Imagine I mined one Bitcoin today, July 20th, 2025. It cost me around $10 worth of energy—say, electricity, hardware wear, labor, whatever it took.

Now fast-forward ten years. That same Bitcoin still exists. It’s still one out of 21 million. Nobody printed more. Nobody diluted it. No central authority changed the rules. I still have that exact unit—intact, untouched, unedited.

But what about the $10 I spent to mine it? Where’s that $10 now?

In dollar terms, it’s gone. Maybe it bought me lunch back then. But in 2035, that same $10 won’t buy me the same lunch. Hell, it might not even buy me the napkin.

That’s because the dollar is not a fixed unit. It’s not like a kilogram or a liter. It’s more like a gas—it expands and loses density. It’s a moving target, constantly being devalued by the people who issue it. And it happens slowly enough that most people never stop to ask: Why doesn’t this unit hold its meaning?

But Bitcoin does. That’s the difference. Bitcoin is a monetary unit with no central authority, no dilution, and no permission structure.

When I mined that Bitcoin, I converted my energy—a real, physical resource—into value that lasts.

That’s the first mental leap:

Dollars are claims, and claims can expire, be inflated, or be denied.

Bitcoin is settlement. It’s the actual asset.

And the second leap is this:

The dollar isn’t stable. It’s just familiar.

Bitcoin feels volatile because it’s measured in a decaying unit.

If we flipped it—if we priced everything in Bitcoin or in sats—you’d start seeing the world differently. You’d stop thinking, "Bitcoin is going up," and start realizing, "The dollar is melting."

And once you see that, you can’t unsee it. You stop trading time and labor for decaying tokens. You start anchoring your life to something that doesn’t leak value every year.

That’s Bitcoin. Not a get-rich coin. A unit of value that holds its ground while everything else drifts.