But Do You Really Have to Catch Them All?
Growing up in the late 90s and early aughts, I couldn't help but take note of the growing fads of consumerism taking place around me. First, there were pogs. Then, Beanie Babies. The Furby. And of course, the Tamagotchi.
As I heard stories of people striking it rich by stockpiling and reselling these toys, I thought, "That's a good idea, I'll do that too."
So when McDonald's released their Teanie Beanie Baby collection of Happy Meal toys, I not only insisted on buying one of each category. I also refused to open a single package. For four years.
Somewhere deep down, I was convinced that resisting the temptation to tear open those tiny packages would one day make me rich. Obviously, that didn’t pan out. A quick eBay search will tell you just how bad an investment that was.
This wasn't my only failed strategy at stockpiling. I did the same thing with Tamagotchi's, Lisa Frank Stickers, and Chuck-E-Cheese tickets, buying and holding, but never using. Never cashing out.
Of course what I failed to ask myself at the time was, "How long am I willing to keep this up? When will it be time to end the game?"
In other words, I was good at starting the game. But I needed an exit strategy.
What's Your Exit Strategy?
As an adult, I've grown to recognize the invisible opportunity cost of collecting too much without cashing out. You miss an important moment to catch the zeitgeist when you play the "wait and see" game for too long.
Unfortunately for me, this habit didn’t fade with childhood collectibles. As an adult, I’ve caught myself doing the same thing—just with higher stakes. Maybe I wait too long to buy or sell a crypto asset. I let blog posts—or even, entire books—languish in Google Drive. I postpone a career move too long beyond the early adoption window. Then, by the time I finally hit publish or make the pivot, the moment is gone. I've missed it.
That's why, over the past few years, I’ve been trying to push myself to hold things for less time. To be a little less patient, to choose momentum over collections. But this is a hard habit to break.
I've found that forcing myself to write or build in public helps a lot. Rather than wait for the perfect moment, I share before I can over-edit, egressing thoughts before they pile up again. Because the real value isn’t in stockpiling, it's in momentum.
But momentum is tricky—especially when you spend as much time alone as I do. The echochamber of your own brain makes it easy to spiral, chasing every new thought before the last one solidifies.
I’ve learned that the real signal isn’t how much I think—it’s how quickly I act. That's why I’m pushing myself to let go faster. To make decisions based on real behaviors instead of imagined ones. If I find myself hesitating, tinkering too long, I know I need to cut if off and move on.
And when I forget? Well, I keep that vintage 1996 Tamagotchi—still sealed in its original packaging—in my office to remind me what happens when you wait too long.
