One, in the trading room at 3 AM: 300,000 in loss orders stood like tombstones on the screen.
There are still crumbs from yesterday's chips stuck in the keyboard crevices, and my phone has popped up the credit card collection message for the 27th time. I stared at the 1200U balance on the screen, which was the last principal I gathered by maxing out three credit cards. Three days ago, I was liquidated on a certain MEME coin, and 300,000 in principal vanished into thin air. My wife took the child back to her parents' house, saying as she left, 'You can spend your life with your K-line.'
The wall still has the 'Wealth Freedom Plan' from half a year ago, which now looks like a joke. I suddenly remembered what my father said before he passed away: 'Don't touch those virtual things.' I slammed my fist on the table, the coffee cup smashed on the ground, and the shards splattered onto the warning slogan 'Explosive liquidation means delisting' — I wrote that when I first entered the market, and it now feels extremely ironic.
Two, the 1200U cutting experiment: dividing the principal into four parts of 'lifesaving money.' On the morning of the fourth day, I drew a cross section on my notebook:
300U as a scout: low-leverage trial and error, only doing trades that follow the trend.
300U holding the position: placing orders at support levels and waiting for rebounds, like a sniper waiting for prey.
300U catching the peak: only strike when emotions resonate, for example, when Twitter discussion volume surges by 500%.
300U as coffin money: absolutely do not move, even if the account goes to zero, I must keep the capital to turn things around.
The first trade was when BTC fell to 18,000 U. I placed a long order with 300U at 18,000, setting a stop-loss at 17,800 (losing 20U). The next day, when it rebounded to 18,500, I sold and made 50U. A friend shouted 'Increase the position' in the group, but I transferred the 50U profit to a stablecoin — this was the rule I set for myself: take out 10% of every profit for living expenses.
Three, the turning point on the 17th day: picking up the first bucket of gold during the spike.
On the 15th day, a certain DeFi coin suddenly plummeted by 30%. I stared at the on-chain data: a whale address bought 5 million U at 0.5U. At 1 AM, when the price fell to 0.45U, I used 300U to enter the market at the peak, setting a stop-loss at 0.43U. Half an hour later, the spike ended, and the price rebounded to 0.55U. I sold in two batches and made a profit of 60U.
That morning, I used the 110U I earned to buy a bowl of beef noodles. The owner asked, 'Why haven't you come recently, young man?' I pointed to my phone and said, 'I've been busy with serious matters.' As I walked out of the noodle shop, the sunlight shone on my face, and for the first time, I felt that the red on the candlestick chart was no longer dazzling — it turned out that 1200U could really turn things around, as long as I didn’t treat it as gambling capital.
Four, on the 45th day, the liquidation crisis: discipline saved my life.
On the 40th day, when the account rolled to 8500U, I was floating. A certain AI coin rose for three consecutive days, and the community was shouting 'hundred times coin.' I used 2000U to chase the peak funding, but the price plummeted by 40% that night. When the price fell to 8% below the cost line, my phone popped up a stop-loss reminder. I hesitated for 3 seconds — those 3 seconds felt like a century, but I finally clicked confirm.
Later I learned that the operator sold at the peak, and the retail investors who took over lost 70%. I looked at the remaining 6800U in my account, my back drenched in cold sweat — discipline is not a restraint, it's a lifesaver. That night I wrote in my notebook: 'If I chase high again, I will cut my hands off.'
Five, at dawn on the 91st day: When 32600U arrived, I sent a message to my wife.
On the 91st day, BTC broke through 28,000 U. I cleared all my long positions at 27,000, and my account froze at 32,600 U. Trembling, I sent a WeChat message to my wife: 'Come back, I’ve earned the money back.' Half an hour later, she came home with the child. Seeing the notebook on the table filled with trading records and insights, the last page read: '1200U is not money, it's an opportunity to become a person again.'
Now, two paintings hang on the wall of my trading room: the left is a screenshot of the 300,000 loss orders, and the right is the 1200U cutting diagram. Last month, the guy who laughed at me when I was liquidated came to borrow money; he had just lost 200,000 on a certain coin. I handed him the notebook and said: 'Look, true rolling over isn't all-in, it's treating every trade as if it's the last one.' The last three reminders for those who have suffered losses (written on the inside cover of the notebook):
Capital cutting method: divide funds into 4 parts, always leave one part as 'coffin money.'
2% stop-loss iron rule: if a single loss exceeds 2%, cut it no matter how optimistic you are.
Emotional thermometer: the crazier the community shouts orders, the more you need to reduce positions and sleep.
Yesterday, my son asked holding my notebook: 'Dad, what is this?' I stroked his head and said, 'This is the story of how Dad learned not to be greedy.' The sunlight outside was great, just like when I had beef noodles on the morning of the 17th day — it turns out that in the cryptocurrency world, it's never the bravest who survives, but the 'coward' who understands the awe of the market.
