My name is Little Leek, not because I actually enjoy being cut, but because every time the market moves, I feel like this time it’s finally my turn to turn things around.

When I first got into crypto, I just wanted to make a little pocket money. Seeing other people post screenshots of their profits—doubling in three days, breaking even in ten, changing cars in a month—my heart itched with envy. So I took the money I had saved up and carefully bought my first position. Right after I bought, it rose 2%, and I was so excited it felt like I had discovered the key to wealth; then it fell 3%, and I started questioning life. Later I realized that the market’s best skill is to pour cold water on you just when you finally gain confidence, and then throw up a big bullish candle when you’re about to cut your losses.

I always say I only invest in value, but the first thing I do when I open the app is check the biggest gainers and losers. If a coin is rising fast, I think it must have a story; if it's dropping hard, I wonder whether it's been unfairly sold off. Someone in the group says, “It's about to take off,” and I'm afraid I'll miss out; someone else says, “It's going to zero,” and I'm afraid I'll get stuck holding it. My position isn't large, but my emotions feel like they're riding ten-times leverage.

The worst part isn't losing money—it's watching a coin I sold keep going up. When I sell, I usually tell myself: “Take the profits. Stick to the rules.” But as soon as it rises, I start replaying it all: “I should've held on yesterday.” “I should've waited a little longer.” “I should've bought more in the first place.” But if I actually buy back in, I'm afraid I'll be buying at the top. So I can only watch the candlesticks climb, like watching an ex thrive more and more—wishing them well out loud, while regretting everything inside.

When I'm stuck holding a losing position, I become especially attached. I meant to make a short-term trade, but as it kept falling, it turned into a long-term hold. I only meant to hold it for a few days, but then I started studying the project's white paper, ecosystem developments, and founder interviews, desperately trying to prove to myself that I wasn't stuck—I was “positioning for the future.” But deep down, I know the truth: I'm not steadfast; I just can't bear to admit I was wrong.

Sometimes I blame the market, thinking the whales are watching my position. Why does it drop as soon as I buy, and rise as soon as I sell? Eventually, I realized the market doesn't even know I exist. It won't rise because I hope it will, or fall because I'm afraid. What really gets to me isn't just the volatility—it's that I keep wanting one trade to solve all my anxieties: to make money fast, prove I'm smart, and win back everything I've lost.

But the market isn't a wishing well. It doesn't reward impulsiveness or sympathize with hesitation. There's risk behind every green candlestick, and every drop doesn't necessarily mean an opportunity. I'm slowly learning to admit that I don't know whether prices will rise or fall tomorrow, and I don't need to catch every move. Rather than chasing stories of people getting rich in someone else's account, I should first keep my hands in check, protect my principal, and not let my emotions place trades for me.

I'm a small-time retail investor, but I don't want to stay one forever. Maybe real growth isn't finally catching a coin that goes up a hundredfold, but still knowing why I'm buying, why I'm selling, and when I should step away—even in a noisy market.