And Just Like That… The Woman Faced Her Shadows
When news broke that And Just Like That was being cancelled, my first thought wasn’t shock. Honestly, it felt inevitable. The sequel to Sex and the City had everything stacked in its favour - nostalgia, beloved characters, a whole new era to explore - but somehow it stumbled. Hard.
The writing felt clunky. The characters didn’t feel like women we could actually like or relate to anymore. Some were stuck in the same old problems they had twenty years ago, as if they’d learned nothing. Others felt like strangers to their younger selves. And what could have been a bold chance to explore new voices and ideas ended up feeling more like tokenism than trailblazing.
But here’s the thing: it wasn’t just about a poorly written TV show. It struck a nerve because, deep down, we wanted these women to grow alongside us. Sex and the City worked because Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha weren’t perfect. They were messy, funny, complicated, just like us.
We didn’t just watch them; we identified with them. “You’re such a Carrie” or “I’m totally a Charlotte” weren’t just throwaway lines, they were how we mapped parts of ourselves, how we laughed with our friends over brunch, how we dreamed about Manolos and Cosmopolitans. They weren’t just primetime characters; they were extensions of who we were, or who we wanted to be. That’s exactly why it hurt when And Just Like That gave us women who felt unrecognisable, or worse - unchanged. It let us down.
And maybe that’s why the sting lingered. It wasn’t just about them. It made us wonder about ourselves. Have I really grown? Or am I still circling the same old issues, just with a few more wrinkles, bills, and school pickups in the mix?
Here’s what the original got right: the women of Sex and the City were messy, but there were moments when they truly did pause.
Carrie sat at her laptop, turning her life into words - her career, her relationships, the mess and magic of the world around her - all while asking out loud the questions we were all quietly thinking but too afraid to admit.
Miranda pulled her own life apart like a courtroom case, weighing the evidence, exposing the flaws, and standing firm in a world where women had to fight twice as hard just to be seen. And she did it with grit, fire, and zero apologies.
Charlotte wore her heart proudly, never willing to settle, always chasing what felt true because she knew her worth from the start.
And Samantha (and oh how we missed her) she said the things we were too scared to say, naming her desires without shame, tearing up the rulebook of how women were “supposed” to behave.
For all their chaos, they were fully rounded characters. They were curious about themselves and each other, and they were even prepared to be unlikeable, selfish, contradictory, even narcissist at times, but that’s what made them relatable.
They also challenged each other. They called each other out. They weren’t afraid to hurt each other’s feelings, because underneath it was love. That’s what made it feel like a true sisterhood, the kind where you can say the hard thing, not to wound, but because you want your friend to grow.
And Just Like That skipped that part. Instead of pausing, reflecting, or challenging one another, the characters barrelled forward, glossing over the moments that could have been raw, tender and real. The writers were too scared to make the characters ugly. They gave them problems, yes, but never real resolution or growth. Instead, we got shallow one-liners, unnecessary side characters and side quests, exaggerated expressions, and theatrics, all, I’m sure, in the name to not alienate viewers. But in doing so, they alienated us all. The deep, messy, relatable women we grew up with became shallow caricatures, and the moments that could have been transformative were lost.
And maybe that’s what we’re really craving. Not perfect storylines, not polished characters, but the pause. The reflection. The willingness to stop, take a breath, and ask: what does this mean for me now? To be curious about ourselves, even if the answers are uncomfortable.
Maybe the real lesson is this: And Just Like That failed to be truly vulnerable and ugly. The show was too scared to show the characters messy, flawed, raw, and human - the parts of life that are hard to watch but impossible to ignore. Life can be ugly. Friendship can be messy. Love can disappoint. But that’s exactly where the beauty is. Where the humanity is. Where the stories and the selves we actually relate to, live.
Self-reflection is the greatest tool we have but we don’t always use it well. We answer the easy questions in our journals, scroll past the hard ones, and convince ourselves we’re “doing the work.” But it’s the hard questions, the ones that stir fear, discomfort, or shame, that give us depth, insight, and growth.
So here’s some questions I want you to really sit with. Try not to skip past them or soften the answers, but feel them fully:
Which parts of my life am I holding onto because I’m afraid to let go, even though they no longer serve me?
What truths about myself am I avoiding because they might make others disappointed or uncomfortable?
Where have I compromised my desires or dreams to fit into someone else’s expectations?
Which relationships in my life feel safe but stagnant, and why am I afraid to change them?
What fears are keeping me from fully expressing my sexuality, desires, or personal power?
How do I judge myself in ways I would never judge a friend, and what would happen if I stopped?
What parts of my past do I still carry shame or guilt about, and how are they shaping my present?
Where do I hide my vulnerability out of fear, and what would happen if I allowed myself to be truly seen?
Which dreams or ambitions have I abandoned, and is it fear, comfort, or self-doubt holding me back?
What would I do differently if I weren’t afraid of judgment from others, or from myself?
Sit with these questions. Wrestle with them. Take your time. Journal, reflect, and breathe. The answers aren’t always neat, and they may not come quickly, but they’re yours. And that depth, that willingness to confront the shadow, is where true growth and connection begin.
And that is enough.
