The ‘And Just Like That’ Finale Wasn’t The Goodbye We Wanted

Holy shit, I thought as the credits crept across the screen during And Just Like That’s next-to-last episode. They did it — they finally recaptured some of the magic we’ve all been craving. For a brief moment in time, it felt like we were back in New York City circa 2002, hanging out with our favorite fictional TV foursome: Carrie Bradshaw, Miranda Hobbes, Charlotte York-Goldenblatt, and Samantha Jones.

Of course, this isn’t the early aughts, and Samantha Jones didn’t make it to the sequel series. But still, if I squinted, I could almost convince myself And Just Like That had, at long last, tapped into the fizzy cocktail of fabulousness that made us all fall in love with Carrie and co. way back when: the rhythm, the banter, the friendship, the shoes.

Episode 11 was tinged with Sex and the City’s trademark chaotic charm.

Carrie buying an obnoxiously large number of pies. Questioning her editor’s request to tie up her novel with a nice bow. Confessing her fears to Seema over drinks. Revisiting Lisette at her old apartment and giving us one last closet walkthrough. Charlotte struggling with Rock’s gender non-conformity and daring to say out loud that sometimes she mourns the version of her kid she didn’t get to know. The huge blowup at Miranda’s new place over Brady’s baby mama. And LTW trying to help Herbert limp along with a bruised ego from losing his election.

For the first time in three seasons, I didn’t finish the episode out of loyalty; I watched until the credits rolled because I didn’t want it to end.

And then came the actual finale.

After three seasons, too many missteps to count, and a nearly perfect penultimate offering, the series couldn’t stick the landing. The last episode felt rushed, like someone hit fast-forward on the final act.

When a season ends, you hope for closure — but you brace for a cliffhanger. When a series ends, especially one we’ve loved for decades, you expect resolution. We didn’t get that.

I understand that’s probably the point they were trying to make since the heroine in Carrie’s novel (read: also Carrie) didn’t get her storybook denouement either. It wasn’t “The End” or even “To Be Continued.” It was an open-ended epilogue. It felt like they were telling us we should feel satisfied with this non-closure — It’s empowering! It’s modern! It’s real! — rather than actually giving us closure.

I can’t be the only one who feels like it was kind of a cop-out, right?

I discovered Sex and the City in the early 2000s, when I was in college, and by the time I binge-watched the whole thing, the series was already over — just as news of the first movie broke. Then came the second film, the short-lived Carrie Diaries, and years of rewatches.

Sometimes I’d just put the series on at night to fall asleep to, a Pavlovian response I could count on whenever I had trouble winding down.

So when And Just Like That debuted, even without Samantha (a tough blow), I was cautiously optimistic. And, well, we all know how that played out over the last three seasons. I’ve defended And Just Like That the way a diehard fan defends a losing football team. Sure, there have been fumbles (~head-scratching~ fumbles), but I was Team SATC. I was no fair-weather fan. Other people would talk sh*t, but I was patient. They’ve just got to find their stride again.

The truth is, And Just Like That never fully captured the alchemy of the original. But it did have tiny moments — little glimmers — that made me believe they could still do it.

Which is why the next-to-last episode hit the way it did. The show finally felt like it wasn’t trying too hard. The friendships once again felt lived-in, and the conversations flowed. They figured it out, but it was too late.

Yet, here’s the thing: I’m still sad it’s over.

I felt a little lump of emotion rise up in my throat as the finale faded to black, knowing that this presumably would be it. The end of an era. And I’m not going to lie, despite hate-watching And Just Like That for the better part of its entire existence, I’m going to miss the hell out of tuning in every week to see Carrie and the girls.

Even in the half-baked final episode, I kept checking how much time was left, willing it to last longer, surprised at each interval how much more I felt they needed to squeeze into the sliver of time left.

Did the finale have a few redeeming moments? Sure. Carrie dining solo at the Chinese hot pot restaurant and the server seating a giant doll across from her so she wouldn’t have to eat alone felt reminiscent of classic SATC (who could forget the infamous “single and fabulous, question mark” snafu?). Later, when she recounts the experience to Charlotte, Lisa, and Seema, she utters a line befitting early-aughts Carrie: “Not only is it tragic for women to be alone in the past, but it’s also an issue in the future.”

But ultimately, the last episode simply failed to get where it needed to go. Remember the OG series finale? Look how much life — how much resolution, how many huge emotional highs and lows — they squeezed in!

We got Carrie in Paris, the infamous Aleksandr Petrovsky slap, Carrie’s speech to him (“I’m someone who is looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient,consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love”), Big finally telling her she’s the one.

We saw Harry and Charlotte get the call about their baby, Sam tell Smith she loved him, and Miranda embrace family life in Brooklyn.

And, finally, our girl Carrie was back in her truest form, once again sauntering the streets of New York City, rejoining her friends for brunch. After, she answers a call from Big (the moment we finally learn his name is John), and in the most Carrie-coded ending, she muses, “The most exciting, challenging, and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you you love, well, that’s just fabulous.”

That.

That was the joy, the homecoming, the farewell we wanted from And Just Like That. Instead, it was all a little too… mundane?

Maybe that was the real magic of Sex and the City — it was relatable and aspirational, comfort and escapism. It could frustrate you, delight you, break your heart, and still keep you showing up. It’s the long, beautiful, deeply flawed relationship we’ve collectively been in since 1998.

And although I want to be happy for Carrie, twirling unbothered in the kitchen in another tulle skirt, this goodbye feels less like an empowering, wild-and-free, “Your girl is lovely, Hubble” moment and more like Berger’s breakup Post-It: I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me.