The time has come to bid farewell to Carrie Bradshaw, the icon of seeking love in all the wrong places. The series finale of And Just Like That… wraps up the reboot, which audiences critique yet are unable to stop watching.

Since her introduction in 1998 in the inaugural episode of Sex and the City, Carrie’s (Sarah Jessica Parker) significance in popular culture has been cemented as the intricate, romantic, independent, vulnerable, and occasionally exasperating single woman about town. Despite the shortcomings of both Sex and the City and And Just Like That…, it’s poignant to say goodbye to Carrie (once more). Throughout the years, she has been a steadfast companion to single women, those navigating the complexities of contemporary dating, passionate romantics, the lovelorn, and individuals who have faced heartbreak.

Generations of viewers have related to the four female leads of SATC as a form of personality assessment — “I’m definitely a Carrie!” “I’m Charlotte-like, but deep down I’m a Samantha.” Twenty-seven years since that initial episode, Carrie Bradshaw’s impact is still palpable. Sex and the City discussions thrive on TikTok, rejuvenated by a fresh wave of Gen-Z viewers streaming the series on HBO Max. In popular culture, SATC references remain abundant; in the past year, Gen Z icon Olivia Rodrigo donned a sequined top stating “Carrie Bradshaw AF” at Madison Square Garden, and in “Nissan Altima,” Grammy-winning Doechii rapped, “I’m like Carrie Bradshaw with a back brace on.”

As Carrie’s final appearance on screen (until the next reboot) arrived, I pondered: What is the lasting charm of this character?

As a millennial in my thirties in search of love, Carrie Bradshaw has always held a special place in my heart. Growing up in the 2000s, I watched SATC in my bedroom on regular television before I had even kissed a boy. Is this what my thirties would resemble? I wondered during my teenage years. The absence of a boyfriend never appeared so fabulously sparkling.

Like many women, this show continues to resonate as I grow older. In my twenties, I explored New York and embarked on a Sex and the City tour of Manhattan, snapping pictures outside Carrie’s apartment building at 245 East 73rd Street (though the actual brownstone lies in the West Village), pausing for cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery, and enjoying a Cosmopolitan at Scout, the bar owned by Steve (David Eigenberg) and Aidan (John Corbett) together. The SATC fan pilgrimage was poignant since I was grappling with heartbreak, having been ghosted by someone I cared for, and deliberating whether to send the dreaded message to him (I did).

When confronted with heartbreak or perplexing dating situations, I seek solace, understanding, and affirmation from this show. Even now in my mid-thirties, I identify with Carrie’s insistence on not settling for a relationship devoid of the love she rightfully deserves. “I’m searching for love,” Carrie proclaimed in the final episode of Sex and the City. “Authentic love. Absurd, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love.”

Let’s not overlook Sex and the City’s problematic elements

Despite her importance to fans, it’s impossible to ignore that Carrie is a profoundly flawed character. She is self-absorbed, lacks accountability, is egotistical, and often neglects her friends, even when they need her most. But there’s a broader issue.

Like many sitcoms from the ’90s and ’00s, certain elements of Sex and the City don’t withstand the scrutiny of a contemporary perspective. The absence of diversity is a glaring shortcoming. The four main characters are white, privileged, cisgender, and their narratives (at least in the original series) center around dating and sexual relationships with men. Racist, reductive stereotypes run rampant throughout the series. In a rare instance of including Black characters, Season 3, episode 5 has Samantha (Kim Cattrall) dating record label executive Chivon (Asio Highsmith) in a depiction that has not aged well. The episode showcases overly sexualized conversations regarding Chivon’s anatomy, refers to Black culture as “urban,” and portrays Chivon’s sister Adeena (Sundra Oakley) as a commanding “angry Black woman.” It’s a troublesome episode.

Once more, in Season 3, episode 18, titled “Cock-a-Doodle-Do,” Carrie faces disruptive neighbors but draws a comparison between the lives of Black trans sex workers and those of caged chickens. Carrie adopting a AAVE accent at the episode’s conclusion raises the question: were any Black or trans writers involved in the writing room? (They were not.)

When And Just Like That… debuted in 2021, audiences felt that concerns regarding diversity were acknowledged. Co-creator Michael Patrick King introduced a more diverse writing team, including Samantha Irby, Keli Goff, and Rachna Fruchbom. Irby mentioned to Vogue in 2021, “I was a huge