparing breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Making sure the crew functioned. At sea, there are no shortcuts. People have to eat. Bodies have to work. Without food, everything stops.
The crew consisted mostly of South Americans, many from Panama. They were far from home. Their families were on the other side of the Atlantic. Children growing up without them for long stretches of time. Parents staying connected through brief calls—and money sent home.
There was a lot of talk about money onboard—but not the way we often talk about it in Europe. It wasn’t about consumption, status, or career progression. It was about transfers. Fees. Exchange rates. How to send home what you earned so your family could eat.
“This is for food.”
“This is for school fees.”
“This is for medicine.”
Money was never abstract. It already had a face.
As a cook, it became clear how central food was—not just as nourishment, but as safety. Structure. A fixed point in a life where much else was uncertain. Meals became anchors. Something that held everyday life together.
I carried that sense of responsibility with me when I came home.
Living onboard – preparation, not escape
At the same time, I was living onboard my own boat.
Not because I was homeless.
Not because I lacked options.
But because I was preparing.
I was on my way out of Sweden. Sailing was the goal. Life onboard was the training. Not just technically, but mentally. Living with limited space. Taking responsibility for heat, water, and food. Understanding rhythm, weather, and patience. Being self-reliant.
Life onboard stripped everything down to the essentials.
And it’s important to be clear about this:
I had it good.
I had food.
I had warmth.
I had a roof over my head.
I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t unsafe. On the contrary—there was stability. A daily life that was simple, but calm. Controlled. Conscious.
That’s why I could give.
Stepping ashore – by choice
When I stepped ashore to help at Johannes Church, it wasn’t because I needed help myself. I did it because I could.
I could have stayed onboard. Closed the hatch. Let the winter darkness pass in silence. No one would have questioned it. No one would have demanded more of me.
But I chose to step ashore.
Not because I had to.
But because I could.
The encounter in the church
Johannes Church during Christmas and New Year was warm—not just physically, but humanly. It was simple. Soup, coffee, bread. Nothing remarkable. But for many, it was the only real meal of the day. Sometimes of the week.
What I encountered was not the stereotypical image of homelessness.
I met ordinary people.
Pensioners.
Former skilled workers.
Women who had left relationships that broke them down.
Men who had worked all their lives and suddenly become surplus.
Most didn’t take up space. Many apologized.
“There’s probably someone who needs this more than I do.”
That sentence carried more weight than any report.
The conversation at the table
I especially remember one conversation at a table.
It was quiet. Matter-of-fact. Almost technical. Like a conversation between people sharing experience.
They were talking about shoes.
Which shoes handled the cold best. Which soles insulated against the ground. Whether several thin socks were better than one thick one. Someone mentioned that certain shoes worked well at first—but became dangerous once they got damp.
Then the conversation moved on.
About walking at night.
About staying in motion when the cold bit.
About finding a place to sleep during the day—when it was safer.
Not more comfortable.
Safer.
It was methodical. Experience-based. Not colored by complaint. It was knowledge—knowledge learned when options have run out.
I sat there with warm food in front of me, in a heated room, listening to a conversation about how to avoid freezing to death.
When perspective shifts
I had just worked onboard with men who counted every coin so their families back in Panama could eat. Now I was sitting in a room where people counted steps, temperatures, and hours in order to survive themselves.
That’s when something truly sank in.
How quickly life can slide from responsibility and direction into pure survival.
How thin the protection really is.
How close these worlds are—despite rarely meeting.
The conversation wasn’t about dreams.
Not about the future.
Not about plans.
It was about getting through the next night.
And no one at the table found that strange. It was simply their reality.
Shame – the heaviest burden
It struck me that hunger and cold weren’t the worst things. Shame was. The feeling of no longer counting. Of being a problem.
In a society where everything is measured in speed, performance, and efficiency, those who fall outside are quickly reduced to cases. Lines in a system. People who have “fallen between the cracks.”
But once you’re there, there’s often no chair left.
Time – the most valuable thing I had
I didn’t give money.
I didn’t give solutions.
I didn’t give promises.
I gave my time.
When you live onboard with a clear goal ahead of you, time becomes concrete. Every day matters. Every decision shapes direction. Giving hours—sometimes entire days—right in the middle of that preparation was the most valuable thing I could offer.
Time can’t be stored.
It can’t be replaced.
When you give time, you share the same room, the same air, the same moment. There is no distance left.
A strange equality
There was also a kind of equality in those encounters.
I came from my boat—warm, fed, and safe.
They came to get food, warmth, and a moment of rest.
The difference wasn’t human value.
The difference was circumstances.
And sometimes the distance was frighteningly small.
Two movements at once
There was a paradox during that period.
At the same time that I was in motion—moving forward, preparing to leave—I met people who were standing still. Locked into a system that no longer saw them.
I had a next step.
Many of them had none.
That made the encounters honest. Not sentimental. Just human.
Another chapter
That I later ended up on dry land in Bulgaria is another story. Another chapter.
It doesn’t change what happened then.
What I did during that time wasn’t a result of where I ended up later—but of who I already was.
Continuing to give
When I say that I want to continue giving whenever the opportunity exists, I don’t mean money or large projects.
I mean showing up.
Staying.
Giving time—even when it’s inconvenient.
Because I know what it means.
I’ve seen how little it takes to create warmth in a cold system. How much it means when someone says:
“Hi. Here you go. Would you like more?”
I had it good onboard.
I was standing on solid ground.
And that’s exactly why I could give.
By Chris...
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