What’s the right way to conclude the story of Carrie Bradshaw? She’s at once a hopeless romantic and a hardened skeptic. An emblem of feminism yet often defined by her relationships with men. A devoted friend and yet at times, profoundly self-centered. She embodies a paradox. How do you craft a fitting finale for such a character?

Looking back through a nostalgic lens of two decades, Sex And The City wrestled with this very dilemma. After moving to Paris for a dubious artist boyfriend, Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) ultimately finds her fairy-tale ending when Mr. Big (Chris Noth) comes through with a grand romantic gesture, leading to their reunion. Moreover, the other three women also conclude their arcs in happy domestic bliss—with two married and with children, and one in a committed relationship.

To grasp the significance of this resolution, it’s essential to recognize that SATC was more than a TV show—it was a cultural phenomenon. It painted a captivating picture of autonomy, camaraderie, and sexual freedom for many women in their twenties and thirties living in cities. Carrie and her friends weren’t just fictional characters; they were symbols of what could be. The series popularized brunch as a sacred gathering, elevated Manolos to a status symbol, and promoted the idea that your female friends could be your soulmates. Yet, it subtly suggested that all paths, even the most glamorous and independent ones, should ideally lead to a romantic partnership. Did the finale, with its traditional happy endings, betray the show’s pioneering spirit, or was it a nod to the inevitability that Carrie would end up with Big, thus undermining her independence as merely a temporary detour?

The series itself was a blend of feminist ideals and fantastical elements. Given SATC’s portrayal of Manhattan as an almost mythic realm—a notion that persists among young women today—what other conclusion could there be? Could Carrie have ended up alone? What would it signify for a 38-year-old Carrie to choose solitude in the finale of SATC? It would mean a defiance of societal expectations, a repudiation of Big’s often toxic behavior, and an acknowledgment of Carrie’s happiness existing outside traditional norms. In principle, that’s what And Just Like That… aims to explore, but by now, this approach feels too little, too late. Michael Patrick King seems to want it both ways.

The narrative doesn’t just suggest the “alone” ending—it forcefully hammers it home across the final two episodes. Carrie contemplates ending her novel with the protagonist alone in her garden, though her editor pushes for a more optimistic epilogue. When Carrie dines alone at a modern restaurant, a plush tomato doll is placed across from her as if to say, “You don’t have to be alone!” She confides in Charlotte (Kristen Davis) that while she’s been single before, “I’ve never lived alone without thinking it was just temporary…I need to stop waiting for a man and start embracing just me. It’s not sad; it’s reality.”

By showcasing all of Carrie’s concerns about being single, AJLT seems to coerce its audience into adopting a more progressive view of Carrie’s independence. If you’re hoping she ends up back in a man’s arms, you’re as misguided as her clichéd book editor. It appears AJLT lacks faith in the audience’s ability to accept Carrie’s solitude, constantly justifying its narrative choice. A truly bold show would allow Carrie to embrace her independence unapologetically. AJLT seeks praise for its audacity while still aiming to placate everyone.

Although the series frames Carrie’s solitude as an empowering decision, it’s important to note that this ending might not have been envisioned as the ultimate series conclusion. Despite King’s announcements on social media that season three was “a perfect stopping point,” there were rumors that the cancellation took him and Parker by surprise. This raises questions about whether Carrie’s ending is a profound feminist statement or merely the result of an incomplete story arc.

Moreover, Carrie Bradshaw at 59 alone is different from Carrie at 38 alone. At 38, society still suggests you have time, and actively choosing solitude is meaningful. It could have been a powerful statement. But now, Carrie isn’t alone by choice over Big; she’s alone because Big has passed away. She’s on the flip side of a successful marriage, both romantically and financially, leaving her a wealthy widow. The epilogue she finally pens—“The woman realized she was not alone. She was on her own.”—sounds empowering but feels superficial emotionally. It’s easy to stand alone when you’re cushioned by wealth and have recently had a fling with a renowned author. Why do we discuss Carrie’s solitude as if she’s a forgotten old maid that no one will ever notice again?

Regarding her novel’s finale, Carrie remarks it feels “honest” for the woman to end up alone. But does this conclusion, whether intentional or not, feel truthful? What would a genuine resolution for a 59-year-old Carrie Bradshaw, with all her complexities, actually look like? Truthfully, balancing fantasy with feminist ideals is challenging, but AJLT could have done better to truly innovate rather than merely pretend to break new ground.