And Just Like That, the cringeworthy Sex and the City “revival,” that many have been hate-watching for the last few years, has been canceled.
For those living under a rock or those who may not know about this show because they have better things to do with their time, And Just Like That is the so-called revival of the once-fun and flirty Sex and the City. Gen Xers, Millennials, and suburban Karens everywhere were busting out their Jimmy Choos and inviting friends over for Cosmopolitan cocktails to watch what was promised to be a fresh take on the beloved show about four single career women taking on New York and finding their way in love. Instead, the show became an exhausting apology letter for a past that wasn’t as politically correct as some, meaning the liberal writers, thought it should have been.
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The show had enormous potential to rekindle the charm and wit that captivated audiences decades ago. Instead, it became a relentless parade of woke tropes, shamelessly wielded as teaching tools for a “new reality” that many viewers found alienating.
The original Sex and the City was all about friendship, glamour, and navigating the chaos of relationships. And Just Like That could have been a vibrant second act—celebrating life’s next chapters for women in their 50s and 60s. Instead, it felt like the writers were trying to atone for every sin ever committed against political correctness: nonbinary lifestyles shoehorned everywhere, open pot smoking on busy city streets, and an endless emphasis on trans identities. Add to that the shocking shift where Miranda dumped the sweet, dependable husband everybody adored to “find herself” as a lesbian, and drove whatever point home by having a storyline with a lesbian nun played by OG Trump hater, Rosie O’Donnell—all of this is a recipe for viewer burnout.
Yet, amidst the overload of woke messaging, one moment struck a chord—the storyline about Charlotte and Harry’s daughter, Rose, attending a school that called her parents to declare that Rose “is now Rock.” The disbelief and confusion on their faces were palpable, and the show briefly hinted at something real: parents feeling sidelined and powerless in decisions made about their children’s identities. But then, just as quickly, the story smoothed over the friction, showing effortless acceptance. What a missed opportunity to explore the messy reality of these situations—how this isn’t always neat or easy. Instead, the narrative rushed to consensus, missing a chance to reflect parental struggles in a world that is moving too fast for many.
The series seemed to genuinely start hitting its stride when it finally ditched the Che Diaz character, a nonbinary Mexican/Irish, pot-smoking, unfunny comedian, and began developing Seema Patel’s storyline with more care. Seema brought a fresh perspective and some much-needed depth. The Lisa Todd Wexley character, a wealthy documentary filmmaker with a husband running for political office, was also becoming a fascinating character. Ironically, these two characters were not from the original series. Unfortunately, it was too little, too late, and the damage of the show’s earlier missteps had already set the tone.
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The saddest part? This show could have been a remarkable showcase of how people in their 50s and 60s today are redefining life, embracing new passions, and living second acts to the fullest. Charlotte’s arc was a rare bright spot—returning to her art gallery roots as her kids grew up, believably coming full circle. Imagine if the writers had taken the creative risk of making Charlotte a full-blown conservative, setting her up as a foil to the liberal Miranda. That clash could have sparked dramatic tension and vibrant storytelling, reflecting real-life debates happening in households everywhere.
Instead, the show stumbled, barely disguising the awkwardness behind preachy lessons and forced inclusivity. Ironically, the downfall can be summed up by the Sydney Sweeney American Eagle ad incident, symbolizing how the taste-makers missed the mark on what audiences crave. People want entertainment that offers beauty, fun, fabulous clothes, and aspirational lifestyles, not lectures from the swiftly shrinking progressive left.
And Just Like That could have been that show—the glamorous, sparkling tale of women living boldly and unapologetically in middle age. Instead, it got lost in a fog of woke directives, forgetting that TV magic comes from heart, laughter, and drama—without the constant reminder that you must accept every newly defined “reality” without question.
It was an opportunity wasted, a classic tarnished, and a reminder that audiences still hunger for authenticity, not activism in disguise.
Viewers will have one last opportunity to watch And Like That through gritted teeth when the final episode airs on August 14, 2025.
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