My Dear Friend Carrie Bradshaw
I know Carrie Bradshaw. I am good friends with her. We share clothes, talk on the phone, go to bars together. And sometimes, she’s the fucking worst.
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Carrie is just so shiny. Her blonde curls illuminate every room she enters, and she has this intoxicating “cool girl” attribute that I have always tried to emulate. Carrie is exciting and magnetic—so much so that I find myself competing to be friends with her. Girls like Carrie have a specific exuberance that everyone wants to be around—not just everyone, but men. Men get offered something particular and special by the Carries in the world: precedence. They let men in with an effortless immediacy. The men near her supersede the women who have preceded them. When a man enters Carrie’s life, you are forced to watch them dance as you wait your turn, regulated to a spectator, as she offers him everything you’ve ever wanted from her.
Whenever I fight for Carrie’s attention, I drag myself a little more across the mud. And the dirtier I get, the more self-respect I lose.
Sex in the City’s Carrie Bradshaw quickly became the girl of everyone’s dreams. Little girls dreamed of her kaleidoscopic closet, writers gawked at her job security, boys wondered if a girl so radiant really existed and women just wanted her as their best friend. But Carrie Bradshaw wasn’t always the friend I needed. Her social hierarchies are exasperating. Her refusal to listen to my true, healthy advice is antagonizing. Carrie sometimes talks to me like I am under her—less popular and in less important circles. Her best friends get calls from her when she needs a favor. I usually pick up those calls and satisfy whatever favor, because I am afraid of having the sliver I keep of her taken.
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In Season 4, Episode 7, Carrie’s best friend Miranda takes a serious (naked) fall and calls for help. Favors for friends don’t always seem to exist in Carrie’s world, so she sends her boyfriend instead. The next day, she brings Miranda a bag of plain bagels—a thoughtful gesture. But the choice of plain bagels, devoid of any personal touch, reveals how little effort Carrie put into genuinely caring for her friend at that moment. There’s no true indication that she saw Miranda’s pain. It’s a moment that feels emblematic of her pattern: well-intentioned but missing the mark on thoughtfulness. It’s just what being friends with Carrie is like: we all nod and accept it, but it’s time to understand why we orbit her world without question. It’s not just the tiny, dismissive gestures—like showing up with plain bagels or turning every conversation back to her latest romantic crisis—it’s the deeper pattern of neglect. We give and give, hoping that one day she’ll truly see us and that we’ll get a fraction of the attention we’ve been pouring into her.
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I am begging myself why I am still friends with someone who makes me feel as impotent and vapid as I am when I am with her. I am begging for the reasons Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte stay loyal to her. It’s exhausting to keep playing the role I do.
Are we so desperate for connection that we settle for what we can get?
Are we so afraid of being alone, boring, and friendless that we accept hurtful people into our lives?
It’s hard to say, but I think we stay because of love. Maybe it’s the love of the memories we’ve shared, the comfort in knowing she’s still there for you—even when her way of doing so doesn’t suffice—or the hope that the friendship could become what you once imagined, despite knowing it won’t change. In those rare moments when I do get her attention, I’m reminded why I care about her so much.
No matter what Carrie does, I still find myself loving her. I answer her calls, show up, and keep listening, still believing in the illusion of Carrie Bradshaw: the fun, exciting friend I want her to be.
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Women like Carrie don’t wake up and become the self-serving people they are. Carrie was taught to neglect us. She was trained by the people most important to her to put women second. We all are. Film, popular culture, classic literature, religion and our mothers instill in women the significance of romantic partnerships. They teach us to love our boyfriends and to fight for companionship, to bring children into the world and cherish family bonds. The cultural conditioning we have all endured delivers an incessant clear message: our romantic relationships determine our worth. From a young age, we are told that finding "the one" is paramount, often at the expense of nurturing womanhood and friendship. As we idolize characters like Carrie, we inadvertently internalize the belief that relationships with men precede the friendships that sustain us.
The mindset of competition among women for the affection of men is sadly pervasive. I understand, Carrie. It’s not entirely your fault—the world made you like this.
Image Courtesy of Francesca Jacques
Women dance the line of intricate female friendships frequently. We are put on this earth to love each other, to sing and laugh and hold hands. Because of how deeply touched we are by our female friendships, it's familiar to presume that they’ll be there forever. When that assumption becomes full-fledged, women like Carrie are born. Your friends require the same attention and reciprocity as your romances do. Carrie reminds us that even the most charismatic, cool girls can struggle to maintain this balance, often at the expense of those who care for them. Your friends are your stilts; they keep your heart beating and your vocal cords sore. Neglecting these vital connections creates a void that no romantic relationship can ever fill.
Strike out,
Writer: Francesca Jaques
Editor: Olivia Evans
Francesca Jaques is an editorial writer for Strike Magazine GNV. You can find her confiding in random strangers in line for the bar about her addiction to A24, her latest class crush who’s surely “the one” and how girls with bangs are just cooler. If you ever want to spiral, head to the third floor of Library West and catch her with tears in her eyes, flipping through pictures of Dominic Fike. Or you can just message her on Instagram. IG: francescajaques13, email: tutijaques@gmail.com
