002 – Volatility Was My First Language Preview
The Programming That Picked My Trades Before I Ever Touched a Chart
That night, standing there in the penthouse, watching the city blink beneath me like a lifeless chart, I remembered the drive home from Tennessee.
Not the traffic.
Not the silence in the car.
But the tension in the air that felt thicker than smoke.
The way the road seemed to stretch for hours with no exit.
The way my hands trembled in my lap, unsure if I was allowed to speak.
Unsure if I was even allowed to breathe.
That was the night I became the target.
But if I’m being honest… it didn’t start that night in the car.
It started years before.
I was in my room.
Five years old.
Playing on my carpet city, the one printed like a miniature town with roads, a police station, stop signs, and parking lots.
To anyone else, it was just a rug.
But to me, it was a whole world.
Power Rangers were my security detail.
Hot Wheels were lined up for qualifying laps.
My stuffed animals filled the grandstands in front of the general store, cheering as I orchestrated races and crashes, shouting commentary like I was prepping for a Michael Schumacher Monaco circuit.
And like any tired CEO of a 90s carpet-based motorsport empire, I crawled into my Power Rangers tent for a nap.
Warm. Safe. Innocent.
But that silence didn’t last.
Because the next thing I heard wasn’t tires or cheering.
It was violence.
Like a wrecking ball through Gotham City.
It shook the house.
I shot up—confused—and ran to the top of the staircase.
And that’s when I saw it.
My father—on top of my pregnant mother—hitting her with a rage I had never seen before.
Rage that rewired my understanding of reality in seconds.
Her screams weren’t just pain—they were helplessness.
I froze.
Not because I didn’t want to help.
But because I couldn’t comprehend that the man I loved… could be the same man doing this.
I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t even know if what I was seeing was real.
Then he just… got up.
Like nothing happened.
Like he’d clocked out of a shift.
No yelling. No explanation.
He walked out the door.
Calm.
Silent.
A ghost in the daylight.
I walked down the stairs slowly, still in disbelief.
Mom was bleeding. Crying. Barely able to move.
She looked at me and said, “Call 911.”
And I did.
But when the dispatcher answered… I didn’t tell them the truth.
I just said, “My mom is hurt. She’s bleeding. She needs help.”
I erased what I saw.
Not because I wanted to protect him…
But because I already was.
That day programmed something into me.
A silence.
A survival code.
A belief that speaking truth could make everything worse.
And what came next?
A miscarriage.
A little brother I never got to meet.
Gone.
That was my first real memory.
Not Christmas.
Not a birthday party.
Not even riding a bike.
That.
Watching a man turn into a monster.
Watching my hero become a villain.
Watching my own silence become part of the problem.
And here’s the thing:
I didn’t just survive that moment.
I absorbed it.
I grew up in a house that was one big FOMC candle.
Volatility was my first language.
It didn’t feel like chaos to me.
It felt… normal.
It felt like home.
Which is probably why I became obsessed with NAS100.
The spikes. The dips. The randomness. The speed.
That asset matched my nervous system.
You think I picked a pair to trade?
No.
My nervous system picked it for me.
Because that day on the highway—
The day my dad dragged me out of the truck and tried to end me right there in front of God, headlights, and the Smoky Mountains—
It didn’t just scar me.
It calibrated me.
To chaos.
To risk.
To dysfunction disguised as strength.
And it made me chase setups that looked familiar.
Not smart.
Familiar.
Bad trades.
Toxic relationships.
Emotional drawdown that looked like love.
I was chasing patterns that matched my past.
And the market?
It just held the mirror.
Because no strategy works if your trauma still owns your fingers.
You’ll click the wrong button.
You’ll exit early.
You’ll over-leverage like you're trying to punish yourself.
Why?
Because a part of you still thinks you deserve the loss.
That’s the real programming.
That’s the version of you that needs to be uninstalled.
Before you fix your trading plan,
You’ve got to fix the part of you that still needs pain to feel something.
That was the beginning.
Not of the pain, no.
The pain had always been there.
But that night was when I became the target.
Before that, it was always aimed at her.
My mother,
the original punching bag for a man the world refused to see clearly.
But eventually, all monsters need a new outlet.
And when she wasn’t enough to contain the storm anymore,
It turned on me.
But if I’m being honest...
It didn’t start that night in the car.
It started years before.
In a bedroom filled with Power Rangers and Hot Wheels.
On a crisp fall day in the '90s.
Back when the world still made sense.
Back when the worst thing I had to worry about was losing a race on my carpet city.
That was the last day I was allowed to be innocent.
The last time I played make-believe without real consequences.
Because that day,
That day shattered everything.
Now Ask Yourself:
When was the first time you ignored your instincts to protect someone who didn’t deserve it?
Who taught you that silence was safer than truth?
What kind of pain are you still subconsciously choosing—because it feels familiar?
Are you trading to win… or are you trading to feel something?
What part of your past still has its hands on your mouse?
This isn’t about the market.
This is about memory.
Because memory—unexamined—becomes behavior.
And if your behavior is built on survival...
Then your trading is just emotional warfare in disguise.
You think it’s about strategy?
It never was.
