Let’s get something straight.
Losing a million dollars doesn’t happen the way you think it does. It doesn’t explode—it evaporates. One option trade at a time. One rationalization at a time. One quiet moment when you swear to yourself this is the last time. Until it isn’t.
It started in 2019. Back when I still believed the world had some kind of order to it. I dipped a toe into the stock market like a lot of people do. ETFs, indexes, you know—responsible stuff. I wasn’t looking for a thrill. I was looking for a future.
Then came 2020. The world shut down, and the screen lit up. And if you were even half awake and even a quarter online, you saw the revolution unfold on Reddit. Meme stocks. Diamond hands. A collective mania dressed up like populism. I clicked. I scrolled. I bought.
The first trade was electric. A name that rhymed with “Ped Pad Peyon.” You already know the one. The numbers didn’t just go up. They soared. I felt like I was plugged into the Matrix, like I’d hacked the source code of capitalism. And then, just as quickly, it all went to hell.
But here’s the thing no one tells you: the loss isn’t what gets you. It’s the bounce. It’s when the money comes back, just a little, and you start to believe. You tell yourself, “If I could make that once, I can do it again.” You don’t even realize that you’ve started chasing. You don’t even feel the leash wrapping around your throat.
By 2021, I wasn’t a person anymore—I was a terminal connected to the market. I didn’t eat unless I’d made a trade. I didn’t sleep unless I was dreaming of green candles. I sold my house. My car. Maxed out credit cards like they were just another ticker. I lied to my friends. To my family. To my wife of twelve years.
She left. Took the kids. Took the normalcy. The humanity.
The money? Yeah, I lost that too—$1,030,220.81. I’ve memorized that number like it’s a tattoo on my brain.
But the harder part to admit is what came after. Sleeping on benches. Sneaking into backyards to avoid the cold. Crying in ways that felt feral, not human. There’s a certain humiliation that comes when you realize you did this to yourself. That the monster you’ve been running from is the part of you that believed you were smarter than the system. That you could beat the house.
I could write a whole other essay about the shame. About the weird, bureaucratic coldness of losing everything in a digital world. You don’t see the money leave your hand—it just vanishes. You’re still clicking, still refreshing, still watching as your life disappears in a string of zeros and decimals.
And then: silence.
What I’ve learned since then is that rock bottom isn’t a place—it’s a frequency. And you live there for a while. Sometimes for years. Until one day, it gets quiet enough inside your head to hear a different voice. Not the gambler. Not the ego. Just something smaller, weaker maybe, but real: start over.
I did.
One-bedroom apartment. No car. No partner. Just a laptop, some ramen, and a slightly less delusional sense of self.
I’ve clawed my way back to $25k. Made $14k last week. I know—cue the dramatic irony, right? Here we go again. But I promise you, this isn’t the same story. Because this time, I’ve built something that’s more important than a winning trade: a fucking framework. For discipline. For control. For accountability.
I haven’t touched porn in months. That sounds weird to say out loud, but when you’re an addict, your brain is constantly looking for the next hit—any hit. I had to rewire what pleasure meant. Had to replace the dopamine loop with something else—like reading tape, analyzing gamma exposure, tracking open interest.
Will I make it back to $1 million? I don’t know. The point isn’t the number anymore. It’s whether I can hold the line—not in some Reddit-trending way, but in the mundane, brutal, daily sense. The part where you stop hiding behind jargon and memes and just face yourself in the mirror. Broken. But alive.
That’s where I am now.
And yeah, if you’re still reading, maybe follow along. Username’s @lost1million. Maybe you’ll see a guy crawl his way out. Or maybe you’ll watch another Icarus clip his own wings.
Either way, this time, I’m not lying to myself.
