Formation

The Holy Habit of Not Checking the Market

Glowing gold and silver coins floating among concentric metallic rings
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

I have a small ritual that makes me feel like a very serious investor: I open the app, look at the chart, nod as if I understand the chart, and then close the app before doing anything foolish. This is not a strategy. It is theater with Wi-Fi.

The prompt on my desk asks what Ignatian discernment can teach a dollar-cost-averaging investor. Quite a lot, as it turns out. Both practices begin with the same unfashionable move: slow down long enough to notice what is moving you.

Dollar-cost averaging, or DCA, means investing equal portions at regular intervals, regardless of what the market is doing. FINRA’s example is straightforward: instead of putting $10,000 to work all at once, an investor might invest $1,000 a month for 10 months. The schedule does not predict the market. It simply refuses to let every headline rewrite the plan.

Ignatian discernment is not just making a pros-and-cons list with a candle nearby. The Jesuit tradition describes it as prayerful attention to the interior movements of the heart, along with freedom from attachments that keep us from seeing clearly. The Jesuits’ overview puts the point plainly: things are means to loving and serving, not ends to cling to. That is a useful sentence to carry into a brokerage account.

Because money is never only money. A falling balance can feel like danger. A rising balance can feel like vindication. The temptation is to confuse those feelings with wisdom. Discernment asks a quieter question: Where is this movement coming from, and where is it leading me? Is my urge to sell part of a considered plan, or is it just anxiety wearing a necktie?

DCA can create a little space between the feeling and the action. The next contribution arrives on Tuesday because Tuesday was the day we chose—not because a pundit sounded confident on Monday. That repetition can form patience. It can also expose our attachments. If I cannot tolerate a predetermined schedule for even three months, perhaps the issue is not the calendar. Perhaps I am asking the market to give me emotional certainty, which is a famously expensive financial adviser.

Now for the honest footnote. DCA is not a magic wand, and it is not automatically superior to investing a lump sum. Because some money stays in cash while the schedule unfolds, spreading purchases out can mean lower returns when markets rise. FINRA names that tradeoff, and an academic analysis finds that DCA can lower risk while generally performing worse than lump-sum investing—though it may suit some investors depending on their risk aversion. That is a tradeoff, not a verdict.

So the Ignatian lesson is not “always dollar-cost average.” It is “become free enough to choose honestly.” Name the goal. Gather the facts. Notice the fear, the greed, the need to be right. Ask whether the plan fits your time horizon, cash needs, and ability to stay with it. Then make the decision without demanding that it feel thrilling.

At the end of the month, try a tiny financial examen: What happened? When did I feel pulled to act? What did it mean? Maybe the plan needs changing. Maybe the plan was fine and my nervous system needed a walk. What will I carry forward? One written rule, one date to review it, and a little less worship of the blinking line on the screen.

The market will keep moving. Formation is learning how not to move with every movement.

The Quiet Practice of Becoming

Desk with Bible, prayer journal, budget notebook, rosary, candle, and plant
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

I have a confession: I like the idea of a new habit much more than I like the middle of one. The beginning has fresh notebooks and heroic promises. The middle has Tuesday, a tired brain, and an instrument that sounds like it is filing a formal complaint.

But most of a life is built in that middle. Not by one grand decision, but by the small thing we return to when nobody is applauding. Prayer. A budget. Scales on a piano. These can look unrelated from the outside. Inside, they are all practices of attention.

Prayer, at its most ordinary, is not a performance review for God. It is a way of coming back. The same chair. The same few quiet minutes. The same honest question: What was moving in me today? Repetition does not make the moment empty. It gives the heart a familiar doorway.

A budget works in a surprisingly similar way. The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau recommends starting with a complete picture of income, spending, and bill timing, then making a working plan and adjusting it as life changes. That is less like building a cage and more like turning on the kitchen light. We are not trying to become perfectly predictable people. We are trying to see clearly enough to choose.

The same humility helps with an instrument. Practice is not merely “putting in the hours.” A meta-analysis of research on musical achievement found a meaningful relationship between task-relevant practice and musical performance, while also reminding us that practice is structured, goal-directed work—not magical time served. Ten distracted minutes and ten attentive minutes may share a clock, but they do not share a result. The metronome is a stern little uncle.

This is where long-term formation differs from self-punishment. Self-punishment asks, “How can I make myself pay for failing?” Discipline asks, “What small structure would help me return?” One tightens the knot. The other leaves a path back home.

And please, let us retire the fantasy that a habit becomes permanent after 21 days. In a real-world study summarized by University College London, automaticity took an average of 66 days—and the range varied widely from person to person. Missing one day did not erase the process. The lesson is not to worship a streak. It is to keep practicing the return.

What happened? We repeated small acts until they became easier to recognize and re-enter. What did it mean? Our routines were quietly teaching us what deserves attention. What can we carry forward? Pick one practice, make it modest, attach it to a real part of the day, and review it without drama.

Tonight, perhaps, pray for five minutes. Look at the last week of spending without flinching. Play one scale slowly. Becoming is rarely loud. Most days, it sounds like showing up again.

Character Is Built in the Boring Reps

Glowing outline of a walking person over a mountainous valley at night
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

I used to think character showed up in the dramatic moments. The honest answer in the meeting. The brave decision. The cinematic pause before doing the right thing. Then I became a parent and discovered that most character is formed while somebody is asking for a snack.

The prompt on my desk says 10,000 small repeated choices. That number is not a scientific speed limit. It is a useful nudge: formation is usually less like a lightning strike and more like a path across a lawn. You walk it again and again, often without noticing that the grass is changing.

Habit researchers describe something similar. In a real-world study, people practiced a chosen eating, drinking, or activity behavior each day in a consistent context. Automaticity grew gradually, but at very different speeds: the time to reach a person’s plateau ranged from 18 to 254 days. Missing one opportunity did not ruin the process. Repetition mattered, but perfection was not the price of admission. The study is a helpful antidote to the internet’s favorite habit myth—that everyone needs exactly 66 days, or some other magic number.

That distinction matters for character. A child who puts one book back on the shelf is not becoming a librarian overnight. A spouse who pauses before answering is not suddenly a saint. But each small act is practicing a response. The cue arrives, and a slightly better path becomes easier to find.

There is some evidence that the practice itself can strengthen self-regulation. In one study, college students spent two weeks practicing a small exercise such as monitoring posture, regulating mood, or recording what they ate. Compared with a control group, the exercise groups improved on a later measure of self-regulatory capacity. The result was modest, not magical. Still, it suggests that discipline is not only a personality trait we either inherited or missed in the family raffle.

More recent work helps explain why repetition works: practice can strengthen the link between a recurring cue and a response. Researchers found that greater task practice was associated with stronger cue-response associations, which in turn supported performance. The brain learns the route we keep taking.

So what might this look like at home? Pick one tiny response and give it a familiar doorway. After dinner, ask one good question before reaching for the phone. When a mistake is named, say, “Thank you for telling me,” before explaining. On Sunday night, write down one thing you received and one thing you repaired. The point is not to turn the household into a monastery with better snacks. It is to make the next faithful move visible.

At the end of the day, an examen can be wonderfully ordinary: What happened? Where did I repeat an old groove? Where did grace—or simple patience—open a new one? What did it mean? That the small choices were not small to the people living inside them. What can I carry forward? One repeatable act, attached to a real moment, with room to miss once and begin again.

Ten thousand is a lot of choices. Fortunately, we only have to make the next one.

The Catholic Case for Boring, Patient Investing

Tree on hill changing through winter, spring, summer, and autumn
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

I have a confession to make: I find “boring” reassuring. Give me a quiet Saturday, a pot of coffee, and an investment plan that does not require me to check my phone every twelve minutes. My younger self wanted a financial life with plot twists. My current self would like fewer plot twists, please.

That is one way into the Catholic case for patient investing. It is not a promise that markets will behave, or that every fund deserves a halo. It is a question of formation: What kind of person does my money practice me into becoming?

Patience is not passivity

Patient investing still makes choices. You decide what the money is for, how much risk you can bear, and what you are unwilling to support. The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops’ investment guidelines hold those pieces together: responsible financial stewardship, a reasonable return, prudence about risk, and attention to human dignity and the common good.

That is a sturdier picture than “maximize everything.” A return matters because resources support real obligations: a family, a parish, a future act of generosity. But the return is not the only question. The old Catholic word is stewardship, which means the money is entrusted to us, not enthroned over us.

Slow is a strategy

In practical terms, boring often looks like regular contributions, broad diversification, and a long time horizon. Investor.gov defines dollar-cost averaging as investing equal portions at regular intervals, regardless of market ups and downs. You buy more when prices are lower and less when they are higher. It is not magic. It is a way to keep one anxious afternoon from running the whole household.

FINRA explains that asset allocation and diversification can help manage investment risk by spreading money among and within asset classes. That does not make losses impossible; it does make the portfolio less dependent on one heroic bet. Even the phrase “heroic bet” sounds like something that ends with a lesson and a repair bill.

None of this means ignoring companies, communities, or conscience. A patient investor can read a fund’s holdings, ask how a manager votes, and decide which harms are incompatible with the family’s principles. Patience gives discernment time to work. Speculation often gives impatience a costume.

What is being formed?

What happened? I put money into a future I cannot see, then watched prices wiggle as if they knew I was watching. What did it mean? The account was never just a scoreboard; it was training my attention, my appetite, and my sense of enough. What can I carry forward? A simple rule: automate what serves the plan, review what deserves discernment, and refuse to confuse excitement with wisdom.

Perhaps the most countercultural investment move is not finding the next miracle. It is becoming the kind of person who can keep a promise across an ordinary Tuesday. What is your money asking you to practice: patience, prudence, generosity, or a little less phone-checking?