By Natalie McCarty

I don’t go looking for it, but every October 6th, it finds me: Sex and the City, Season 4, Episode 1—“The Agony and The Ex-tacy.” Like clockwork, my birthday syncs with Carrie Bradshaw’s disastrous celebration at Il Cantinori, where she’s left alone with a flickering candle and a cake for one. It’s peak Carrie: raw, vulnerable, and laced with the kind of hard-earned wisdom that only comes from being knocked down and getting back up again. On my 18th birthday, I unintentionally stepped into her shoes, reliving that bittersweet scene in real life.

It’s one of those television episodes that you can’t help but feel was uniquely made for you. My connection to Il Cantinori runs deeper than a TV parallel; it was practically my second home during my NYU days, sitting right across the street from my apartment. For reasons I will leave for my memoir, that restaurant changed my life–not just in a dining way, but it played a pivotal role in a much grander, more transformative chapter.

Amongst friends, I’ve been unofficially dubbed “The People’s Carrie Bradshaw.” What started as a running joke—pointing out the striking parallels between my romantic history and hers, especially one relationship that uncannily mirrored the Carrie-and-Big saga (whoops)—has since morphed into something larger. It became part of my brand identity, even serving as the foundation for Gut Instinct’s origin story.

Like Carrie, I’ve had my own “Big,” a man whose allure and occasional (who am I kidding… frequent) inaccessibility had the same intoxicating effect on me.

I, too, would dash around New York in satin skirts and high heels—even in the winter chill—and throw myself wholeheartedly and unabashedly into each second of this situationship, just as she did. Consumed and entirely absorbed in my flailing love life.

But the nickname has become more than just a nod to my love life or a fashion statement; I’ve come to embrace it in my parallel for how we view New York, love, and everything in between. In many ways, I feel as though my writing tone has been shaped by her columns, her intertwining and celebration of the city’s beautiful chaos, the intersection of heartbreak and hope, and the sheer audacity it takes to wear your heart on your sleeve.

I admire Carrie’s unwavering curiosity in life’s big questions, even the ones that remain unanswered. It’s her relentless pursuit of finding meaning that resonates with me and fuels my own storytelling.

Sex and the City has its fair share of flaws, and sure, Carrie makes some choices the average person wouldn’t, but at her core, she’s incredibly raw and genuine.

She embodies New York—gritty, glorious, and real. From the chaos of fashion shows and engagement mishaps, to finding yourself alone at a table meant for two, or bumping into your ex-man-sometimes-boyfriend-all-the-time-love-of-your-life on the street with his new fiancé, Carrie’s story reflects the city’s heartbeat. In a place that demands resilience, it’s all about getting up—again and again—and declaring, "I’m still here."

Carrie is inextricable from New York, and part of me is as well.

For me, New York has always been more than a place; it’s a feeling. It’s the therapy sessions with the waiters at Il Cantinori, the sweaty and nearly violent punk shows in Brooklyn, the cobblestone streets of the Village that feel like stepping onto a movie set.

It’s the heartbreaks, the rejection emails, the missed trains, and the empty bank accounts. It’s the realization that you are in the presence of a city that can be as cruel as it is kind. It’s sobbing and throwing up on a side street in Williamsburg because, fuck, you’re feeling it again. The remembering. Of what you almost had and what still could be.

It’s about looking at the skyline and being overwhelmed with that feeling of “I made it. I did it. I really got out here.”

I’d argue that if Carrie Bradshaw taught us anything, it’s that resilience, not romance, is what makes a city girl. And that it’s in the city’s harshest lessons where you can find your voice and your story.

New York teaches you to embrace both sides of the coin: the romance and rejection, the fantasy and reality. New York calls for more than just a great pair of shoes; it calls for grit, for empathy, for strength, for romanticizing survival.

It’s about finding community among fellow dreamers, artists, and lovers of the city—those who understand that success and struggle here are as intertwined as the street grids themselves. Everyone is always somehow connected.

My friends know I have a habit of dissecting relationships and life choices (the columnist in me crafting my latest piece)—always searching for meaning, always hoping that beneath each heartache or revelation lies something worth remembering.

However, my hope is that in this next chapter of life, I can successfully swear off my own Mr. Big–no matter how enigmatic, magnetic, and maddening he may be. Leading life situationship-less means living with both feet planted in reality, knowing that each love, each loss, is a chapter in the larger story being written.

Maybe what defines the Carrie archetype is the pursuit of the authentic. Carrie’s view of New York was an aspirational, polished portrait of city life, while also somehow remaining totally unfiltered and completely romantic. The love affairs, the friendships, the creative passions, the quiet victories, and the reminders that we’re all here in this glorious, messy place together. Because if there’s one thing New York teaches us, it’s that in a city of millions, we’re all writers in some way, each capturing our piece of a place too big to define but always, somehow, ours.

P.S.: Where’s my Aidan Shaw? No more Mr. Bigs, please!

The People’s Carrie Bradshaw

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