001 The Lie We Learned to Survive
Before we talk strategy…
Before I teach you how to see liquidity before it forms…
Before we sharpen your entries and harden your psychology
You need to see where all this started.
Because none of this is random.
This isn’t just a trading system.
It’s a survival mechanism built by a kid who had to calculate fear before he ever calculated risk.
A boy who had to learn how to read silence like price action.
A boy who got punished for telling the truth.
This chapter isn’t a story for sympathy.
It’s the context for every trigger I had to unlearn just to survive the charts.
And if you’ve ever over-leveraged, closed early, or chased the market after being betrayed…
Then this isn’t just my story. It’s yours.
So before I teach you how to master the game…
You need to see how I almost lost myself in it.
This is where Zero was born.
Not in the charts.
But on a cold highway in Tennessee—
With a trophy in my lap, and a fist in my face.
What you’re about to read isn’t fiction.
It’s the moment I stopped being a son…
And became something else.
The penthouse smelled like leather and lost time—the echo of soft Lofi Jazz still lingering from speakers hidden in the walls, and the distant hum of the AC whispering through the vents like ghosts pacing the hall air thick with the scent of aged whiskey, expensive cigars, though neither had been touched tonight.
Outside, rain tapped against the towering windows of the 55th floor, soft but steady, like the world was whispering a warning I already knew. From here, you could see the entire financial district of Manhattan—Wall Street glowing beneath the clouds, the skyline pulsing with wealth, ambition, and something far darker: silence.
The charts flickered on my screen. NASDAQ was forming a pattern I knew too well. A perfect setup—clean, aggressive, undeniable. I had just cleared $235,000 on a single trade. My biggest to date. But tonight, none of it mattered.
Because tonight, I realized something deeper:
I had no one to call.
No one to celebrate with.
No one to tell that I had just made six figures in a single session.
Six figures. And still... all I felt was nothing.
The glow of the monitors cast long shadows across the Italian marble floors. The room—sprawling over 5,000 square feet of handcrafted perfection—felt colder than the storm outside. Open floor plan, glass walls, rare sculpture in the corner, and the smell of exclusivity embedded in every finish.
And yet it all felt like a museum of failure.
On the walls hung modern art that cost more than most people’s annual salary. On the shelves, luxury watches sat like trophies—each one polished, untouched, absurd in their detail:
An Audemars Piguet Royal Oak in rose gold
A Frosted Skeleton AP, too expensive to wear
A Rolex Datejust with a frost blue dial that had never seen daylight
Nearby, keys to a Diamond White GLE63S, a Polar White McLaren 765LT, and a matte-black Cullinan rested like medals on a tray, each representing a milestone I was supposed to be proud of.
But they were just symbols.
Symbols of time traded for silence. Symbols of value without meaning.
Trophies—just like the hundreds of BMX medals, plaques and trophies I won as a kid. Back then, it was a symbol of everything I was supposed to become. And soon, you'd see why that story mattered. The podium, the applause, the spotlight—it all fades when what waits at home is darker than anything under stadium lights.. Back then, the applause faded before I even stepped off the podium. And now?
It faded even faster.
I leaned back in my custom leather chair, a $12,000 waste of posture correction, and stared at the untouched glass of whiskey on my polished oak desk.
The kind of glass you pour to feel something. The kind you leave untouched when you already feel too much.
The penthouse was filled with luxury—but empty in every way that mattered.
Outside, Manhattan buzzed with nightlife—yachts docking along the Hudson River, lounges full of laughter, Uber Blacks weaving through traffic with fresh cologne and insecurity—but up here, all I could hear was the rain.
Not the kind that relaxes you. The kind that reminds you you’re alone.
Zero.
That’s who I had become.
Not legally. Not officially. But spiritually.
The man I used to be died somewhere between the heartbreak and the millions—between the smiles I faked and the truths I buried.
They say wealth gives you freedom. But what they never tell you is that freedom is just a mirror. And if you haven’t faced your reflection yet, it becomes a prison.
I stood up, every muscle aching from the weight of silence, and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling glass.
From here, the city looked like a circuit board—brilliant, connected, alive. But I couldn’t feel any of it.
I didn’t even see the beauty anymore. Just light. Just noise.
Just more of everything I’d tried to earn my way out of.
Zero doesn’t have a past. Zero doesn’t have a future.
Just the charts.
Just the trade.
Just the game.
Just the void I learned to live inside.
And that’s all I had left.
But that feeling tonight—that emptiness—didn’t start here.
It didn’t start with the penthouse. Or the trades. Or the silence that surrounds me now.
It started a long time ago.
On a very different Sunday.
The last day of a race weekend in Tennessee.
My birthday weekend.
That was the day I stopped being a kid the day innocence cracked and something colder stepped in to take its place. What followed wasn’t just a bad memory, it was a line in the sand. The kind of day you never walk back from, and started becoming the man who would one day be called Zero.
The US Open Invitational
It was Thanksgiving weekend.
My eleventh birthday.
We were in Morristown, Tennessee, for the US Open Invitational—a brutal, three-day BMX event where every race felt like war. Thousands of people had flooded into the arena from every corner of the country. Racers, families, team managers, brand sponsors. Dozens of racing teams had rolled in with massive haulers and semi-truck-sized trailers wrapped in chrome logos. There were ESPN cameras setting up for broadcast. International pros walking the track, signing autographs. The place felt like the Super Bowl of BMX.
And I was in the middle of it.
The weekend was already going well. I’d won every race on Friday and Saturday. I’d spent the days between heats blowing off steam with my teammates—joking, stretching, spinning laps around the infield while our team managers kept us on schedule and reminded us of our media obligations. I even hosted a rider clinic on Friday at our team trailer, showing younger racers how to approach the pro section. I was giving interviews. Signing jerseys. Smiling for photos I’d later see in ads and BMX magazines.
To the public, I was living every kid’s dream.
But in private, it felt like I was living on a ticking clock.
Sunday’s final race wasn’t just another win I needed to grab—it was the last step before locking in my national championship slot for the Grand Nationals in Louisville, Kentucky, coming up that August. I knew what was at stake. Everyone did.
And yet, none of the pressure from the track compared to what I was feeling at the hotel.
Because while I had the weight of a national title on my back… I also had the eyes of my father locked on me.
And I knew, no matter how well the weekend had gone—no matter the trophies, the coverage, the expectations I was exceeding—it could all be undone by a single moment.
For most kids, birthdays meant celebration. Balloons. Cake. Family.
For me, they meant walking on eggshells.
A quiet tension.
A sense that something—anything—could go wrong.
And it usually did.
The Hotel Checkout
That morning started like any other race day—early, tired, mechanical. But underneath the surface, something felt off. The kind of off you can’t explain, only feel. Like the air itself knew something I didn’t.
We were staying in a run-down hotel off the highway. The kind of place where the carpets held secrets and the neon sign buzzed all night like it was warning you to leave. I barely slept. Not because of nerves about the race—but because I could sense a storm building. Not outside. Inside.
My body was exhausted, but my mind never shut down. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, visualizing the track, the jumps, the crowd, trying to force focus—but all I could feel was a shadow hanging in the background. A weight I couldn’t shake.
The morning light creeping through the dusty blinds did little to clear the tension. I moved in a trance, like I’d rehearsed this routine a thousand times. Pack the gear. Double check the tools. Load the truck.
Every move was mechanical—but the anticipation wasn’t about the race. It was about surviving the day without triggering the inevitable.
As we stood at the front desk to check out, I caught a glimpse of myself in the fingerprint-smeared lobby mirror. Full Redline Racing kit. Troy Lee Designs jersey crisp and clean. Helmet tucked under one arm. Eleven years old with sponsors most grown athletes would kill for.
But none of that mattered.
Because that’s when his phone rang.
I heard her voice through the speaker—sharp, biting, frantic. My mother.
I couldn’t make out the words, but I didn’t have to.
His grip on the phone tightened. His eyes narrowed. A muscle in his jaw started to twitch. His silence said more than anything she could’ve possibly told him.
Then he turned to me.
And that look—cold, locked in, calculating—told me everything I needed to know.
Something had been said. Something he didn’t like.
And whatever it was… it had my name all over it.
And I knew.
Whatever she told him—whatever secret she revealed—
it had everything to do with me.
The Race
The truck ride to the track was silent. Tense. The hum of the tires over gravel sounded like a slow countdown to something I couldn’t stop.
Every bump in the road felt like a timer ticking down.
But when we pulled into the lot, I had to switch everything off and compartmentalize—because survival wasn’t optional.
The dirt was damp from morning fog. Riders were already lining up, adjusting helmets, shaking out nerves.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t think.
I locked in.
BMX wasn’t just a sport. It was therapy. It was rebellion. It was the only place where I didn’t feel like someone’s punching bag. Where I didn’t feel like a mistake. Where I could just be... motion.
And finally, my race was up next. At the top of the hill, on the starting line, I prepared myself with a deep exhale as I looked around the indoor arena, shaking off the jitters and getting in the zone as I lined up my bike at the starting gate.
At last I was in my zone. Total silence.
The track official flipped the switch activating the race sequence that blared in my head:
“Hey riders, Set’em up. Riders ready, watch the gate.”
Then—four quick beeps. Lights flashed: red, yellow, yellow, green—
BANG!
The gate dropped.
Explode! Pedal! Lean! Cut inside.
Every turn, every jump—automatic. Instinctual.
I attacked the rhythm section like it was personal. My legs pumping, bike gliding over rollers, tires gripping dirt with precision.
And then came the pro section…
The graveyard of most 11 year-olds' momentum. The one no one touched in my age group. But I did.
It was a steep double followed by a gap into a triple that demanded perfect timing, explosive power, and absolute commitment. The pro section was no joke—designed specifically for elite professional riders and treated as a separate battleground altogether. It wasn’t part of the standard course. It featured entirely different straightaways with larger, more complex jump structures, including berm jumps—where the takeoff or landing used the back half of a turn as a launch ramp. If you didn’t complete the section cleanly, you’d lose all momentum. Your race would be over. The jumps were treated as hazards, not just obstacles.
At eleven years old, in the 11 Expert class, I wasn’t obligated to ride the pro section at all. Most kids wouldn’t even consider it. But for me, it had become part of the spectacle. You see I had always been a risk taker, I was willing to put it all on the line if it meant that I’d have an advantage over my peers. People came to see if I’d go for it. Sponsors expected it. I expected it. And I delivered.
Most riders avoided it out of fear, lack of confidence, lack of commitment.
But not me.
I hit it clean. Every inch of the approach calculated in my head before I even got there. Front tire lifted, body shifted, and I launched—airborne through the pro line like it was built for me.
Spectators gasped. Coaches leaned forward.
I landed smooth, my rear wheel touching down just behind the front, maintaining all my speed through the next turn.
By the final berm, I was untouchable.
Coming out of the last corner, I emptied the tank pedals spinning like turbines.
First place.
And yet, the applause didn’t reach me.
After the Race
I stepped off the podium with the trophy in my hand. It felt heavier than it should’ve—as if it knew what was coming.
To the outside world, I was a prodigy. A rising star. Factory-sponsored by the legendary Factory Redline Racing BMX Team and Troy Lee Designs. Decked out in full Troy Lee Designs gear, helmet custom-painted, jersey stitched with my name. My face was in magazines, my interviews aired on ESPN, and sometimes I even signed jerseys for kids who looked at me like I was something more than just eleven.
At an age when most kids were playing for fun, I was racing for a future. This wasn’t a hobby, it was a job. And every race was an audition for the next stage of my life.
The pressure wasn’t invisible. It was heavy. National expectations, brand contracts, interviews, it became normal. And hitting the pro section wasn’t just a flex anymore. It was a requirement. People came to watch me do it. And deep down, I started believing I had no choice. You see the expectation got so great that the pressure to put on a show and win became greater than I could have ever imagined, what started out as taking a risk now became a hard standard and expectation.
So I stood there with the trophy in my hand, cameras flashing, voices cheering, but it all felt scripted.
Because the truth was, the win didn’t matter.
Not with what was waiting for me in the truck.
Parents clapped. Cameras flashed. Riders high-fived. Coaches nodded in approval. But it all blurred together.
I packed my gear, helmet, gloves, pads, shoes—methodically. Silently. Moving automatically, like muscle memory.
Because while the other kids were celebrating, I was calculating.
I wasn’t thinking about nationals. I wasn’t thinking about the win.
I was thinking about the hotel. The phone call. The stare.
The way his eyes locked onto mine like a loaded weapon.
Something was coming. I could feel it in my bones.
I wasn’t nervous, I was preparing. For impact. For damage control. For the version of him I prayed wouldn’t show up, but always did.
The Drive Home
We got into my grandfather’s truck, me in the middle, him driving, my dad staring at the road like a loaded gun.
My grandfather smiled, trying to fill the space with anything other than silence.
“Said I had a good weekend,” he offered. “Said he was proud.”
But his warmth couldn’t thaw the cold radiating from the other side of the bench.
Then, the silence cracked.
“You ungrateful piece of shit.”
It hit like a bullet to the spine.
That phrase wasn’t just anger, it was the trigger before the explosion. A line that always came before fists.
My journal.
He found out about the journal.
The pages I hid under my mattress. The truth I could never say out loud. About the fights. The fear. The shame. The nights I prayed for silence.
My mother had read it. And she told him.
“What are you planning to do with that, huh? After all I do for you?!”
The tires screamed.
The truck jerked violently onto the shoulder of Interstate 40, deep in the mountains of eastern Tennessee, far from the safety of cities or cell towers. Gravel exploded beneath the tires, the rear fishtailing before we ground to a halt.
The door flew open.
He moved like something unhinged. One hand clamped my collar. The other yanked my wrist. I kicked. Twisted. Begged silently for it not to happen.
But it did.
He dragged me out of the truck and into the cold night.
The air outside wasn’t just razor-sharp, it was punishing. The kind of cold that made your bones ache, that crawled beneath your skin and slowed everything down, as if time itself froze in fear.
We were surrounded by blackness. No gas stations. No lights. Just the endless silence of the Smoky Mountains.
Then, headlights.
A car roared past. Too fast to stop.
And he shoved me.
Hard.
I stumbled. Arms flailing. Feet sliding on wet asphalt. Headlights blinded me as another car barreled toward us.
I saw the outline of the driver. The panic in their eyes.
I saw death.
The car swerved. Missed me by inches. The force of its speed slapped my face like a wave.
Then hands.
My grandfather’s hands. Wrinkled but strong. Clutching my arm. Yanking me back. We crashed into each other and hit the gravel. My knees buckled. My palms scraped raw. My breath tore out of my lungs.
But it wasn’t over.
My father charged again.
Screaming. Unintelligible. Foaming at the mouth.
He swung.
My grandfather blocked it. Shoved him back. “Stay back!” he barked, voice cracking with panic.
But he wasn’t listening.
He grabbed me again, fistfuls of jersey and skin. Slammed me against the truck. My head cracked against the metal. White stars burst behind my eyes.
“WHAT DID YOU WRITE?!” he roared, spit flying into my face. “YOU TRYNA RUIN ME?!”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
My grandfather tackled him. Full-body. A desperate collision of age and fury. They crashed to the ground, fists flying, bodies thrashing. Rage met resistance. Desperation met duty.
I watched as they rolled through the gravel, my grandfather eating blows but never letting go. He held my father down with the strength of a man who’d seen too much—and refused to see any more.
It felt like forever.
But it was five minutes.
Five long, frigid, terrifying minutes.
And then…
Red and blue lights.
Sirens cut through the mountain air. Tires skidded. Doors flung open.
“STEP BACK! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”
Flashlights. Shouts. Radios crackling.
One officer rushed to separate them. Another approached me, slow and careful, his breath turning to fog in the cold.
My grandfather stood, trembling, arms raised in surrender. “Please... he’s my son. Just stop.”
The troopers calmed the scene.
But they didn’t fix it.
One restrained my father. Another checked my bruises. They took statements. Measured restraint.
And then..
No arrests. No real questions. No outrage.
Just a warning. A shrug. A silent understanding between men who’d seen this before.
Back into the truck.
This time, my grandfather drove.
The silence was suffocating. Not the kind that brings peace, the kind that traps screams in your throat.
I sat between a monster and a ghost. My fists clenched. My ribs throbbing. My voice buried.
In my lap sat the trophy.
Gold. Cold. Hollow.
That was the night I realized something:
I wasn’t a son. I wasn’t a child.
I was a fighter, in a world where love was a weapon, and trust was a mistake.
And on that Tennessee highway…
The boy I used to be died.
And in his place, something colder survived.
I didn’t realize it then.
But that night on the highway…
when his fist cracked the silence and the asphalt nearly took me
that’s when something changed.
Something snapped.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was silent.
Like glass breaking underwater.
And for years, I didn’t even know it happened.
See, when you go through something like that, you don’t heal right.
You adapt.
You don’t process.
You pattern.
The bruises fade, but the programming stays.
And that’s where this gets real, because what started on that Tennessee road didn’t just stay in the past. It followed me.
It followed me to every relationship.
Every chart.
Every trade.
I thought I left it behind.
But now?
I see it for what it really was:
That night created a version of me I didn’t even know was trading.
You think you’ve got a risk management problem?
Nah.
You’ve got emotional flashbacks.
You’ve got a nervous system still waiting for the next hit.
That moment he dragged me out the truck?
That shows up now as overreacting to a small pullback—thinking the whole setup’s collapsing.That scream in my face, “You ungrateful piece of shit”?
That’s the inner voice telling me to close early.
“Don’t get greedy.”
“Play it safe.”
“Take it before it’s taken.”That hollow trophy in my lap while blood dried on my shirt?
That’s making $3K on a trade and still feeling like I failed.
You think you’re in drawdown because of your entries?
Nah, bro.
You’re in drawdown because you never closed that chapter.
Zero wasn’t born in luxury.
He was forged in chaos.
Created the moment I realized love had conditions... and winning didn’t guarantee safety.
That mindset?
It made me a killer in the markets.
But it also made me cold.
Disconnected.
Numb.
And now I’m here,
Looking you in the eyes through this screen, telling you the truth I wish someone told me when I was looking for the secret to profitablility.
You’re not undisciplined.
You’re unhealed.
This isn’t about discipline hacks or morning routines.
This is about why:
You chase setups that don’t make sense.
You risk 3% one day, and 30% the next.
You win big, then blow it all the following week.
This isn’t inconsistency.
It’s trauma playing out in real time.
You don’t just want the bag.
You want the feeling you never got.
The feeling of being enough.
You think trading is your business.
But really?
It’s your battlefield.
And every candlestick…
Every entry…
Every loss…
is just your nervous system trying to fight a war it never got closure from.
That night on the highway?
That was the first time I learned what happens when truth collides with power.
But now—you get to decide what happens next.
You can keep trading from pain…
Or you can learn how to recognize the patterns, break the cycle, and finally take control.
Not just of your account.
But of yourself.
Let me know when you're ready to go deeper.
Because this is where Zero was born…
But this is where you begin.
