Confessions of a Haunted Bitcoiner
Nobody warns you about the part that actually gets to you. It isn’t the volatility. It’s the loneliness of the volatility. I can stomach watching half the number evaporate — a 50% drawdown isn’t a crash, it’s a sale on the scarcest monetary asset humanity has ever invented. What I can’t stomach is sitting in a Bavarian lakeside town this summer, the water so still it looks photoshopped (no, I’m not German, I just enjoy the cooler weather) — while my brother-in-law explains to me, slowly, like I’m a golden retriever, that bitcoin “isn’t backed by anything.” This, while he carries a currency backed by the feelings of a committee that meets eight times a year and has never once been early.
Because I’ve done the work. Thousands of hours, between podcasts, books, articles etc. And then you’re stuck. You sit across from people you genuinely love, who built businesses or went to top universities, but you still can't hand them the one thing you’re surest of in this life. You watch the words leave your mouth and die in the air. “Inflation is policy.” Nothing. You’ve said something profound to a man squinting at the bill to see if service is included.
So you stop. Not because you stopped believing — because you’ve learned, at real cost, that conviction and evangelism are different muscles, and the second one only ever cost me. The early bitcoiner’s true discipline was never holding through an 80% crash. It’s holding your tongue at brunch while someone calls your life’s thesis a Ponzi between bites of a croissant they bought with money engineered to be worth less by the time they finish it.
And here’s the confession underneath the confession — the haunting part. A small, ugly corner of me wants the price to keep bleeding. Not for me. For the vindication. So they’ll finally see. And I despise that corner, because I already know the ending: the converts arrive years late, exhausted, having “figured it out themselves,” and I’ll have to swallow the most expensive three words in the English language — I told you — smile, and pour the wine. Because being right early and being right late feel exactly the same from the inside. The only difference is who got paid, and whether you stayed someone people still wanted at the table.
That’s the trap nobody mentions. It’s lonely being the only one who sees the iceberg. But you can’t save the ship by screaming “ICEBERG” louder — you just become the iceberg guy, and now you’re not even right anymore, you’re exhausting, and exhausted.
So you make a quieter peace with it. The math doesn’t need their approval. 21 million is 21 million whether anyone claps, whether your brother-in-law ever comes around, whether the number is at 60K or 600K this particular haunted Sunday.
But here’s the part I didn’t expect. You spend years being the only one at every dinner table — and then you find the others. Not at the table. But here on X. It turns out the whole time I was losing the argument at brunch, there was a deck full of people on the other side of this screen squinting at the same iceberg, doing the same math, biting the same tongue at their own family dinners. We’re not an echo chamber — an echo chamber agrees on conclusions. We argue about everything: cycle tops, treasury structures, whether Saylor’s a prophet or a margin call away from his next podcast appearance. What we share isn’t an answer. It’s the humility to question everything we once knew, and the foresight.
I used to think being early meant being alone. It just meant being early to the wrong room. This is the right one.
Now let's ride this bear to zero or a million 😎
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