Early in my investing life, I bought a biotechnology stock called Amarin. It was my first truly big trade. I had put real money on the line, more than I had ever risked before. There was no plan. In the end, I still made a profit. My father would have given me a very unhappy look for being so “careless.” I have to admit, I thought I had found the promised land.
I took that win as validation. Maybe I had, for a time, discovered a winning stock on my own. That early success was exactly what I didn’t need: overconfidence. Even if I had been right on the analysis, I still had a bigger problem: myself.
As a nurse with a background in science, I believed I had found my edge in biotechnology. I did real research. I read studies. I followed regulatory developments. I convinced myself that with enough work, I could consistently identify winners. I had what I thought was a sophisticated plan: trust my research and hope I exited at the right time — a decision ultimately guided by my gut.
Those early years were instructive. I often had the right ideas. I just didn’t have the experience to execute them. I was confident and hesitant at the same time — convinced I was smart enough to succeed, and lacking the perspective to commit.
That contradiction defined my investing for years.
So I did what I always did: I doubled down and dug deeper. I told myself I just needed more information.
As I learned more about markets, I became more active. I studied options, volatility, portfolio construction, and macroeconomics. I followed analysts and forums. I read books. I watched hours of financial content. When I lost money, I told myself I was “paying tuition” — that losses were simply the cost of education.
That growing knowledge gave me the illusion of progress. In reality, I was slowly bleeding capital while becoming more confident.
I had enough information to construct complicated strategies, but not enough wisdom to recognize how vulnerable they were. My ability to make clear, fact-based decisions gradually eroded under the weight of too many tools and too many opinions.
Eventually, my head was spinning. Every few months seemed to bring a new “proven” method. Momentum trading. Macro timing. Sector rotation. In practice, each had limits that only became visible under different conditions. Together, they created paralysis.
Then life intervened.
I developed serious health issues. Around the same time, my father passed away. Grief, fatigue, and stress quietly reshaped how I thought. I was still investing, but I was no longer thinking clearly. I had never considered how deeply emotions and stress affect financial decisions.
In hindsight, it seems obvious. A distracted mind cannot manage risk. A tired mind cannot evaluate probabilities. An anxious mind cannot tolerate uncertainty.
But no one teaches that.
That period forced me to stop. Not strategically — emotionally. I stepped back and reassessed not just my portfolio, but my relationship with risk.
Over time, I rebuilt my approach. I stopped trying to outsmart markets and started designing around uncertainty. I centered my portfolio on companies I’m comfortable owning, focused on income and durability, and followed rules and predetermined decision points instead of impulses.
The change was gradual, but unmistakable. My results stabilized. More importantly, my thinking did.
Today, I no longer consider myself a trader.
My decisions are guided by structure rather than moods or headlines.
I’m not trying to predict markets. I’m trying to reduce the number of ways I can hurt myself. In medicine, we’re taught to “first, do no harm.” I’ve learned that rule applies to investing as well.
This approach isn’t exciting. It doesn’t produce screenshots worth sharing online. It doesn’t make anyone look brilliant in bull markets.
It works.
More importantly, it works when I’m tired. When I’m distracted. When life is complicated. When I’m wrong.
After years of quietly resisting that truth, I finally recognized it.
I once thought my father was too cautious. In reality, he was disciplined and patient, avoided unnecessary risks, and preferred steady progress over dramatic wins.
He had simply understood something I didn’t: time matters more than cleverness.
He built wealth quietly, through consistency and patience. His life was never centered on financial spectacle. It was built on showing up, making reasonable decisions, and letting years do their work. In the process, he created stability for himself — and now for me.
Only after I had learned to invest that way myself did I understand how rare — and how powerful — that level of patience and consistency really is.
Retail investing culture celebrates speed, boldness, and constant activity. It rewards people who look confident, even when they are guessing. It rarely highlights the quiet power of restraint.
I no longer try to be clever or bold, and I no longer try to beat the market. I’ve built something that can survive uncertainty. And I have my father’s life as proof that it works.
