Why Am I Never Asked What I Think?

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WorkLife Stories from School of WorkLife Episode: Why Am I Never Asked What I Think?

Why am I never asked what I think is the question every excellent, overlooked specialist asks on the way back to their desk. People can see your output. They cannot see how you think — and until they can, they'll keep using your work and deciding without you.

Nazanin's analysis shaped every decision in the building, from outside the room. This is the story of the colleague's question that changed everything, and the three stories she found in four years of work — the buried warning, the average that hid its real customers, and the reason she became an analyst at all.

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Nazanin was one of the best data analysts her company had. The quarterly strategy was built on her numbers. The big product decision came straight out of her analysis. When something important was being decided, her work was in the room. She was not. I know more about this than anyone in that room, she'd think, at her desk afterwards. Why am I never asked what I think? Welcome to WorkLife Stories from School of WorkLife. I'm Carmel O' Reilly. And today's episode is— the question every excellent, overlooked specialist asks on the way back to their desk. This story is about Nazanin. And about the difference between the work you hand over and the judgement nobody knows you have. The Meeting She Wasn't In Nazanin was forty-three, and one of the best data analysts her company had. Her work was everywhere. The quarterly strategy was built on her numbers. The decision to drop one product line and expand another had come straight out of an analysis she'd spent three weeks on. When something important was being decided, her data was in the room. She was not. She'd provide the figures when they were requested. She'd answer the technical questions that came back. And then she'd watch — sometimes literally, through the glass wall of the meeting room — while the people with her analysis in front of them shaped the strategy without her. It wasn't hostility. Nobody was shutting her out. It simply never occurred to anyone to ask the analyst what the analyst thought. They asked her what the numbers were. Those, apparently, were different questions — and only one of them got asked. She'd sit at her desk afterwards and think the thought that had become familiar over four years: I know more about this than anyone in that room. Why am I never asked what I think? What She Was Actually Giving Them The realisation came from a colleague, in the least dramatic way possible. A newer analyst, reviewing one of Nazanin's reports, said: "This is incredible work. What do you think we should do about it?" Nazanin opened her mouth to answer — and heard herself give the reasons the numbers were reliable. The methodology. The sample size. The confidence intervals. The colleague waited, and then said, gently: "No — I know it's solid. I mean, what would you do? If it were your call?" And Nazanin realised she had never once been asked that question in a meeting, because she had never given anyone reason to think she had an answer to it. For four years, she had handed over findings. Impeccable, reliable, complete findings. And a finding is a thing you use. It goes in a slide. It supports a decision someone else makes. What she had never handed over was her judgement — what the findings meant, what she'd do about them, what she could see coming that the numbers only hinted at. She'd been giving them the map. She'd never once told them which road she'd take. Why This Happens Here is the mechanism, and it is not about confidence or seniority. When people can only see your output, they can only use your output. A number is information. Information gets referenced — put in a document, cited in a decision, filed. It does not get asked. Nobody turns to a spreadsheet and says "but what do you think we should do?" Thinking is different. Thinking is what a room actually needs when it faces a decision it isn't sure about — and thinking, unlike a number, cannot be extracted from you and used without you. It has to be asked for. But it will only be asked for once people know it's there. That is the whole of Nazanin's problem. Her judgement was excellent and invisible. She had trained an entire organisation, over four years, to see her as the person who provides the data — because providing the data was all she had ever visibly done. You do not become influential by producing better work. Nazanin's work could not have been better. You become influential when people can see how you think — and then, for the first time, they have a reason to ask. What Nazanin Found She sat down one evening and did something she'd never done: she thought about her own experience as stories, not spreadsheets. She found three. A failure. Two years earlier, she'd flagged a risk in a market she'd been tracking — quietly, in a report, in a paragraph near the end. Nobody acted on it. The risk materialised, expensively, six months later, and in the post-mortem nobody even remembered that she'd seen it. It had been right there, and it had changed nothing, because she'd buried a judgement inside a document instead of saying it out loud as a judgement. It taught her that being right, unheard, is worth exactly nothing. A success. The product decision everyone remembered — dropping the under-performer, expanding the other. What nobody knew was how she'd seen it: the underperforming line wasn't underperforming at all in the segment that mattered; it was being killed by an average that hid its real customers. She hadn't looked at the number everyone looked at. She'd looked at who was behind it. That's how she thinks: she doesn't trust an average until she's seen who it's hiding. A passion. She'd become an analyst because, growing up, she'd watched confident people make bad decisions loudly while quiet people who actually understood things said nothing. It had made her furious as a girl and it drove her still: the truth of a situation should win, not the volume of the person asserting it. That's why she does this work — to give the quiet truth a voice in the room. Three stories. None of them a number. All of them the truth about how she works. The Meeting She Was In A strategy meeting came up about a market she knew better than anyone in the building. And this time she did something different. She didn't wait to be asked for the figures. She asked to be there — and she prepared the one thing she'd never brought into a room before: not more data, but what she thought they should do, and why. When the discussion turned to the risk everyone was uneasy about but couldn't name, Nazanin didn't present a chart. She said: "I've seen this shape before. Two years ago I spotted a risk exactly like this one and I put it in a report, and we all found out the hard way that a warning nobody reads isn't a warning. So I want to say this one out loud: I think we're about to make the same mistake, and here's what I'd do instead." The room went quiet. Then it turned toward her — and the head of strategy, who had never once asked her opinion, said: "Go on." She wasn't more qualified that day than she'd been the day before. She was the same analyst, with the same four years behind her. She had simply, for the first time, let them see what she thought. Six weeks later, she wasn't waiting to be invited. She was expected — not as the analyst who might be needed, but as the person whose judgement the decision required. Why You're Never Asked: What Nazanin's Story Shows People use what they can see. Make your thinking visible. Your output gets referenced. Your judgement gets asked for — but only once it's been shown. Nobody asks a spreadsheet what it thinks. Give them the road, not just the map. A finding is what the data says. Your judgement is what you'd do about it. The second one is the thing a room actually needs — and the thing you've probably never handed over. Say the judgement out loud, as a judgement. Nazanin's risk was right there in a report, and it changed nothing. A warning nobody reads isn't a warning. What lives in a document gets used; what you say as a judgement gets weighed. The story you lead with is the one the moment needs. A room that's uncertain whether to trust you? Your failure — what you got wrong, and what it taught you. A room about to misread a situation? Your success — what you saw that they can't. A room deciding what something is for? Your passion — what your judgement serves. Nazanin led with her buried warning because that was the room she was in. All three earn the seat; the moment tells you which to bring. Being right is not the same as being heard. The two feel identical from the inside and could not be more different in the room. This resource is about closing the gap between them. You Already Have What the Room Needs Four years held every story Nazanin needed. She hadn't been failing to earn her seat — she'd been earning it invisibly, in work nobody could see the thinking behind. The failure that taught her what silence costs. The success that showed her how she actually sees. The reason she does this at all. Yours are there in the same way — in the work you've been doing all along, that people use without ever seeing the mind behind it. CLOSING That's today's story — Why Am I Never Asked What I Think? And if you want to go deeper, my third Professional Self-Coaching resource — Get the Seat at the Table, for strategic influence — is there when you're ready. All the details and links are in the show notes, or you can find everything at www.schoolofworklife.com. Remember: People use what they can see. Your output gets referenced. Your judgement gets asked for — but only once you've let them see it. Thank you for listening.