I planned this trip like it was a love letter to my soul. Sequoia. Yosemite. National parks that always felt like prayers in tree form. I thought it would be a healing reset, a time to slow down and reconnect with nature.I planned this trip like it was a love letter to my soul. Sequoia. Yosemite. National parks that always felt like prayers in tree form. I thought it would be a healing reset, a time to slow down and reconnect with nature.I planned this trip like it was a love letter to my soul. Sequoia. Yosemite. National parks that always felt like prayers in tree form. I thought it would be a healing reset, a time to slow down and reconnect with nature.

▶️ [Listen to the Podcast Episode]

📥 [Download the B.R.U.T.A.L. Self-Inventory Workbook]

I even brought along a childhood friend who’d been struggling for years after her mom passed. I thought it would help us both. She could breathe. I could hike. We could laugh our way through God’s country.
But what I planned and what I lived were not the same trip.

I ended up playing chauffeur, emotional sponge, and crisis manager—not travel buddy. What was supposed to be a journey to awe became a full-blown hostage situation with a side of snoring, manipulation, and a whole lot of truck stop trauma.
That trip didn’t give me the peace I wanted.
It gave me the truth I needed.

The truth is, I should’ve seen it coming.
She hadn’t driven in years. Didn’t own hiking shoes. Showed up six hours late because her brother needed her. She was rude before we even merged onto I-40. But I kept telling myself we had history—and isn’t that what friendship is supposed to be about?

We spent years on the phone, so I thought we could spend 12 days on the road. But I ignored the difference between nostalgia and reality.
Trips strip away the comfort zones. You’re in confined spaces. No exits. No buffers. And that’s when you find out who really gives—and who just takes.
If you’re holding onto a childhood friend you’ve outgrown, I see you. And I want you to stop apologizing for noticing the red flags. They were always there. They just got louder when the car door shut.

If you’ve ever questioned whether that friend is still safe to travel or even text with—read Set Boundaries, Find Peace by Nedra Tawwab. It helped me name what I was feeling before I could articulate it.

She never once offered to drive.
She never let me use the bathroom first.
She spent 30-minute rest stops flirting with truckers while I sat in the car, Googling “nearest gas stations in Utah.”
I drove 1,200 miles. She drove for one hour.

She complained about every landmark, every photo op, every scenic overlook. She called Sequoia “overrated” and Vegas “worse than Myrtle Beach.” She never wanted to hike, walk, or eat anywhere unless it involved her laying in bed, watching TV, and raiding all the snacks I packed.
I wasn’t traveling with a friend. I was babysitting someone’s grief, entitlement, and emotional volatility.

In Utah, it all cracked. Her screaming, my silence, and a loud thud on the highway that turned out to be a deflating tire on a car with no full-size spare.
Emotional hostage situation, now featuring mechanical failure.

If you’re planning a road trip with anyone, get yourself:
A portable charger
A full-size spare tire (trust me)
AirTags for your luggage
And noise-canceling earbuds so you don’t lose your mind to the sound of self-absorption

Somewhere between Zion and my sanity, I realized I didn’t want to see Yosemite with her. I didn’t want to share sacred space with someone who couldn’t even be bothered to share driving shifts. So I took back control. I booked a hotel in Vegas, upgraded my attitude, and left her complaints in the dust.
She hated Vegas. I loved it more because of that.
I drank overpriced coffee, walked the strip, took myself to dinner, and reclaimed the vacation she tried to ruin. I had my own trip. She had her hotel room.
Want to know if a friendship still fits? Ask yourself: Would I travel with this person again?

Go solo. Go slower. Go local. Go alone.
Take yourself out. Book the reservation. Stop apologizing for taking up space. Dance in your hotel room. Take the photos. Eat the damn pistachios. Find joy again. Find you again.

The friendship wasn’t ruined by the road trip. It was revealed by it.

Let that sink in.

Sometimes you need 12 days, 12 hours, and 1 donut tire to realize:

• You’re the one who drives the energy in your friendships
• You deserve reciprocity
• You can leave without guilt

And sometimes the most freeing thing you can do is book a room, drink overpriced coffee, and walk away—with your peace and your plans fully intact.

This isn’t motivation—it’s reclamation.  In the debut episode of Honest Pursuits, Cate Brown stops performing for approval and starts designing life on her own terms. She dismantles the myth of “having it all,” calls out success theater for what it is, and lays out the real framework that saved her sanity: B.R.U.T.A.L. = Boundaries, Reinvention, Unlearning, Truth, Accountability, Liberation.
It’s not therapy; it’s a strategy for people who are done shrinking.
Bold, funny, and brutally self-aware—this is your permission slip to stop asking for one.
🎧 Listen now and take your power back.

These aren’t sponsored (yet). They’re survival tools. The emotional duct tape that kept me from throwing my laptop into traffic.

💡 Mentioned in This Episode:

• 🧠 Notion — because apparently “organize your breakdowns” is a productivity hack now.

• 💬 BetterHelp — when you need therapy without the small talk or the pants.

• 📘 Atomic Habits by James Clear — because you can’t manifest your way out of bad habits.

• 🕯️ $6 Lavender Candle (Target) — practically aromatherapy therapy.

We all have one brutal truth we’ve been avoiding. Mine became a podcast. Yours deserves a mic too.

📲 Confess your Brutal Truth.
Slide into the DMs on Instagram @honest.pursuits and drop your confession (anonymous if you want).
We might feature it on the next “Hot Seat Story Night” episode. No judgment. Just honesty with Wi-Fi.

Get Brutal With Yourself →

Find Your Next Episode