-5°C. Just a few days till Christmas. White breath escapes from my mouth, and the air fills my lungs with a cold, metallic scent—not the green, sweet fragrance of Miami Beach. I pull my hoodie over my head once again and step out to run along the path by the river near my home.

As I run, countless lives pass by.

People walking, people running. Some moving in my direction, others coming toward me. People walking alone, some in pairs, cyclists, those swinging their arms like children. Some rushing, some leisurely strolling. Some smiling, some sighing.

Each person follows their own rhythm, their own path, in their own time. They enter and exit the road from wherever they want, at their own pace, with their own unique timing.

Isn’t life just like this? Everyone has their own beginning, pace, reasons, and end. Yet, the moment I start focusing on others, my run becomes heavier, as if I’ve stepped off my own path and onto theirs. I’m losing who I am. 

It’s the same with investing. Much like running, every decision has its own context. That stock he holds might be 1% or 60% of his stock portfolio or even his entire net wealth, a remnant after a substantial gain, a calculated move tied to other assets, or even an impulsive choice influenced by his friends. Without being the person—which is impossible—we would never understand their reasoning or even the absence of it. Yet, we often let others’ paths sway us, losing sight of our own strategy and identity.

By letting others influence your life, at some point, we forget the path we were running on, where we were headed, or even that we were running at all—lost in chasing someone else’s shadow. And when they leave the road, we find ourself stranded, far from where I started, with no trace of my own life and no clear way back to my own path.

Still, there’s things I can rely on. The trees lining the path, the silent mountains standing tall, the river whispering "it shall come to pass"—they all stand by me, cheering me on with their green hands rustling in the wind, guiding me to my finish line at the 30-minute mark.

The sense of pride and accomplishment that comes after reaching my goal of running for 30 minutes is satisfying. But looking back, the finish line—those few fleeting seconds—feels so small in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps the real meaning lies in those 1,800 seconds of persistence, in the way I kept going, no matter the pace, running my own race.