An Ode to Carrie Bradshaw and Anthony Bourdain
On crafting personal identity through muses and idols
What it means to build a brand when your essence is equal parts romance, grit, beauty, and truth.
The other day I was trying to wrap my head around who I am. Not in a cosmic, “what’s my purpose?” kind of way — but in a branding sense. How do I take all these pieces of myself and turn them into something legible, something other people can understand? Something marketable, even.
My life is a compilation of personal identity crises. That’s fine and dandy when it’s just me, myself, and I — but when I’m building a brand with a long-term future, you have to pick a lane. If not, people get confused. They lose interest. Or so I’ve heard.
But I landed on something that felt true. I reckon I’m the love child of Carrie Bradshaw and Anthony Bourdain.
Carrie is a writer — check — who loves a good pair of Manolo Blahniks, a gallery opening, and an insufferable love story — check, check, check. She’s thoughtful, witty, stylish, and the ultimate romantic. You can absolutely find her at the best party in town, but nothing makes her happier than sitting at a café with her girlfriends, dissecting the human condition over a cappuccino. She’s beauty, vulnerability, and editorial charm.
Then there’s Anthony. Also a writer, but a different breed entirely. He loved the open road, a shared meal, and had an unrelenting need to understand the world. He was a free spirit, a lost soul, endlessly curious and deeply sensitive. He made discomfort look cool. He made meaning out of chaos. Every time I try to describe the voice I write from, the experiences I create, or the world I want to invite people into — I land on them. Again and again.
I didn’t pick the Carrie archetype. People started comparing me to her, and it stuck. Maybe it was the curls, or the heartbreak essays, or the way I write about love like it’s both holy and exhausting. I found the comparison amusing, so I kept it going. One night in Boston, a bouncer looked at me and my friends and said, “Okay, Carrie and the girls — come on in.” That’s when I knew the Carrie aura had taken on a life of its own.
No one’s ever compared me to Anthony Bourdain. That one’s mine. My private compass. My patron saint. An odd idol, maybe, considering how his story ends — but I don’t idolize that part. I love him for his hunger. His rawness. His honesty. I can’t bear to watch television — unless it’s an Italian arthouse film to feel something — but I’ve seen every episode of A Cook’s Tour, No Reservations, The Layover, and Parts Unknown. More than once.
What I love about both of them — fictional and human — is that they were real. Their joy was real. Their torment was real. Carrie was tormented by a man who didn’t know how to love her. Anthony was tormented by the world: its beauty, its pain, everything it lacked, and everything it gave. I see myself in both. Carrie only truly belonged in the company of her girlfriends, or alone at her computer, feet tucked beneath her, typing her way toward understanding — much like I am now. Anthony belonged on the road, surrounded by unfamiliar languages, with a plate of something soulful in front of him. That, too, feels familiar.
When we look for inspiration, it’s not enough to admire someone’s outer persona. We have to resonate with their inner landscape. On the outside, Carrie is a city it-girl. Anthony is the poster child for wanderlust. But behind closed doors, they were pensive. Reflective. Full of longing.
And maybe that’s the brand after all.
Not a strategy, but a frequency. Not a niche — an essence.
One part romance, one part hunger, a touch of loneliness, a whole lot of beauty.
That’s the lane I’ve chosen.
That’s the story I know how to tell.
Xoxo,
Alessandra
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