Some people move through life with ease—clear about what they want, unafraid to ask for it, confident they deserve it. If you’re one of them, I salute you. The rest of us? We’re still learning.
For as long as I can remember, naming what I wanted felt like an act of shame. My earliest memory goes back to Brooklyn, just before my fourth birthday. I was walking down the apartment stairs with my mother when a neighbor stopped us and offered a gift.
“A play stove or a dress—what would you like?”
Before I could answer, my mother said, “She doesn’t need anything, thank you,” and we walked on.
But something stayed behind.
That moment taught me a quiet lesson: wanting was inconvenient. Embarrassing. Better left unspoken. Silence felt safer. Over time, silence became fear—fear of being seen, fear of needing, fear of wanting at all.
I don’t know exactly where that fear comes from. Childhood. Culture. Temperament. Trauma. I only know it followed me for years, shaping how I moved through the world—until something unexpected began to loosen its grip.
It wasn’t therapy. It wasn’t age.
It was anger.
The first crack appeared when I was nearly sixteen, about to enter nursing school at Brooklyn College. I was dating someone my mother didn’t approve of, and she gave me an ultimatum: him or school.
Something in my body shifted. I stood still, hands behind my back, met her eyes, and said quietly, “Then I won’t go to nursing school.”
She dropped it. I went to school. I dated him for a while.
It was the first time she ever heard me say no—and the first time I learned that my voice could hold its ground.
Years later, that lesson deepened in a way I never could have imagined. When someone tried to take my life—and the life growing inside me—fear vanished. What rose instead was a fierce, righteous anger.
Protective. Unmovable.
From that moment on, as I protected my unborn child. I understood something essential: when we stand for what we love, fear loses its authority.
Still, it took time before I could ask for something simply because I wanted it.
That moment came years later in Reno, Nevada. My husband and I were passing through when I spotted a newspaper at our hotel check-in: Garth Brooks. In concert. Tonight. A radio station was giving away two free tickets.
I called from a payphone. The tickets were gone.
But this time, I didn’t retreat.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked. “This matters to me.”
There was a pause. Then: “If you can get here in thirty minutes, two tickets will be waiting.”
We ran. We made it. We saw Garth.
That night wasn’t just a concert.
It was the first time I didn’t wait to be told I was wanted, needed, or deserving. I asked because something mattered to me—and that was enough.
Once I learned how to ask, something unexpected happened—I didn’t always have to.
Hugs,
Nancy
