Farewell to Carrie Bradshaw: Farewell, icon of the 2000s

After 27 years, Carrie Bradshaw and her "Sex and the City" universe are finally over. Our author has dedicated a farewell letter to her.

Carrie Bradshaw (played by Sarah Jessica Parker) in the dress of her first date with "Mr. Big." imago

Oh, Carrie, what did you let yourself get carried away with? Was it the one million dollars per episode that made you weak? It all started so well: I secretly watched the first few episodes at night, liked the characters right away, and could identify with them. Our first few years were wonderful—we suffered together on bad dates, evaluated our romantic decisions, and everything else in life with our three best friends, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha.

There was always one constant: Mr. Big. The right man by your side, despite so many hurdles and difficulties. I rooted for you for six seasons – the four Amazons who were so different that you could see a little bit of yourself in each woman. Yes, there were clichés. Yes, diversity wasn't yet so deeply embedded in the writers' minds back then. But we loved you anyway! Even for the wrong decisions – or maybe precisely because of them?

The special moments of the six seasons of "Sex and the City" will remain unforgettable—Carrie's wonderful clothes, her shoes, her slightly shabby apartment, her money worries, and the all-important question: How do we find that one true love? And then we suffered with you when Big wasn't ready. And we rejoiced with you when Aidan came along and loved you so much. Then we were thrilled—some even condemned you for it—when you started an affair with Big, even though you were already with Aidan. That was something new on primetime TV and caused your sleek image to crumble a bit.

And yet it made you human, and we loved you for that. And then there were those great moments of friendship—like when Miranda had a baby and you supported her. Or when Samantha had cancer and you made her chemotherapy bearable. And Charlotte—whose love turmoil you accompanied twice as a bridesmaid.

In the end everything turned out well – or did it?

At the end of the series (2004), it was Big, as it always was for you, without a logical explanation. That was fine; fans were reconciled; it could have been a happy ending. But the first of two movies followed—finally, the wedding with Mr. Big—and that was still fine. The joy of seeing him again prevailed, and the storyline wasn't bad either—even if I'm still not over that hideous bag you gave your assistant. Everything turned out well in the end.

We even forgave you for the terrible second film, which was set in Abu Dhabi and featured a screaming Charlotte and a completely over-the-top Samantha—I don't remember much else, I couldn't watch it a second time.

In the summer of 2021, the show's creators attempted another major (and surely lucrative) coup: a reboot of the series under the name "And Just Like That." I have to admit, the first season wasn't bad at all. While Samantha was no longer in the cast, a few new, quite interesting characters were introduced.

It was surprising that Big died in your arms. Even if the big emotional moment didn't happen (had you already cried all your tears over Big back in Mexico after the wedding was called off, or what?) – there was a new story to tell, and at the end of the first season of this reboot, there was even the prospect of even more great single-lady stories, of taking a step forward, of renewed hope of maybe finding true love again. And the idea was good: not young women, but older women who are more established in life, have already achieved more, and yet are still afraid of starting over. The potential was there.

Aidan: The Knight in Rusty Armor

But what did we get? Dates that ended with vomiting on your own shoes. Dates that went nowhere because you weren't ready. And then—I still can't believe it—Aidan comes back into the picture. Big, the great love of your life, with whom you had spent 15 years of your TV life, is forgotten. Aidan appeared in season two as a knight in slightly rusty armor. And there you are, there you are, taking a wrong turn.

Carrie, you've regressed into a weak girl. At the end of the second season, Aidan wants to spend more time with his family in some US state that isn't New York. Oh my God! Seriously? You wait decades, Big has to die, and then he can't bring himself to choose you? That drove me crazy. If he were still attractive in any way, maybe you could forgive this submissive behavior. But he's just a spineless idiot who's cheating on you with his ex-wife.

Not a word about that in the later episodes, by the way—how can you accept that after he ended your relationship back when you had that affair with Big? Where's your pride? Aren't you worth more than that?

Unfortunately, the third season of the series drifted into complete absurdity episode after episode. It was like a car with two flat tires driving toward a ravine. You just had to watch how the writers slammed every character into slapstick until no one could be taken seriously anymore. Nothing remains from these episodes: no sense of closeness, of being close to the characters, no genuine moments of friendship like we knew them before. And you, Carrie? You've become a colorless and joyless old woman who still wanders the streets in an evening dress, but no longer exudes super-cool poise.

Oh Carrie, you icon of the 2000s, you feminist cult figure! You showed us what sexual self-determination and female friendships can mean, on prime-time television. Farewell, you great character, you strong woman of the past, you gave us everything, back then. And now a new era is dawning.