There was a time when I was obsessed with winning.
I want to win quickly. Win big.
Win to the point where people have to look and think:
"Oh, this guy can play."
Until the market decides to be generous.
It gave me a slap hard enough.
And I woke up.
Realizing that winning quickly is not the ultimate goal.
Surviving – that is what matters more than anything.
It's not about the kind of survival where 'as long as I'm breathing, it's fine.'
But it's about keeping a bit of clarity,
being alert enough not to turn a loss into a reason for the nervous system... to strike indefinitely.
The market – or broader life – doesn't exclude me because I'm stupid.
It excludes me because I'm greedy.
Because I'm overly confident.
Because I used to stubbornly believe that:
"I can't be wrong."
I realized:
To survive in the long run, I don't need to become a genius.
I just need to not self-destruct while trying to appear to be a genius.
There's an image that keeps repeating in my mind –
I learned it from the investors I truly admire:
"This journey is long.
Don't drive fast enough to burn the engine.
Don't be reckless enough to flip the car.
Just keep myself on the road.
Slow is fine too.
As long as I don't plunge into the abyss like that hasty crowd.
Actually, I don't really know where my limits are.
But I'm gradually understanding:
Correct positioning is not about finding the optimal strategy.
It's about avoiding strategies that couldkill you the moment you try.
I never thought of myself as the most resilient person.
But every time I stand up after a painful fall –
while still keeping faith in myself –
I see that I've evolved in a way that profit charts... can't measure.
And perhaps, that's how I'm learning to play for the long term –
A journey where the goal is not just tomake money
but tonot lose myself.