Carrie Bradshaw Accidentally Invented the Influencer Economy

When did our lives stop being something we lived and start becoming something we curated?

Maybe it happened when Snapchat gave us the iconic dog filter in 2015. Maybe it happened when TikTok convinced us that every morning routine deserved a GRWM (get-ready-with-me), clad with its own soundtrack (notably Genesis by Grimes). Or maybe it happened long before any of us knew what an algorithm was.

Long before Instagram influencers curated perfectly aesthetic lives online, there was Carrie Bradshaw. A columnist in Sex and the City shared an affinity for Manolo Blahniks and emotionally unavailable men. Unknowingly, Carrie became the blueprint for the modern social media influencer.

For years, we’ve credited Instagram and Snapchat with creating influencer culture. We blame TikTok for making aesthetics a personality trait and a way of life. But after finally sitting down and watching the first season of Sex and the City (I know… I’m 27 years too late), I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’ve been giving the Kylie Jenners of the world too much credit.

Because long before GRWMs, morning routines, and shopping hauls, there was Carrie getting dressed every day like she was going to meet Princess Diana. Long before creators had the opportunity to post affiliate links and monetize their relationships, there was Carrie, turning every disastrous date (or really the lack of date when it came to Mr. Big) into the next big brunch story or your Sunday morning article reading. Long before a personal brand became the phrase every PR intern loves to hate, there was Carrie, whose entire career depended on making strangers care enough about her to read about her life.

She wasn’t an influencer. She was a columnist. And somehow, those two jobs now feel increasingly difficult to tell apart… well, except for the obvious writing literacy gap between the two.

I used to think Sex and the City just popularized the Cosmo, made girls romantize a man who’s “mysterious” but actually doesn’t care if you live or die, and was about fashion. Okay, maybe it is a little about fashion: the newspaper dress, the tutu, the Manolos that somewhere appeared despite a columnist’s salary that, realistically, would’ve covered maybe one shoe instead of the pair.

But watching it now, the clothes feel almost secondary. Carrie isn’t memorable for wearing expensive shoes. She’s memorable because those shoes became part of her and her story.

Today, influencers spend hours developing unique, recognizable brand aesthetics. Their apartments match their clothes. Their iced oat lattes (no simple syrup, please) match their feed. Their vacations somehow coordinate with their color palette of choice, and of course, deserve a whole new wardrobe… duh. Every little detail is crucial to support a version of themselves that feels instantly recognizable.

Carrie did the same before anyone had the word, the concept, the idea for it. She didn’t just wear clothes: she built a character. Nobody looked at Carrie and thought, “she’s creating a brand.” They thought she was funny. Relatable. Messy. Optimistic… for better or for worse. Delusional more often than not. People weren’t attracted to her in the name of perfection, but rather the ordinary experiences that felt worth paying attention to.

And isn’t that exactly what the best creators still do?

Emma Chamberlain didn’t become one of the internet’s most influential creators because she made the perfect cup of coffee. In fact, I’ve had Chamberlain Coffee and, in my opinion, it’s far from perfect. People, including myself, watched her because she felt genuine, awkward, and most importantly, human. She’s just like us! Wow! The coffee, the outfits, and eventually the collaborations came far after.

We think influencers sell products: “Cancel that lip filler appointment and instead, you need this viral plumping lip gloss.” Of course, it would only make sense that the creators promoting this type of product would post a video in a couple of weeks saying, “Come with me to touch up my lip filler with me.” And the audience reaction is often: “Wow… she is so honest!”

But products are almost never what people are actually buying. It’s the buying of perspective. The taste. The feeling that if they dress like this person, travel to St. Barths because their favorite influencer made it look so fun, order the same matcha, maybe a little bit of their “perfect” life will rub off on ours.

Carrie understood that instinct decades before the creator economy ever existed. She never once broke the fourth wall and said, “You guys have been dying to know where I got these heels.” She didn’t have to.

Women simply just walked into the likes of Saks Fifth Avenue and Bloomingdale’s asking for Manolo Blahniks because Carrie wore them. Not because she sold them. Because she made people want to be the kind of woman who would wear them.

That’s influence.

Perhaps the most modern thing about Carrie wasn’t her timeless style. It was the way she transformed her personal life into public currency:
Every awkward first date.
Every friendship argument.
Every humiliating, raw, embarrassing mistake.
Every call.
Nothing was too small to become material.

Today, it’s content. Carrie called it a column. The media changed, but the formula didn’t.

One of the most fascinating parts of Sex and the City isn't just watching Carrie date around. It's watching her reflect and observe herself dating, almost as if she's living and narrating her own life at the same time.

Sometimes it feels like Carrie is far more interested in the actual story than in its outcome. It makes it hard not to wonder if influencers today experience this similarly.

How many vacations become Instagram content before they become memories? How many relationships turn into content strategies and a way to make money? How many moments are experienced through the question, “Will this make a good post?”

Watching Sex and the City nearly thirty years after its release feels oddly comforting. Who knew that the desire to curate ourselves existed before social media, and isn’t something new? We’ve always wanted to be seen. We’ve always wanted our lives to mean something. Something enough that other people care about.

Sure, the platforms have changed, the audience has grown, and technology is becoming scarily sophisticated and more ingrained in our everyday lives than ever (shoutout to you, AI). But the impulse? That’s getting to the point of being timeless.

Maybe that's a huge reason Carrie Bradshaw still resonates so much with our generation, even though we weren't alive when the show premiered. Not because we all dream of owning a closet full of Manolos or spending Sundays brunching in Manhattan. But because we're living in a world she somehow predicted: where personality is currency, and storytelling is a profession. It’s a point of view.

Carrie Bradshaw didn't accidentally teach us how to become influencers. She reminded us that before anyone could influence what we bought, they first had to make us care about who they were.