I NEVER THOUGHT I’D SAY THIS, BUT THANK GOD CARRIE BROKE UP WITH AIDAN

How And Just Like That… reminded me that men rarely change — but still expect women to.

I loved Aidan. I really did.

Or at least, I thought I did.

Back in the original Sex and the City, he was the antidote to Big — emotionally available, sensitive, a furniture-making soft boy with big hands and a dog named Pete. Compared to Big’s moody detachment and endless mixed signals, Aidan felt like the dream. The guy who wanted to stay in. The guy who wanted to commit. The guy who wasn’t playing games.

But now, all these years later in And Just Like That…, I have to say something I didn’t expect: I am so unbelievably relieved Carrie broke up with Aidan.

Because somewhere along the way, he became the problem. Or maybe he always was — I just didn’t see it for what it was. He wasn’t a safe haven. He was another man expecting a woman to shape-shift around his unresolved emotions.

And the truth is, Aidan isn’t just someone you date. He’s the colleague who doesn’t realize you’re dodging his misogynistic comments at every turn. The one who offers advice you didn’t ask for and don’t want. The father who expects praise for doing the bare minimum. This isn’t just about Carrie or romantic relationships — it’s about how women are constantly asked to contort themselves around the needs of men, in every corner of life.

Everything Was About Him

In this latest season, Aidan becomes the walking embodiment of what it’s like to date a man who thinks he’s emotionally evolved — but still expects everything to revolve around his needs.

His pain. His past. His boundaries. His rules.

He literally tells Carrie she can’t live in her own apartment — the one she owns, the one that has been her home and creative space for decades — because he has too many memories there. Instead of dealing with his discomfort, he asks her to solve it. She buys a new apartment. She rearranges her life. She softens her edges so his hurt doesn’t have to.

And still, he asks for more. He tells her she needs to wait five years to be with him again. Five years of uncertainty. Five years of silence. Five years where he gets to heal and prioritize his life — and she’s supposed to stay paused, just in case.

This is what emotional labor looks like in its most socially acceptable form — the kind that doesn’t yell or demand, but expects anyway. Whether it’s a partner, a boss, or a grown son asking his mom to make the call, it’s the same dynamic: a woman silently absorbing the discomfort so a man doesn’t have to feel it.

This is what emotional labor looks like when it’s dressed in flannel and speaks softly. Aidan may not be shouting or cheating (spoiler alert — he does cheat and is the biggest fucking hypocrite about it) or disappearing into black cars like Big, but the expectations are just as heavy — just quieter. And Carrie, like so many women, keeps showing up to meet them.

Until she doesn’t.

When she finally ends it? It’s not a loss. It’s a return to herself. A release. A deep exhale for anyone who’s ever felt like their emotional labor was mistaken for love.

The People-Can-Change Trap

Aidan was always framed as the “nice guy.” And sure, he was never as overtly toxic as Big. But being nice doesn’t make someone good — and it definitely doesn’t make them right.

Because in the end, Aidan still demanded space. Still made Carrie shrink. Still wanted love — but only if it fit into his terms, his timeline, his comfort zone.

This episode reminded me of something I’ve seen again and again: men who claim to be “working on themselves” while expecting women to hold that work for them. The guy who says he’s changed, but still centers himself in every decision. The one who sees himself as evolved, and uses that as a shield against criticism. The one who is comfortable, as long as someone else is making sure he stays that way.

Some of us have moved apartments, changed our routines, thought and rethought how to approach a conversation so as not to offend a male ego — bent over backwards just to avoid triggering some wound or mental condition he never bothered to actually heal or treat.

That’s not growth. That’s outsourcing your emotional work — and women have been picking up the bill for centuries.

Not just in love stories. In office meetings, on group texts, around dinner tables — this belief that men’s pain is urgent and women’s capacity is infinite is baked into our systems. Carrie just happens to be the one showing it to us on TV.

The Quiet Radical Act of Saying No

Carrie choosing herself might not seem revolutionary. But it is.

Especially in a moment when we’re watching women’s autonomy stripped away, our health and safety legislated by men who never have to hold the consequences. It’s hard not to see the symbolism. After what felt like only two years of not centering men (a tiny reprieve), we’re suddenly being told it’s gone too far. That women need to refocus. Recenter. Soften again. And pay more attention to men… again.

But we’ve been doing that. Forever.

I’m tired of hearing that men need more space, more grace, more attention — and that somehow that is the solution to everything. I’m tired of watching women do all the bending, all the carrying, all the adjusting — only to be met with men who still ask for more.

So no, I don’t think Aidan is a monster. Most men aren’t. But I do think Carrie breaking up with him is one of the healthiest things And Just Like That… has done so far.

She didn’t wait for him to catch up. She didn’t prove she was worth it. She didn’t martyr herself on the altar of male fragility.

She was honest. She said no more.