I don’t picture myself as a trader hunched over six monitors, drawing lines on charts like a cartographer mapping invisible oceans. My way of deciding whether to buy a stock is quieter, more human, and closer to a conversation than a calculation.
It usually starts with a name.
I hear about a company in passing: a product I use, a brand I notice everywhere, a business that keeps showing up in news headlines. I don’t rush to open a chart. Instead, I let my curiosity linger. Do I understand what this company does? Do I see it surviving a few bad years? If the answers feel right, that’s when I invite the numbers into the room.
This is where my relationship with technical analysis politely ends. I don’t squint at candlesticks or chase moving averages. The market, to me, isn’t a puzzle that can be solved with enough indicators. It’s more like weather—patterns exist, but pretending I can predict the next storm feels dishonest.
So I keep it simple.
The first thing I check is the stock’s current price and its 52-week range. I imagine the past year as a landscape the stock has traveled through. Is it standing near the bottom of that valley, bruised and unfashionable? Or is it perched near the peak, admired and expensive? I’m not trying to time the exact bottom, but I do want to know whether I’m arriving after the party or while the chairs are still being set up.
If the price is closer to the lower end of the range, my interest sharpens. Not because “low” automatically means “cheap,” but because it suggests fear, boredom, or neglect—conditions under which opportunities sometimes hide. If it’s near the top, I pause. I ask myself whether I’m being invited by fundamentals or lured by excitement.
Next, I look at dividends. A dividend yield tells me whether the company shares its success or hoards it. I like businesses that send a little cash back to shareholders, not as a bribe, but as a sign of confidence. A healthy, sustainable dividend feels like a quiet promise: We’re making money, and we expect to keep doing so.
Of course, that promise only matters if the company is actually profitable. So I check the bottom line. Is it earning real money, or just telling a compelling story? I’m not against growth or ambition, but I’m wary of businesses that live entirely in the future while bleeding in the present. Profitability grounds the narrative. It’s proof that the company’s idea works not just in theory, but in reality.
And then comes the most controversial part of my process: gut feeling.
After all the numbers are on the table, I lean back and listen to myself. Not the excited voice that wants to be right, or the fearful one that hates being wrong—but the calm one. Do I feel comfortable owning this company if the stock goes nowhere for a year? Would I be embarrassed or relieved to see it in my portfolio during a market downturn?
This instinct isn’t magic. It’s built from experience, mistakes, and the slow accumulation of judgment. It’s my subconscious weighing everything I’ve seen—the price, the range, the dividends, the profits—and turning it into a simple yes or no.
When I finally decide to buy, it doesn’t feel like winning a battle or cracking a code. It feels more like choosing a traveling companion. I’m not expecting perfection. I just want a business that makes sense, pays its way, and isn’t asking me to believe in miracles.
In a world obsessed with precision, my stock-buying process is intentionally imperfect. It’s part logic, part intuition, and part restraint. And somehow, that balance—between numbers and narrative—is what helps me sleep at night, even when the market refuses to cooperate.
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