I’ve spent most of my working life listening for the sentence underneath the sentence—what people say when they don’t know what they’re saying. Insecurity rarely announces itself.

It asks for reassurance in clever disguises, and many of us learned those lines young. If you recognize yourself here, congratulations: you’re human.

The point isn’t to be flawless; it’s to notice the moments when our words stop being communication and start being a quiet plea for approval.

Here are nine things insecure people say without realizing they’re asking to be carried.

I’ll translate the subtext, explain why it shows up, and offer sturdier replacements.

1) “Is this okay? I can change it—really, it’s no big deal.”

What you’re really asking: Please like this so I can like myself.

This pops out in meetings, kitchens, and text threads about dinner plans. It seems flexible; it’s actually a bid for safety. If you grew up around unpredictable reactions, you learned to pre-offer a compromise as a shield.

Cost: You slowly convince people your preferences are optional. Over time, they stop asking for them.

Try instead: “Here’s what I propose and why. I’m open to edits.” That sentence respects your judgment and the room’s input. If someone suggests a change, treat it like a collaboration, not a verdict on your worth.

2) “I’m probably overthinking this…”

What you’re really asking: Tell me I’m not ridiculous for caring.

Self-deprecation can be a pressure valve, but used too often it becomes a preemptive strike against rejection. You “call yourself out” so no one else can. It feels like humility; it’s actually a request to be reassured you’re not too much.

Cost: People follow your lead and treat your concerns as background noise.

Try instead: “Here’s the part I’m not sure about.” Specifics invite help; global disclaimers invite dismissal. You’re not asking to be coddled—you’re asking for a second set of eyes on a real puzzle.

3) “Be honest—was that terrible?”

What you’re really asking: Please contradict my harsh inner critic.

You deliver a presentation, tell a story, cook a meal—and then set the bar at “terrible.” It’s a soft trap. The only way for the other person to soothe you is to swing to the opposite extreme. Now you’ve turned feedback into emotional labor.

Cost: You train people to placate instead of tell the truth. Your growth slows to the pace of their patience.

Try instead: “What landed? What could be tighter?” Two questions, neutral tone. You’ll get specifics you can use, not a pep talk you’ll forget by morning.

4) “I’m fine, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”

What you’re really asking: Please notice I’m not fine, but don’t make me ask.

This is a classic contradiction: you deny the need while broadcasting it with your face, voice, and pacing. It’s common among competent people who were rewarded for being low-maintenance. The subtext is, “I want comfort, but I feel guilty wanting it.”

Cost: The people who love you learn to read smoke signals, which is a tiring way to keep a house safe.

Try instead: “I’m not at 100%. I don’t need solving—company would help.” That’s a gift. You’ve turned your need into an actionable request instead of a puzzle with a timer on it.

5) “Does that make sense? Sorry, I’m rambling.”

What you’re really asking: Tell me I’m allowed to take up this space.

You see this a lot in junior employees and in people from families where airtime was a contested resource. Asking “Does that make sense?” isn’t evil, but chained to an apology it becomes a plea for permission to exist.

Cost: You hand your credibility to the listener. Eventually, they’ll stop believing you before you finish.

Try instead: “Here’s the short version.” Then give it. If they need more, they will ask. The clarity will do more good than any apology ever did.

6) “I don’t want to be a bother, but…”

What you’re really asking: Please tell me I’m not a burden.

Requests are not crimes. When you apologize for having needs, you teach people your needs are negotiable. Some of us learned this in homes where grown-ups rationed attention like sugar. The reflex follows us into adulthood and relationships.

Cost: You either don’t get what you need, or you get it with a side of resentment—yours.

Try instead: “Could you do X? It would help me do Y.” Clean request, clear reason, shared outcome. Then stop talking. Let your life take up its rightful size.

7) “Everyone else probably already knows this, but…”

What you’re really asking: Please don’t judge me for asking.

This line is an insurance policy against embarrassment. It also insults the room by assuming they’re smarter than you and too fragile to endure your question. Half the room needed the answer. The other half needed the example of asking.

Cost: You make curiosity look like a misdemeanor. People stop raising hands.

Try instead: “Quick clarifier: when you say X, do you mean Y?” That’s leadership. You normalized clarity and saved a dozen follow-up emails.

8) “You’re the expert—I’ll do whatever you think.”

What you’re really asking: Take responsibility so I don’t have to risk being wrong.

Deference feels respectful. Sometimes it is. But reflexive deference is a way to outsource courage. Insecurity loves experts because experts can be blamed later.

Cost: You sideline your judgment and dull it with disuse.

Try instead: “Here’s my read and why. What am I missing?” You keep agency while inviting correction. Experts respect peers more than passengers.

9) “Tell me the truth—do you still… (want me, respect me, think I’m doing okay)?”

What you’re really asking: Re-anchor me because I’m drifting.

We all need reassurance, especially in long relationships or seasons of change. The trouble is when you make reassurance the only tool. Then your partner or boss becomes a permanent anchor in choppy water, and you never learn to steer.

Cost: You create dependence disguised as intimacy. It feels close until it feels heavy.

Try instead: “I’m feeling unsteady and would love a read on how we’re doing—plus one specific thing I could improve this month.” Reassurance plus a lever is sturdier than reassurance alone.

Two stories, because stories teach what bullet points can’t

Years ago, a bright analyst on my team prefaced every remark with, “This might be dumb, but…” She was never dumb. She was cautious. After a meeting where her idea saved us a month and we almost missed it because of her preface, I pulled her aside. “Your idea was strong. Your preface made people doubt it. Do you want a replacement?”

She nodded. We practiced: “Short version: X. Details if helpful.” She wrote it on a sticky note. Two months later, she had a reputation for clarity instead of caveats. Same brain, different doorway.

At home, I used to ask my wife, “Be honest—was I embarrassing tonight?” It was after dinners where I’d told one story with too much enthusiasm. What I wanted was absolution. What I needed was a mirror I could trust more than the anxious narrator in my head.

One night she said, “If you want reassurance, I can give you that. If you want calibration, I’ll give you one adjustment per evening.” Deal. Now, if I cross her agreed-upon threshold, she taps her glass once.

We laugh. I adjust. I’ve asked for less blanket approval and more specific coaching. Our nights got lighter because I stopped asking her to rescue me from myself.

If you recognize your own voice in these nine lines, here’s a small toolkit to build stronger sentences

• Replace disclaimers with containers. Start with, “Short version,” “Two thoughts,” or “One question.” You’ve given your listener a map, not a mood.

• Borrow your future self’s tone. Imagine the version of you five years ahead—calmer, kinder. Speak one sentence like them. You’ll be surprised how often people treat you as you present.

• Ask for specifics you can use. “Name one thing that worked and one thing to tighten,” beats, “Was that okay?” every day of the week.

• Time-box reassurance. If you need it, ask—but add a clock and a follow-up action. “Ten minutes of gut-check, then I’ll draft the email.” You get held and you move.

• Practice one firm preference daily. “Window seat, please.” “Let’s do the quiet place.” “I’d like the blue one.” Low stakes. High reps. Preference is a muscle.

And if you love someone who speaks like this:

• Don’t scold the insecurity. Translate it. “I hear you want this to land well—tell me your best version.”

• Reward clean asks. When they manage a direct request, meet it if you can—and say why: “Thanks for asking plainly. That helps me say yes faster.”

• Offer calibration, not character verdicts. “For this audience, shorter is better,” is useful. “You ramble,” is a bruise.

One more piece of truth nobody handed me in my thirties: excessive approval-seeking is often a leftover from environments where approval was currency and safety was conditional.

You don’t shame your way out of that. You practice your way out—one cleaner sentence at a time—until your nervous system decides the world won’t collapse if you say, “Here’s what I think,” and then let the silence do its job.

Parting thoughts

Approval feels good; addiction to it does not.

The giveaways are subtle: disclaimers, pre-apologies, empty deference, questions that demand caretaking instead of clarity. When you catch yourself reaching for one of these nine lines—“Is this okay?,” “Be honest—was that terrible?,” “I don’t want to be a bother, but…,” and the rest—pause.

Swap in a sentence that respects both you and the listener: concrete, short, boundary-aware. The first time will feel risky. The second time will feel possible.

By the fifth, you’ll wonder why you ever asked people to carry what your own backbone can hold. In my seventies, that’s the permission I trust: not to be perfect, just to speak like a person who believes they belong in the room.