A few weeks ago, as I drove to get a massage, I rehearsed what I’d tell the massage therapist. I knew I wanted the full sixty minutes devoted to my back and shoulders—no need for any of that limb nonsense. I was ready to articulate my wants and design the massage of my dreams.

But when the massage therapist collected me from the waiting area, there were no questions about preferences—just brief chitchat about whether I’d been there before. “I’m sure she’ll ask when she gets started,” I told myself when she left me in the room to get situated.

When she reentered, she got down to business. She adjusted the bolster and directed me to smell the eucalyptus as she guided me through some deep breathing exercises. And as my nostrils drank the minty scent, I readied myself for her questions about what I wanted from this custom massage. 

Then, without further ado, the massage commenced. It seemed clear to me that she’d carefully crafted this routine over the years. And even as she massaged my troubled scapulae, I wrestled with whether to interrupt her flow and communicate my preferences. (By the way, the answer is “yes” when you’ve paid for a service.) But I slid into my typical people-pleasing tendencies and kept my mouth shut like any agreeable massage recipient would. This was her massage, not mine. Or something. 

I tried to enjoy myself as she worked through some of my knottiest areas, but I knew this might be short-lived. “When she asks about the pressure level, I’ll tell her that I want the entire massage focused on my back,” I decided. I needed to reclaim this massage that hadn’t yet gone awry. 

Next thing I knew, she was getting my leg out from under the covers, and I was stewing inside. “PUT MY EFFING LIMB AWAY,” I wanted to yell at this point. But I lay there in silence—my back still screaming for attention—as she massaged my legs. Then my arms. “Stop pulling on my fingers,” I asserted with confidence, but only in my mind. 

When the sixty minutes was up, I was equal parts relieved and annoyed. I was glad it was over but frustrated that I’d acted like a massage hostage. I left the massage more revved up that when I’d arrived. Why couldn’t I just speak up for myself?

This past Thursday I had an incredibly redeeming massage experience. I explained exactly what I wanted—a task made easy by the massage therapist’s prompting. I even said, eloquently, “Don’t be getting my limbs out or anything.” 

And instead of spending the hour with my own combative inner monologue, I was thinking things like “Miracle Worker” and “Silent Knot Assassin.” It was glorious. 

All because I did what sometimes seems impossible—I spoke up for myself.