At this moment, I’ve decided to go back to the pilot of And Just Like That.
Don’t come for me. Just give me a minute.
Okay, I get it. Most of you hated the show. Especially without Samantha.
You didn’t like the outfits.
The dialogue? Stiff. The story movement? Weak—especially in Season 3.
Aiden’s return? Dragged the whole thing so badly many of us were like, “Why the fuck is he back?” And yet—I really appreciated it all. At least the first two seasons. And then came Season 3.
Personally, I feel like something shifted in the writing after the early episodes. Still, I watched with bated breath every week on HBO Max, grateful to see women over 45 navigating the messy unlearning of what the past 20-some years had taught us:
On top of that, the series dared to wrestle with real midlife realities: menopause hitting harder than our next breath; men “our age” whose erections need pharmaceutical assistance; the heartbreak of realizing the family we dreamed of never happened; or the even scarier truth that maybe the man we committed to can’t fill us the way a woman can. And then there’s the gut-punch: our children no longer need us, and we’re left to adjust to a whole new state of being.
As sad as it sounds, society still isn’t fully ready to honor women at this stage of life. We applaud Pamela Anderson one moment, then slam her the next for daring to show her bare, makeup-free face. We’re just now getting mainstream conversations about perimenopause and menopause. I hope it’s truly about empowerment and health—and not just a trendy money grab for follows and hashtags.
So, when I saw And Just Like That was cancelled, it felt like a missed opportunity. Was it misguided writing? Maybe. Political climate? Perhaps. But deeper than that, I think we’re still knee-deep in ageism, too uncomfortable to face the real shit this season of life brings: the unlearning, the reckoning, the realization that so much of what we were told was “acceptable” is complete bullshit.
When I first saw the cancellation news, I had to shut down a follower who tried to argue because I said I liked the show. Nope. My opinion is mine, yours is yours. That’s where it ends. She backed down—with a little spice. Whateverthefuq. Stay in your corner.
Because here’s the truth: I found healing in this series. Real healing. Watching Black, Hispanic, South Asian, and White women my age onscreen, facing the same messy truths I’m living right now today, gave me permission to exhale. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I laughed. Sometimes I felt seen in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Here are five spaces of healing I took from the show:
1. Giving space to mourn—and celebrate—the death of love.
When Big died, Carrie finally let herself admit the anger and regret underneath all those years of chasing him. She honored his love and acknowledged what she may have missed. That cracked me open. I too am in a season of looking back on the years I poured love into men who gave me back emptiness. Watching Carrie allowed me to mourn, rage, and then reclaim what I want—and need—moving forward.
2. Opening up to sexual freedom beyond “the norm.”
Watching Miranda step away from Steve and into Che was messy, but it was also liberating. Beneath the routine of ice cream, TV, and hearing aids, she remembered she was still a sexual woman—and dared to seek more. The disruption blew up her marriage, yes, but it also catapulted her into her truth, her purpose, her career, her spotlight. In my own life, I’ve stepped into that same space—discovering my bigness, my spice, my fire. And in case you’re wondering: the sex? Baby, it’s a bag of chips with hot sauce, plus another bag to catch the drippings. Owwww!
3. Being okay with endings—and brave in holding onto friendships.
Seema’s jealousy of Carrie’s love life broke me. When she pulled away, and Carrie refused to let her go, I wept. Because I’ve lost friendships to distance, pride, and unspoken jealousy. I wept for the ones I didn’t fight for—and the ones I wish had fought for me. But I also learned: the friends I do have now are worth honesty. Worth choosing. And surprise, they’re choosing me back.
4. Releasing our children—and our need to mother.
Charlotte supporting Rock’s identity as they/them pierced my heart. I’ve been in that same space, standing back as my son stepped into his own choices, scared as hell but learning to let him live his life. Many days I wanted to fix it all, to rewind decisions, to erase pain. But And Just Like That gave me permission to allow, to watch, to pray—and to give myself grace, knowing I had already done all I could.
5. Redefining career through purpose.
Every woman on that show owned her lane—whether it was Miranda going back to school, Carrie leaning into her author brand, Seema dominating real estate, Charlotte returning to art, Che hustling in comedy, Nya excelling as professor, or Lisa shining as a filmmaker. That inspired me. At this stage, my authority comes not from degrees or years on a résumé, but from intuition, experience, and the ability to guide teams and outcomes. That’s power. Watching them reminded me to hold my head high, shoulders back, and own the woman I’ve built myself into.
So no—I don’t know why the show spiraled and disconnected from viewers. But I do know it wasn’t all bad. Maybe it was simply before its time. Maybe we’re still not ready to see midlife women healing, relearning, unlearning, shedding the bullshit. My hope? That one day we will. That shows like this become the norm. That we celebrate the vibrancy of women in this fierce, beautiful season of life.
My shared truth,
Jeanetta Shorter