Asking for What You Want Hypnosis

Let your eyes close. Take a breath in through your nose. And let it leave slowly through your mouth. Again. In. And out. Notice the weight of your body. The places where you are supported. The chair, the bed, the floor beneath you. You do not have to hold yourself up right now. Something else is doing that for you. Let your shoulders drop a little. Let your jaw soften. Let your tongue rest behind your lower teeth. And notice your breath, without changing it. Just watching. With each breath out, a small layer of the day comes off. The unread messages. The half finished tasks. The conversation you replayed in the shower. Let them all drift to the edge of awareness. They will be there later if you need them. For now, just this breath. And this one. I am going to count down from ten, and with each number you can let yourself drop a little deeper into a calm, focused inner state. Ten. Letting the head soften. Nine. Letting the eyes rest deeper behind their lids. Eight. The throat unclenching. Seven. The chest opening just slightly. Six. The belly rising and falling on its own. Five. Halfway down. Four. Arms heavy. Three. Legs heavy. Two. The thinking mind quieter than it has been all day. One. And zero. Down into a place where change happens easily.

I want you to imagine, in your mind, a long quiet hallway. The walls are a soft warm color. The light is low and kind. Along the hallway are doors. Each door has a small plaque on it. Behind each door is a different version of you. Versions you have been. Versions you have rehearsed. Versions you almost became and then stepped back from. You walk slowly down this hallway. One door has a plaque that reads, the one who hedges. You can hear them faintly through the door. Practicing the ask. Then softening it. Then deciding to wait until next week. You know that voice well. You keep walking. Another door. The one who waits to be chosen. Another. The one who shrinks the ask before it leaves the mouth. You nod to each of these doors. They have been protecting you for a long time. They were not wrong. They were just early. And then, near the end of the hallway, you find a different door. Its plaque reads, the one who simply asks. The handle is warm. You have not opened this door before, not fully. But you have stood in front of it. Today you are going inside.

Before you open the door, you breathe. Slow. Steady. And with each breath, you go deeper. Deeper into your own body. Deeper into the part of you that already knows what it wants. Twenty steps lead down from this hallway into a quieter chamber where identity is shaped. Twenty. Nineteen. The light dimming gently. Eighteen. The air cooler. Seventeen. Each step heavier and more grounded. Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen. The mind slowing. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Halfway down. Nine. Eight. Seven. The body so relaxed it almost feels distant. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. You arrive in a still, open room. The walls are soft. There is space here. This is the room where you decide who you are. And in this state, what we say next goes in deep, and stays.

Standing in this quiet inner room, you can feel two versions of you in the same space. The one who orbits the ask. And the one who simply asks. I want you to look at the one who orbits. With kindness. Notice how that version learned to soften. Maybe as a child, asking directly was punished or ignored. Maybe being too clear about wanting something felt dangerous, or rude, or selfish. So you learned to wrap your asks in apology. To bury them in jokes. To shrink them so they could not be denied, because a small ask cannot be rejected as harshly as a real one. That was intelligent. That kept you safe. And it is finished now. You do not need to argue with that part. You just thank it. And you let it rest. Now turn toward the other version. The one who simply asks. Look at how they stand. Their shoulders are not braced. Their voice does not climb at the end of sentences. They do not pre-apologize. They do not over-explain. They state what they want, clearly, and then they stop talking. They let the silence after the ask exist, without rushing in to fill it. That silence used to terrify you. To this version of you, it is just space. I want you to step into this version of yourself now. Like stepping into a coat that fits. Feel the weight of it on your shoulders. Feel your spine lengthen, just slightly. Feel your breath drop lower into your belly. And from inside this version of you, repeat these truths silently. I am someone who asks. My wants are allowed to take up space. A clear ask is a kindness, because it gives the other person a real choice. A no does not erase me. A yes does not surprise me. I do not need to soften my words to protect anyone from my desires. Notice the flinch. That tiny contraction in your chest or throat that used to fire right before you spoke. From inside this new identity, that flinch becomes information, not instruction. When it shows up, you simply notice it. And you keep speaking. The flinch does not get to edit your sentence. The flinch does not get to add the word just. The flinch does not get to add maybe, or sorry, or if it is not too much trouble. You ask the thing. Whole. I would like a raise to this number. Would you like to go out with me. Can you help me with this. I need you to do this differently. Clean sentences. Real verbs. Specific numbers. No trailing question marks added to statements. And then you stop. You let the other person respond. Their response is theirs. It is not a verdict on your worth. You were worthy before you asked. You are worthy during the ask. You are worthy after, regardless of the answer. This is who you are now. Someone whose asks land cleanly. Someone who does not orbit. Someone who can sit in the silence after a request without dissolving. Let this settle into you. Bone deep. Every cell rearranging around this new fact about you. You ask. That is what you do.

Now I want you to project yourself forward. To the next real ask waiting for you. Maybe it is a meeting with your manager. Maybe it is a message you are about to send. Maybe it is a conversation across a dinner table. See the room. Feel the floor under your feet. Notice the temperature. The light. See the other person. And feel yourself, this new version, stepping into the moment. You feel the old flinch begin to flicker. And you smile inwardly, because you know it now. You take one breath. And you say the thing. Notice your voice. Steady. At its normal pitch. Not climbing. Not collapsing. Notice your sentence ending where it is supposed to end, with a period, not with a trailing apology. Notice yourself stopping. Letting the silence be there. The other person processes. They respond. Whatever they say, watch yourself stay regulated. Curious. Present. If it is a yes, you receive it without surprise. If it is a no, you ask a clarifying question, or you negotiate, or you simply acknowledge it. You do not collapse. Walk yourself out of that scene afterwards. Notice how your body feels having asked, cleanly. Almost taller. Lighter in the chest. Something that has been held for weeks finally exhaled. This is the feeling on the other side of the ask. Memorize it.

In a moment I am going to bring you back up. You will carry this new identity with you. Not as a costume. As who you are. One. Awareness returning to your fingers and toes. Two. The room around you coming back into focus. Three. Your breath deepening, naturally. Four. A small stretch through the spine if you want it. Five. Eyes opening when you are ready. Awake. Clear. Steady. And carrying yourself differently than you did a half hour ago.

In the next few days, notice how often you almost soften an ask, and choose not to. Send the clean message. Speak the clean sentence. Let the silence after it exist. Each time you do this, the new identity locks in deeper. You can return to this session before any conversation that matters. But know this. The work is already done. You are already someone who asks. Go ask.