I was all about Sex and the City back in the day. I’ve watched every season multiple times and can basically repeat all the characters’ lines. No surprises there, the series was a monster hit in the early 2000s, and to me, a communication student and hopeful writer from South America, it was absolutely aspirational.

I wanted to be Carrie Bradshaw, I thought back then. I wanted the closet, the writing gig, the life in New York City.

With a lot of hard work (far more than what Carrie ever did, to be honest) I got a plane ticket to the city that never sleeps and a student visa that would allow me to pursue my dream of becoming a journalist (a writer!) finally. But this is the thing: The second I landed in New York, I realized I couldn’t have the life I saw in the show. Mostly because writing rarely pays anything that can keep you afloat in a place where a burger and fries go for $23, but also more importantly, because I’m not white. And I’m not rich. And I’m not in a relationship with a millionaire.

I lived my version of Sex and the City in my 10 years in New York. I had love stories, broken hearts, Tinder dates that were so weird it felt like I was getting Punk’d. I smoked cigarettes outside bars at 4 in the morning and showed up at my startup job the next day at 8 am hungover, but also ready to pour out my experiences into content that other millennials like me would love. I was getting paid to write, just like Carrie. I fell in love hard, moved in together, got married (in Brooklyn! I wasn’t stood up thankfully) and had three children (in Manhattan! The Upper West Side, nonetheless; Carrie would approve). I would know which was the fastest way to get anywhere in the city but never took a cab because who has time to sit in traffic (and who has the money to splurge on cabs when there’s the subway running 24/7?).

As I grew older, the SATC plotlines became more and more ridiculous. Okay, fine, I’ll say it: It was the movies. The movies ruined the whole thing for me. But I was still obsessed with this version of NYC I was not, could not, and by this point, did not want to be a part of.

So when the announcement of the reboot broke last night, I wanted to be excited. Excited to see the women (minus Kim Cattrall) whose lives I grew up watching on television, and whose stories kind of made me choose the path I did which led me to the life I have now. But I just couldn’t.

I can’t get excited about three white affluent women having wild crazy stories. Not again, but especially not right now, in 2021. I can’t help but think about all those other BIPOC pitches for shows that could’ve been that probably got rejected so Sarah Jessica Parker could make millions of dollars (again). Of all the stories that we—collectively—need to see more of, none of which will probably be part of the new show.

2021 is the year I wanted more High Fidelity and less Sex and the City, because that’s the New York I grew into my full self, and the one that so many more know.