After 4 years, And Just Like That breaks away from its most persistent criticism

For four years, And Just Like That felt like a revival that didn’t know what it wanted to be. As someone who watched S*x and the City in real time and rewatched it enough to quote Season 4 line-for-line, I came into the revival hoping it would evolve while still knowing what made the original work.

Instead, the first two seasons tried too hard to compensate for past critiques—mainly about race, diversity, and social relevance—without making those efforts feel natural. Characters like Che Diaz were introduced as progressive fixes but ended up being clunky insertions that dominated the story without adding much nuance. The show felt like it was writing a checklist, not telling a story.

But Season 3 finally did something different—it relaxed. And for the first time since this revival began, it feels like the show trusts its audience. The Rotten Tomatoes score jumped to 78%, but more importantly, the show finally stopped trying to “correct” itself.

Characters were allowed to just be. Lisa Wexley had storylines that weren’t about being a “Black best friend.” Miranda was messy again without becoming a caricature. Carrie ceased to be overly cautious. The biggest criticism And Just Like That faced—trying too hard—finally got dropped. And it’s made all the difference.

And Just Like That finally stops apologizing for existing, and it shows

Season 3 of And Just Like That doesn’t feel like a reboot anymore. It feels like a show that has finally decided to stop apologizing for what it is. That shift is the biggest reason it’s actually working this time. For the first time since 2021, it’s not trying to overcorrect S*x and the City’s past missteps in every scene.

It’s just telling stories again. That’s what was missing from Seasons 1 and 2. Everything felt reactive—like the show was so focused on not being called out that it forgot how to be interesting.

Take Season 1, for example. The moment Che Diaz was introduced, it felt like the writers were more interested in representation boxes than in writing a character who made sense in the show’s world. Che wasn’t just bold; they were aggressively written to prove a point in every scene.

Miranda’s sudden transformation into a nervous college student dating Che came out of nowhere and never felt grounded. It was like watching fan fiction for a different show. Season 2 started to clean it up, but the awkward pacing and overwritten “woke” lines were still all over the place.

Season 3 finally lets go of that. Characters are no longer defined by the commentary they’re supposed to represent. Lisa has a miscarriage storyline that isn’t about race. It’s about a woman juggling career and family and losing one of those pieces. That’s it. No forced metaphors.

Miranda’s love life is messy, but at least it makes sense now. Her breakup with Che, her hookup with the Canadian nun, and her awkward dating scenes feel like Miranda again—complicated and inconsistent, not shoehorned into being someone she’s not.

Even Carrie feels more grounded. Instead of clunky podcast banter or being a symbol for outdated privilege, she’s navigating post-Big Life in a way that’s awkward, funny, and kind of sad—like she always did. Her long-distance setup with Aidan, the blank postcards, the no-pressure phone calls—it feels like a natural continuation. She’s not performing grief or empowerment. She’s just existing.

And that’s the biggest win. And Just Like That isn’t trying to lecture anyone anymore. It isn’t trying to fix the original show. Season 3 is finally treating these women like characters again, not political statements. It stopped yelling “We’re not S*x and the City anymore!” every five minutes. It started telling stories again. And for the first time in four years, that’s actually enough.

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