No One Teaches You How to Ask for More—But You Can Learn

There is a moment—a small but strangely charged moment—when a psychologist opens a blank document to begin drafting a letter to an insurance company. It isn’t clinical documentation. It isn’t a referral note, or a client summary, or a thoughtful reflection on attachment patterns. It’s a letter about money. A request for reconsideration. A rate review. An ask.

And everything goes quiet.

The words do not come. Or rather, they come in a sudden, apologetic rush: “I understand if this isn’t possible…” “I hope I’m not overstepping…” “I realize you’re very busy…” The tone is deferential, the posture low. The request, buried in the fourth paragraph, is diluted by qualifiers and disclaimers and justifications. It reads more like an apology than an assertion.

This is not an issue of writing skill. These are competent, literate professionals. It’s not about not knowing what to say. It’s about not knowing how to be while saying it.

Because no one teaches therapists how to ask for more.

Not in graduate school. Not in internships. Not in supervision. If anything, most training environments quietly discourage it. You’re praised for being flexible. For staying late. For “taking one for the team.” You’re expected to work through lunch and apologize for needing time off. You’re groomed for generosity, not advocacy.

So when the time comes to speak up—not in the abstract, but in a direct, professional request for more—the skill isn’t there. The confidence isn’t there. The template isn’t there.

But the stakes are.

And that’s where the freeze begins.

The Legacy of Good Behavior

Therapists are, by and large, people who’ve excelled at being good. Often from a young age, they learned to sense what others needed and to provide it—quickly, seamlessly, and with minimal disruption. Many entered the field because helping came naturally. Others arrived through hardship, driven by insight or necessity. But nearly all were rewarded, again and again, for being thoughtful, accommodating, and agreeable.

In clinical settings, these traits translate beautifully. Empathic attunement. Tolerance for ambiguity. Relational safety. But in administrative and institutional contexts, the very same traits become liabilities. Because in those environments, clarity is currency. Ambivalence is ignored. Good behavior is exploited.

And so, when a therapist finds themselves needing to assert something—when they need to name a limit, request a change, challenge a status quo—they often hesitate. Not out of incompetence, but out of conditioning. They’re used to absorbing, not asserting. They’re used to adjusting to others’ expectations, not recalibrating them.

They’ve learned that being liked keeps them safe.

And asking for more doesn’t always make you liked.

But it’s still necessary.

The Fantasy of the Automatic Yes

In nearly every consultation group or practice workshop, there is someone who asks, “Is there a way to do this that doesn’t feel aggressive?” And the answer, of course, is yes. But underneath that question is another one, unspoken: “Is there a way to ask for more that guarantees I won’t feel uncomfortable or be seen differently?”

And the honest answer is no.

There is no way to ask for more—whether it’s money, time, respect, or space—without risking something. You may be seen differently. You may feel uncomfortable. You may not be granted what you asked for.

But the greater risk is not in the asking.

It’s in the silence.

The fantasy that good work will be automatically rewarded, that effort will be recognized without expression, that fairness will arrive without invitation—these are soothing myths. They keep many therapists from ever picking up the pen. But they also keep them underpaid, overextended, and quietly resentful.

No one teaches you how to ask. But they also never warned you what happens when you don’t.

Writing as Psychological Exposure

What makes writing a rate request letter so uniquely difficult isn’t the content. It’s the identity shift. You are, in that moment, stepping out of the role you know—warm, receptive, reasonable—and into a position that feels sharp-edged. You are the one naming a need. You are the one initiating the conflict, however mild. You are the one possibly disappointing someone.

This is exposure therapy.

It activates the same parts of the self that tremble when saying no, when disagreeing, when setting a limit. The fear isn’t just rejection—it’s rupture. Disconnection. Being misunderstood. And for many therapists, who have built their entire professional lives around understanding, that fear is intolerable.

So they soften. They delay. They erase the draft.

But writing is also where something new can begin. Because putting the words on paper is a form of self-recognition. It forces precision. It refuses ambiguity. It says: I’m not asking because I’m greedy or needy. I’m asking because this is what the work requires.

And eventually, if done well and often enough, the exposure fades. What once felt bold becomes routine. What once felt impossible becomes just another part of running a practice.

Learning the Ask

The good news is that asking can be learned.

Not all at once. And not without discomfort. But it can be done.

It begins with clarity: What, exactly, are you asking for? Not just “more” or “better,” but a specific change. A dollar amount. A policy shift. A reconsideration.

It continues with structure: What’s the rationale? What data supports your request? What value do you bring? What precedent exists?

And it ends with tone: Respectful, direct, unembellished. Not overly warm. Not hostile. Just professional.

None of this requires a personality transplant. It doesn’t require becoming someone who thrives on confrontation or delights in bureaucracy. It simply requires moving through the initial discomfort long enough to reach the other side of it.

And then doing it again.

Why It’s Worth Doing Badly at First

No one writes a perfect request letter the first time. And many therapists, trained in exactitude, hate this. They want the message to be airtight. They want every word to land. They want to avoid the sting of misinterpretation.

But perfectionism is just another form of avoidance.

The truth is, your first request letter doesn’t need to be brilliant. It just needs to be sent. It can be short. It can be a little clunky. It can feel weird. What matters is that it exists—that you chose to make the request instead of swallowing it.

Most institutions are not expecting eloquence. They’re expecting professionalism. Timeliness. Specificity.

If you hit those marks, the letter has done its job.

And the next one will be easier.

Reclaiming the Right to Ask

At its core, the discomfort around asking for more is not about language. It’s about permission.

Therapists, for all their training in empowerment, often forget to grant it to themselves. They wait for cues. For consensus. For someone else to name what’s reasonable. But the nature of negotiation is that you name it first. You define what’s sustainable. You decide what this work is worth.

That’s not arrogance.

That’s ownership.

So yes, it may feel strange to write that letter. It may feel unnatural to follow up. It may feel awkward to press for clarification or to restate your request.

But you are not doing this to be liked. You are doing this to be clear.

And clarity, even when uncomfortable, is never unprofessional.

It’s the beginning of everything that follows.