Why most influencers don’t last longer than a year

Influencer marketing isn’t over, but it’s no longer what it was. In 2025, influence is harder to earn, harder to keep, and far less effective than the glossy numbers suggest. Of course, there are still successful influencers, but you can probably count them on one hand. TikTok churns out a popular account almost daily, and these are the people I’m talking about, the ones whose rise is fast, loud, and incredibly short-lived.

Most influencers today struggle to hold attention for longer than six months, and the ones still clinging on are mostly performing for a shrinking audience.

This isn’t about algorithms. It’s a bigger cultural shift, in how audiences consume content, how brands evaluate risk, and how creators are perceived now that the hype has faded.

Lifestyle influencers blew it by showing off

The early influencer boom was built on relatability. Especially in the UK, lifestyle creators found quick success by filming in their bedrooms, reviewing high street fashion, and sharing a version of life that felt just polished enough to aspire to, but still close enough to feel real.

What really drove their growth was the friendship dynamic. Most of those creators weren’t just posting solo content, they appeared in each other’s vlogs constantly, cross-promoted everything, and grew by feeding into each other’s audiences. It wasn’t just one person filming their day, it was a group you felt connected to. You knew the in-jokes, the relationships, the drama. That familiarity was part of the appeal.

But then the tone shifted, and they blew it.

The Primark hauls were replaced with designer unboxings. Everyday routines were now filmed in massive kitchens and million-pound homes. They didn’t just show their success, they centred it. And in doing so, they forgot what made them popular in the first place. They pushed the same people who once saved up to copy what the YouTuber picked up at Boots to promoting how much they love using the likes of Tatcha and La Mer products and stating them as must haves.

It was tone deaf, and the shift was obvious but they couldn’t resist the urge to show off the wealth and lifestyle they’d earned, but the audience who helped them earn it couldn’t afford to keep up.

The content itself also became dull. Viewers caught on that most lifestyle content, long-winded chats to camera, endless routine breakdowns, sponsored hauls from brands no one asked for, just wasn’t that interesting. It was repetitive and people realised they just don’t care that much about a stranger to dedicate so much time to them. TikTok now delivers entire “a day in the life” videos in 30 seconds. The idea of sitting through a 45-minute “reset vlog” from someone explaining their new wardrobe layout or food shop from Tesco doesn’t appeal to anyone under 30. The attention and emotional investment simply isn’t there.

The lifestyle influencers of that era, the ones still uploading, aren’t building new audiences. They’re coasting on a few followers from 2013, most of whom have grown up and out of it. The content hasn’t evolved. The culture has. And the numbers reflect that.

Gen Z isn’t interested in watching people live their life

Gen Z’s expectations are different. They’re not interested in passively watching someone go about their day. They want short-form, purpose-led content, or something that delivers instant value. Entertainment, education, debate, escapism, but never filler.

They also aren’t emotionally invested in creators the way older generations were. There’s no loyalty. If something’s boring, they scroll. If it feels repetitive, they unfollow. TikTok especially has conditioned users to consume hundreds of creators a day. There’s no incentive to commit to one.

This is also why it’s incredibly difficult to transfer TikTok followers to other platforms. A viral TikTok creator with millions of followers might struggle to get even a few thousand YouTube subscribers or Instagram followers. The audience isn’t invested in the person, they’re invested in the format, and only for as long as it holds their attention.

YouTubers from earlier eras had a completely different relationship with their audiences. They were followed across platforms, trusted, and when they recommended a product, their audience often bought it. TikTok doesn’t offer that kind of influence. It offers reach, but not trust.

The TikTok trap

TikTok rewards repetition. Creators are encouraged to do the same thing again and again because it works, and it does, for a while. The audience follows for one very specific reason, and they expect that exact same format, tone or idea every time they see you. It’s restrictive, but Gen Z seems to love it, at least initially.

The issue is, they don’t love it for long. Once they’ve seen the format a few too many times, they get bored and move on. It might take a month, six months, maybe a year if you’re lucky, but it happens. And if the creator tries to switch up their content to keep people engaged, it doesn’t work. Nine times out of ten, the audience drops off. Because the truth is, people on TikTok didn’t follow you, they followed the thing you did.

Eventually, creators start faking it. Understandably. If you go viral for pranking your boyfriend, how long before your boyfriend knows the phone is recording and starts playing along? It becomes acting, and the repetition starts to show. Influencers aren’t trained performers, and people catch on quickly. The content starts to feel manufactured, and the magic wears off.

Most TikTok creators are stuck. Keep doing the same thing on a loop until your audience gets bored, or try something new and watch them leave overnight. Growth isn’t rewarded, it’s punished. It’s a format built for fast fame and fast burnout, and TikTok produces these people constantly.

What happens after the views stop?

There’s a mental health cost to all of this that rarely gets discussed properly. Being known online, having an audience, attention, influence, gives creators the same kind of high that performers get on stage. It’s addictive. It’s constant validation. And when it stops, the come down is harsh.

More and more creators are speaking quietly about the anxiety and disorientation that comes with losing relevance. For those who’ve built an entire identity around being visible, going back to normal life feels like failure. Some have gone from paid brand trips and fan edits to struggling to find work, and psychologically, that drop can be brutal.

I’ve had a few former YouTubers apply for roles at my agency, and I’ll be honest, it’s always tempting. They know how to build a personal brand, they understand audience growth, and many have built impressive platforms from scratch. But when it comes to translating that into real business strategy, developing a B2B voice, understanding corporate tone, adapting to different clients, or creating campaigns for someone other than themselves, most of them simply can’t go beyond the surface.

What’s more consistent is the attitude. Almost every single one came in with the same quiet entitlement. They assumed the job would be easy, spoke like they were doing us a favour by applying, and carried the same tone of “this is beneath me, but I’m curious.” I remember one coming in for an in-person interview and after she left, one of my team half-joked, “I think she was expecting a red carpet on arrival.”

One applicant had been on YouTube full-time for eight years. I felt bad turning him down, but he just didn’t understand the commercial side of content. He was good at promoting himself, but when I asked how he’d help build a brand that wasn’t his own, his answers were vague. The editing style he used wouldn’t have worked for our clients, and the tone was far too informal. It was clear he’d never been asked to create anything for someone else’s strategy before.

Knowing how to build a personal audience is a skill. But it’s not the same thing as understanding how to grow someone else’s business. And that’s what many creators are now facing, often for the first time.

With TikTok creating and forgetting influencers every week, this is only going to become more common. The industry is producing digital personalities faster than ever, but there’s no exit plan for when the momentum stops. No retraining. No industry pathway. Just silence, followed by panic.

Why brands are not using influencers so much

Behind the scenes, brands are becoming increasingly reluctant to work with influencers, and honestly, I don’t blame them. At my social media agency, and also through my booking company, I’ve worked with a wide range of public figures and creators. And consistently, the least professional experiences have been with influencers.

Many don’t understand basic processes, chasing invoices the day after they’ve submitted them despite their own terms stating 30 days, replying late to approvals, missing deadlines, or pushing back over the smallest details. It creates stress where there shouldn’t be any.

Of course, not all influencers are like this. I do have a select few I trust, who I recommend regularly, and who are genuinely brilliant to work with. But unfortunately, someone with 5,000 followers is now considered a micro-influencer, so the margin is wide, and in my experience, 95 percent of influencer bookings are more difficult than they need to be. When I book a traditional public figure, an actor, expert, athlete, or author, the difference in professionalism is night and day.

And then there’s the issue of ROI. TikTok influencers are, hands down, the worst-performing when it comes to actual results. It’s not just the format, it’s the lack of care. The content is rushed, the copy is vague, and the audience scrolls before the message even lands. It feels like shouting into an echo chamber. The second a viewer sees the “paid partnership” label, they swipe.

Back in the day, YouTubers and Instagrammers provided brilliant ROI. Their audiences trusted them, their content was slower and more thoughtful, and the recommendations felt personal. But lifestyle content isn’t what it used to be, and the platforms have changed. Brands don’t use YouTube in the same way anymore. Instagram engagement is steadily dropping, and the algorithm now spots and suppresses ad content almost instantly. If your post is branded, it rarely makes it to the top of anyone’s feed, which means weak engagement and even weaker conversion.

To make it worse, the reputational risk is higher than ever. Brands have been publicly dragged, even cancelled, for working with the wrong influencer or aligning with the wrong cause. The “go woke, go broke” backlash has made clients far more cautious. Some have pulled influencer budgets completely. Others are only working with traditional talent or specialist voices. They’re nervous. And I don’t blame them.

So while there are still great influencers out there, and yes, a few campaigns that still work, the wider picture has changed. Most brands are done taking risks, and the influencer model, as we knew it, just isn’t delivering anymore.

Influence isn’t going anywhere, but the game has changed

The influencers who are thriving now don’t look like the ones who dominated five years ago. They aren’t selling their lives. They’re building brands, sharing insights, owning niches, or producing something genuinely useful. Influence isn’t just about being visible anymore. It’s about offering something people actually want.

The lifestyle vlogger who made a career from aesthetic breakfasts and relatable chats isn’t relevant anymore. The model is tired, the numbers are flat, and Gen Z have moved on.

Because in 2025, being an influencer isn’t just about being followed…It’s about being remembered.