Sex and the City Today: We Loved Carrie, but the World Outgrew Her

Sex and the City meant everything to a generation of girls who grew up believing that being stylish, messy, ambitious and complicated wasn’t a flaw – it was the point. For years, Carrie and the girls gave us more than entertainment. They gave us a fantasy. A version of adulthood that felt wild, glamorous and just within reach, if you had the right heels and enough brunch plans.

They say nothing lasts forever; dreams change, trends come and go, but friendships never go out of style.

Carrie

It was our version of Barbie. But instead of plastic dreamhouses and pink convertibles, we got Manolos. The show made growing up look like something to chase, not fear.

But fantasy doesn’t always age well. Especially when the world around it grows up faster than the characters ever could.

This isn’t just a love letter to the show that shaped so many of us back then. It’s also an honest look at why it doesn’t quite fit anymore, and what that says about who we’ve become.

The show that shaped me

I grew up with Sex and the City. It taught me about love, heartbreak, fashion, ambition and, most of all, friendship. Before I ever had a real group of girlfriends, or my own Mr. Big, Mr. Wrong or Mr. Whatever, there were Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha. They made it look fun, messy, glamorous and survivable.

They had a fantasy life. The kind of life that felt as out of reach as Barbie’s Dreamhouse, but somehow still believable if you tried hard enough.

Carrie had her magic – not just in the shoes or the column or the curl of her hair, but in her ability to act as the glue in their friendship. Charlotte had gallery-girl grace with a perfect wifey attitude. Samantha had one hundred shades of red, combining power, sex and lipstick. She was larger than life and unapologetically her own. Miranda was cool in her sharp suits, proving that smart women could still have the final word (and maybe even the last laugh).

And the amazing gay friends. Stanford and Anthony weren’t just sidekicks. They were scene-stealers. Stylish, sarcastic and brutally honest when the girls needed it. Yes, they were written as caricatures in many ways, but they always showed up. At weddings, at brunches, in dressing rooms and breakdowns. Always the plus-one to life’s messiest moments.

The series was pure escapism. A world of fashion, fancy brands and Cosmopolitans. It was about being fabulous and glamorous. Just like Barbie, these women lived in a world designed for fascination, not function. And that’s exactly why we loved them.

When real life felt too grey, Sex and the City gave us a bright alternative. It wasn’t just about men or shoes or cocktails. It was about watching women live freely, walking from one relationship to another with confidence. It wasn’t real, but it didn’t have to be. It was inspirational, not relatable. That was the point.

Back then, we didn’t need stories to reflect us perfectly. We wanted something that glittered. Something that made being a grown-up woman look exciting, like a party we’d actually want to be invited to.

Women in the city

Years after Sex and the City, I discovered another New York friendship series: Girls. Lena Dunham’s characters were everything Carrie and the gang weren’t: insecure, awkward, often unlikeable, but undeniably real. It made Sex and the City feel glossy by comparison. The fantasy that once felt bold now seemed out of touch. And somehow, the raw messiness of Girls hit harder.

Girls wasn’t about having it all. It was about not knowing what you even wanted in the first place.

Do you know what the weirdest part about having a job is? You have to be there every day, even on the days you don’t feel like it.

Jessa

Hannah was insecure and self-absorbed, always trying to be profound but rarely reading the room. Marnie clung to control and aesthetics, falling apart behind curated perfection. Jessa was chaos in expensive boots, emotionally unreliable. Shoshanna, underestimated and underestimated again, turned out to be the most quietly resilient.

And then there was Adam. Not a dream guy or a heartthrob, but something messier: intense, strange, vulnerable and real. Ray was cynical. Grumpy on the outside, quietly heartbroken underneath. Even Elijah, the one gay friend, wasn’t there just for sparkle – he was there for survival.

Then the world changed. Did the show?

Life became more intense. Dramas got heavier. Messier. More raw and more real. But in chasing relatability, have we lost the fantasy? Have we forgotten the magic of watching something we can’t fully relate to but still crave?

Life changed. Not just for them, but for us.

The world got louder, faster and harder to romanticize. Rent prices skyrocketed. Many people lost their jobs and loved ones during COVID. Friendship started happening in group chats instead of over long lunches. We began scheduling therapy instead of crying over cocktails. We learned to name our traumas, let go of toxic exes and set boundaries, often all in one Instagram post.

This is something Girls mastered. But for Sex and the City, somewhere along the way, the glitter faded.

It became cooler to save money than to spend a mortgage on Manolos. Carrie made maxing out a credit card look charming. Today, that would be a financial trauma thread on TikTok. She was broke. Really broke. And that’s not cool anymore.

We’ve traded splurging for stability. Couture for sustainable spending. Shoe closets for budget apps. What used to scream freedom now whispers recklessness. We stopped chasing the idea of having it all. Now, we’re simply begging for rest. The perfect closet no longer excites us the way it once did.

I want to enjoy my success, not apologize for it.

Miranda

Can you modernize magic?

And Just Like That… is the official reboot of Sex and the City, bringing back Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte – now in their 50s – navigating life, loss, dating and identity in a very different New York. It launched in 2021 and was meant to modernize the franchise for a new era, without Samantha, and with a new, more diverse cast of characters.

And maybe that’s why And Just Like That… doesn’t feel quite right. It’s trying to sew fantasy into a decade that’s demanding truth. But some of us still miss the glitter. Some of us still need the fantasy to escape into. Myself included.

There’s still an inner teenager in me who screamed, “Yes, they’re back!” But then there’s the adult version of me – the more reflective, maybe even boring part – who’s raising a lot of questions.

Because let’s be honest: bringing Sex and the City into the 2020s was never going to be easy. And this time, there’s no Samantha.

And I really miss her.

So much has changed since the show ended over twenty years ago. The tone, the culture, the world itself. It’s not the same, and pretending it could be was always a risk. The reboot tries to modernize itself and matter again. It tries to tell stories that make people dream of a life bigger than their own.

To be fair, the third season has a better rhythm. But the first two seasons felt messy and overly performative. Like the show was trying too hard to prove it had evolved without really understanding what evolution means.

What I missed was the ease. I fully support LGBTQ+ rights and Pride, and the original series had a natural connection to queer culture. It was camp. It was glam. It felt effortless.

In And Just Like That…, it sometimes felt like the writers were working from a checklist. It was less about deepening the story and more about ticking boxes:

Several new characters and plotlines were introduced all at once, instead of being woven in naturally.

Miranda’s sudden coming out and relationship with Che felt rushed.

Miranda’s alcoholism storyline arrived without proper build-up or emotional grounding.

Che felt more like a collection of edgy one-liners than a fully developed character.

Rock’s non-binary identity was introduced without enough depth or follow-through. Conversations around gender and identity felt more like statements than storytelling.

Too many twists for one character, too quickly. It didn’t feel like growth. It felt like drama designed for headlines.

When you try to please everyone, you often end up pleasing no one

The truth? The show got better once it slowed down and stopped trying to tell every story at once. When the focus moved back to the friendships, the narrative calmed down.

This isn’t about resisting progress. It’s about wanting representation with real depth. About telling stories with care – not chasing every cultural trend and hoping something lands.

Final verdict

So yes, I’m critical of where the show might go next. And I have every reason to be. But after developing some common sense, and softening my expectations, I can admit something.

And Just Like That… has potential. Not to be what it once was. That would be impossible. But to become something else. Something honest. Something layered. Maybe even something surprising.

The fantasy is gone. Maybe that’s not a failure. Maybe it’s a shift.

If the series can stop performing and start telling real stories of friendship, identity, and what comes after the dream, then yes – I’ll keep watching. But I also hope it remembers how to be a little superficial. Because sometimes, what we need isn’t just raw truth. Sometimes, we need the glitter too.

The girl who once wanted the dream closet now wants peace.

But she still likes a little sparkle.

And that feels like balance.

With cheaper shoes. And a much more expensive sense of self.

PS. This blog visual is from my 2010 trip to New York, back when Sex and the City still felt like the city’s unofficial soundtrack.