What If TikTok Was Never the End Game?

Life Lessons from the Rise, Fall, and Soft Life Reinvention of a Midlife Creator

The biggest mistake you’ll ever make is believing you’ve found your destination. That you’ve arrived. Sat-nav triumphantly declares, “You’ve reached your final destination,” and you… what? Just stop there? Unpack the metaphorical suitcase and settle in forever?

A couple of years ago, I had the chance to start my life again. I was fresh out of surgery after having two tumours removed and, like some bizarre plot twist, I’d just been signed to be managed by TikTok. And so, for the past two years, I poured my heart, soul, and every last ounce of serotonin into doing everything TikTok wanted.

I stopped writing.

I barely left the house.

I livestreamed every single day.

And it worked. I clawed my way up the ranks and became a Star Creator. Except… here’s the part they don’t tell you: after Star Creator, there’s nowhere else to go. You hit the top of the mountain only to realise it’s actually just a small, overcrowded plateau with a very steep drop on the other side.

I found myself stuck in a system where people above me were earning ridiculous sums I could never quite reach. And the more I leaned into shoppable content, the further away I moved from the person I actually am.

When the big Star Creator paydays stopped rolling in, TikTok wasted no time shoving me back down the ladder into what they call “Ascending Stars”… or as I like to call it, Descending Stars™, because nothing says “motivational career progression” like being demoted with all the enthusiasm of a sad trombone.

For nine long months, I lived under the crushing weight of sales targets—something no neurodivergent person should ever have to endure. And now? Now I’m floating in some weird no-man’s-land, realising I’ve learned everything there is to know about TikTok… and maybe that’s the whole point.

Maybe TikTok wasn’t the end game.

Maybe it was just the training ground.

Let’s be honest, TikTok is in decline. People hate the shop culture. It started as an entertainment platform, morphed into a glorified marketplace, and promptly lost all sense of identity. Now it suppresses shoppable posts so much that creators are fighting tooth and nail just to be seen. It’s a vicious little cycle—creators post more, content gets suppressed more, and everyone just collectively hates it. The viewers hate it. The brands are over it. And the creators? Well, we’re just standing here like, “Is this thing on?”

But here’s the funny part: I was doing affiliate marketing long before TikTok. It actually took TikTok to remind me what affiliate marketing really is. And now? I’m lucky enough to have built a social following across multiple platforms, which means I can dust myself off and start again—without having to beg the algorithm for mercy.

I went to Amazon Influencer School this week and let me tell you, nothing says “wake-up call” like sitting in a room full of people who don’t even have TikTok accounts and are still absolutely smashing it. Imagine my shock—turns out, the world doesn’t revolve around TikTok after all. Who knew?

And here’s the life lesson I’m taking with me into this new chapter: I know my audience. I know exactly who they are. And a lot of them? They’re not even on TikTok. They’re living their best midlife moments reading blogs, enjoying long-form content, and embracing the kind of joy that doesn’t involve spending three hours filming a 15-second video.

It’s never too late to change direction. Never too late to make a new plan. I do it all the time—I reinvent myself every couple of years because I adapt, I pivot, and I chase whatever’s working. Survival of the sassiest, if you will.

So here we are. A brand-new dawn. I’m taking myself away, living the soft life, and—perhaps most importantly—remembering who the hell I was before all of this.

Because maybe TikTok was never the end.

Maybe… it was just the beginning.

If you need me, I’ll be in my garden, living my soft life and dramatically plotting my next era. Feel free to watch from a safe distance—or come and see what I’m quietly building over on Amazon. You don’t have to buy a thing—just follow along and keep me company while I figure out what’s next.