They’re finally calling it: And Just Like That is ending with Season 3, and the Internet — fans, critics, and casual hate-watchers alike — gave a collective “yeah, that makes sense.”
Let’s be real: from the moment the revival of Sex and the City was announced, I knew exactly what kind of mess we were signing up for. I say this as a xennial who came of age with Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and (Samantha—may her spirit haunt the group chat forever): I missed them. But I also understood that nostalgia is a liar in Manolos.
We weren’t going to get cosmos and quippy one-liners. We were going to get… menopause. And Instagrammable grief. And podcast co-hosts named Che.
Three Seasons of Trying to Make Fetch Happen
From the jump, And Just Like That stumbled over itself trying to be relevant. Season 1 was a tonal car crash—clunky “wokeness” shoehorned into every scene like a bad Tinder date who keeps quoting Ibram X. Kendi to impress you. And yet, I kept watching. Why? Because I needed to see where these women really ended up. I wasn’t expecting them to be perfect. In fact, I expected the opposite—because life doesn’t tie itself up with a pink tulle bow at 55. It comes at you in orthopedic heels and an AARP membership.
But even with that understanding, the show never quite found its rhythm. We got Miranda leaving Steve (but also sort of not), Charlotte throwing tantrums about being a working mom (insert eye roll here), and Carrie… selling her iconic apartment and bouncing between lovers like she wasn’t still grieving the ghost of Mr. Big (and her last shred of relatability).
The Final Farewell (Sans Fanfare)
On August 1st, showrunner Michael Patrick King confirmed what many suspected: season 3 would be the last. “While I was writing the last episode… it became clear to me that this might be a wonderful place to stop,” he wrote on Instagram. Translation: this storyline had run out of overpriced steam.
And it’s not just viewers who are in their feelings. Kristin Davis (Charlotte) posted that she was “profoundly sad” and grateful for the 400+ crew members who made the show. Sarah Jessica Parker penned a love letter to Carrie Bradshaw, saying, “I am better for every single day I spent with you.” Honestly? Same. Carrie was chaos, but she was our chaos. Like a pair of vintage heels that don’t quite fit anymore, but you still keep them because of the memories.
Samantha’s Ghost and the Absence We Couldn’t Ignore
Let’s talk about the hole in the Chanel purse: no Samantha. Sure, she sent texts. Yes, she popped in for a cameo. But Kim Cattrall’s absence was more than just physical — it was spiritual. The show was never the same without her biting wit and sex-positive irreverence. Instead, we got a parade of new characters of color and queer characters who were supposed to fill that void but were treated more like DEI checkboxes than people with arcs. It tried to be inclusive but forgot to be honest.
Diversity without depth is just a set dressing.
Carrie and Aidan: A Final Round of Poor Choices
One of the last major plots involved Carrie rekindling things with Aidan — again. And while every woman I know has gone back to an ex who felt familiar (like a worn-in leather boot that gives you blisters anyway), the writing was on the brick townhouse wall. Their problems were always systemic. No amount of Virginia farm visits could change that. Even the producers admitted the breakup was inevitable, though it still hit hard thanks to Parker and Corbett’s chemistry.
I wanted it to work. I wanted something to work. But much like Carrie’s idea of buying a massive apartment in Gramercy Park (in this economy?!), it felt detached from the world most of us live in.
And Just Like That… It Got Too Fancy
Once Carrie sold her OG apartment — the one with the broken closet door and the Post-it breakups — it was a wrap. That apartment was a character. It was the only proof that Carrie Bradshaw ever lived in a remotely relatable version of New York. From then on, the show leaned heavily into an ultra-wealthy fantasy. Not aspirational, just alienating.
And in a time when rent is outpacing wages and reproductive rights are being stripped faster than Miranda’s storyline, watching rich women in couture sip $30 lattes and debate existential crises over fresh-cut peonies just didn’t hit the same. It felt… oblivious. Like watching The Hunger Games from the Capitol’s point of view.
Diversity in Theory, Not in Practice
Let’s give credit where it’s due: And Just Like That tried. It really did. The writers introduced Seema Patel played by Sarita Choudhury (a badass, high-powered real estate agent), Lisa Todd Wexley (an affluent documentary filmmaker juggling motherhood and martinis) played by Nicole Ari Parker. They cycled through a few queer love interests for Miranda, including Che Díaz (a nonbinary stand-up comic) played by Sara Ramirez, and most recently characters played by Rosie O’Donnell and Dolly Wells. But… f*ck, man. It wasn’t enough.
Representation is more than just casting a few people of color and queer characters and calling it a day. It’s not just about being there — it’s about being real. And while this reboot did offer more screen time to women who aren’t white, straight, and sipping cosmos in the Meatpacking District, the lives these characters lived were still so far out of reach for most of us, it bordered on science fiction.
Yes, it’s true: seeing people of color in the Sex and the City universe not reduced to cab drivers, assistants, or fleeting brunch plot points is a win. But what are we supposed to do with that win when the characters are dripping in couture and worrying about donor galas while the rest of us are budgeting gas and groceries?
The U.S. might be in its “eat the rich but first watch their Bravo show” era, but this wasn’t that. The emotional struggles were often valid, but the socioeconomic disconnect was loud. And Just Like That wanted us to feel seen—but instead, we felt like we were peeking in on an ultra-exclusive club where access and authenticity weren’t exactly on the guest list.
And trust — the internet noticed. Twitter (sorry, X) had a field day dragging the performative attempts at inclusion, the cringey dialogue, and the disjointed arcs that felt like they were written by a diversity committee trying to hit quotas instead of characters living fully realized lives.
It wasn’t nothing, but it sure wasn’t enough.
Am I Sad It’s Ending? Kinda.
There were glimmers — flashes of vulnerability and moments that still made me smile, like an old friend who occasionally drops a perfect one-liner. I hoped it would evolve. That it would become less about who they used to be and more about where women go after everything. But it never quite got there.
Maybe because the world they live in stopped resembling ours. Maybe because the show forgot that you can be both flawed and grounded. Maybe because some of us grew up, and the show didn’t.
As the last two episodes approach, I’ll watch. Of course I will. I’ve come this far. And I’ll probably tear up, not just because it’s over — but because Sex and the City, for all its problems, once made me feel seen. Not rich. Not perfect. But complicated and alive.
And Just Like That, it’s time to let go.
