Ask For What You Want

It was Christmas of 2007 when we did what our family often loved to do: we piled into our blue Safari van and set off on a last-minute road trip. Destination? Disneyland.

Our kids—ages five to fifteen—loved road trips, so they were all in. Sure, a record-breaking snowstorm turned the 24-hour drive into something closer to 40, but that was part of the magic: long hours, shared snacks, endless laughter, and the sense that we were in it together.

One of the rides on our list was Space Mountain, the infamous roller coaster in the dark. Now, I should confess: roller coasters were not my thing. I get nauseated if I spin too fast in a desk chair, and I never quite shake the suspicion that our car might be the one to fly off the track this decade.

So my inner monologue on rides is not “Yaaay, let’s go!” so much as “Have they checked the bolts?”—which is why my party reputation hovers somewhere between catastrophist and fun sponge.

Anyway, we finally got to the front of the line, and in the chaos of being herded like caffeinated cattle, our five-year-old daughter somehow ended up in a car with her two older brothers.

Teresa, my wife, took one look at this arrangement and instantly went full Mama Bear—not because she didn’t trust our boys, but because no mother in her right mind would trust the safety of her kindergartener to a seventh-grader and a tenth-grader on a rocket ship in the dark.

So Teresa did what most of us only dream of in moments of panic but rarely have the courage to do: she screamed. Full volume. No polite Canadian throat-clearing. No subtle hinting. Just raw maternal clarity:

“My daughter! My daughter! My daughter!”

And here was the magical part: everything stopped. Literally. A side door swung open, the ride shut down, and our kids were rolled off the track like fragile cargo—because that’s exactly what they were. Within minutes, the ride was rearranged so Teresa and I could each sit with one of our younger ones, and off we went.

Was our daughter in mortal danger? Probably not. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Teresa asked for what she wanted. She didn’t stew. She didn’t sigh dramatically. She didn’t hope someone would magically read her mind. She said the thing out loud, and doors—literal doors—opened.

That day, it was about keeping our daughter safe. But the truth is, every day we face moments where speaking up matters just as much—moments that shape our relationships, our work, and our wellbeing.

Maybe it’s a boundary you’ve never voiced in a relationship. A family member whose habits grate on you, but you never explain why. A coworker who frustrates you, but instead of addressing it directly, you complain to everyone else.

When we stay silent, we start expecting people to read our minds, to just “know” what we need or want. That’s not only unrealistic—it’s unfair. The pattern is predictable: we have a need, we don’t express it, and then we resent the other person for not noticing. Over time, that resentment hardens—not because they ignored us, but because we never gave them the chance to respond.

Psychologists call this the crazy cycle: silence breeds frustration, frustration breeds blame, and blame breeds distance. And there’s only one way to break it—ask for what you want.

Of course, not every ask is healthy. Sometimes what sounds like a request is really a judgment in disguise, or an attempt to control. The kind of asking that opens doors is rooted in clarity, humility, and respect. The goal isn’t to win—it’s to be known.

Researchers go even further. They’ve studied what happens when our unspoken expectations collide with reality, and they call it expectancy violation—the stress that builds when people don’t meet needs we never voiced in the first place.

And the consequences are measurable.

In couples, unmet expectations are one of the strongest predictors of conflict and dissatisfaction. In the workplace, silence manifests as gossip, disengagement, and burnout.

Ironically, most of us stay quiet because we think we’re protecting the relationship. We don’t want to rock the boat.

But the evidence shows the opposite: couples who practice clear need expression—naming what they want without demanding it—report higher intimacy and resilience. Teams that normalize assertive communication—direct, respectful asking—are more creative, more productive, and less likely to burn out.

Knowing all this is one thing. Practicing it is another. So how do we actually get better at asking for what we want?

And remember: even when you ask well, not everyone will be able to respond in kind. Sometimes their no is about their limits, not your worth. But asking still matters, because it keeps you out of resentment and in the truth.

Here’s the payoff: you won’t always get what you ask for. But you will almost never get what you don’t ask for.

At home, it builds trust instead of resentment. At work, it creates clarity instead of chaos. In life, it transforms distance into connection.

Ask for what you want. Because closed mouths don’t open doors—and sometimes the doors that open change everything.

Until next week,

Jonathan Penner | Co-Founder & Executive Director of LifeApp

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