When it was announced—perhaps leaked, the way these things always are—I felt a flicker of excitement tempered by reluctance. Sex and the City had long been one of my timeless favorites. Carrie drew me in first, with her clothes and her questions, her friendships with Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha forming the scaffolding for a life examined in public.
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| The Art Institute of Chicago |
But it was Samantha who kept the series alive. She practiced self-care long before the term was rebranded and softened. Back then, it was called selfish. Or worse, honest. She knew how to hear no without shrinking. She distinguished between love and lust with a clarity most of us never quite master. She understood sex, yes—but more importantly, she understood love. And on the rare occasions she allowed herself to fall into it, she revealed a vulnerability that felt earned, not sentimental.
When it became clear that Kim Cattrall would not return, speculation bloomed predictably. Would they kill Samantha off? Replace her? Erase her? We now know she survives, relocated to London, leaving the door ajar for a return to And Just Like That…—a narrative compromise that feels both strategic and unresolved.
So what is And Just Like That… without Samantha? Thus far, subdued. The most seismic plot point—the death of Mr. Big—was quickly overtaken by real-world noise, muting its emotional impact. Carrie’s loss barely registered for me until the reading of the will.
When it became clear that Kim Cattrall would not return, speculation bloomed predictably. Would they kill Samantha off? Replace her? Erase her? We now know she survives, relocated to London, leaving the door ajar for a return to And Just Like That…—a narrative compromise that feels both strategic and unresolved.
So what is And Just Like That… without Samantha? Thus far, subdued. The most seismic plot point—the death of Mr. Big—was quickly overtaken by real-world noise, muting its emotional impact. Carrie’s loss barely registered for me until the reading of the will.
It wasn’t Carrie I felt for. It was Natasha.
Natasha, who blocked Carrie’s emails. Who blocked her on Instagram. Who had her assistant lie when Carrie appeared uninvited at her office. Natasha, who had already done the work of moving on from an injury she never asked for. John and Carrie’s affair had wounded her once; she was under no obligation to reopen that scar for their catharsis. Not for closure. Not for money. Not even for narrative symmetry.
And it was there—unexpectedly—that the show stopped feeling fictional.
Toward the end of November, my ex began monitoring my Instagram account. At the time, he was facing a potential criminal charge for domestic violence and was under a temporary restraining order that mandated no contact. While he could not approach or message me, he was permitted to view my public posts. During our relationship, he had shown no interest in my Instagram account. After nearly three months of silence following his arrest, he began watching my stories daily—sometimes more than once.
When I received notice from the city attorney regarding the pending charge, the intent felt unmistakable. This was not curiosity. It felt like intimidation. My instinct was to block him. Instead, I chose not to. Anger can be dangerous. Visibility felt safer than provocation. Even with fear present, I refused to disappear.
I had moved. I had started a new job. I was metabolizing eighteen months of trauma—his, and his family’s. I was not going to shutter my life online or retreat into privacy because of him. Strength, I learned, arrives quietly.
I also knew that blocking him would not end the surveillance. It would simply make it invisible. I chose awareness over illusion.
Eventually, he faded into abstraction—less a person than a chapter already read. Then, one day, his name disappeared from my view list. The following day, his eldest adult daughter appeared instead. My account does not carry my name or email, and it is not easily discoverable. The shift did not feel coincidental. Years of living with carefully constructed narratives had taught me how patterns form, even when explanations remain unspoken.
I have moved on. I continue to move on. There is no room for him or his family in my life—mentally or physically. I hold neither goodwill nor malice toward them. They are simply persona non grata. Not anxiety-inducing, just irritating. Like a hangnail on a busy day: inconvenient, easily dealt with, and not worth lingering over.
And so, I understood Natasha.
Whatever reckoning John and Carrie needed to make belonged to them alone. His gesture was never about Natasha; it was about his need for absolution. She owed them nothing—not a response, not forgiveness, not acknowledgment. To her, they were an interruption. And she made that boundary unmistakably clear.
Good for her.
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