Economics of influence: digital creators Jenn Chia and Ting Shi Qi on keeping creativity alive both off camera and on

“The loud, attention-seeking, extra AF version of me online is about 30 per cent of who I really am,” Chia admits with characteristic bluntness. “On camera I'm champagne bubbles—fizzy and fun. Off screen, I’m more like a strong cup of black coffee, deep, maybe a bit bitter (if you catch me at the wrong hour), and definitely not for everyone.”

It's a confession that cuts against every Instagram-perfect narrative we've been fed about authentic content creation. After a decade in the digital trenches, Chia has developed a philosophical approach to the persona-reality divide.

“When I first started, I was performing for the camera, and somewhere along the way, I lost sight of myself,” she reflects. The reconciliation between “online Jenn” and “real Jenn” required extensive inner work—a journey from seeking external validation to internal alignment.

“Now my anchor is staying present with what I want to say—not how I think people will judge it. Once I shift focus from 'Do they like me?' to 'Do I mean this?', everything feels lighter, truer, and much less like an audition for the internet.”

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Ting’s ratio tips differently. “I’d say my private self is about 70 per cent the same as my on-camera self,” she explains. “The cheerful, fun, kid-loving side people see online is genuinely me.”

But even she acknowledges the platform's limitations. “My friends think I am the funniest person in my friend group but I haven't really been able to share my funny side online that much! My platform is something I love, but it can only ever capture one dimension of who I am.”

For both creators, the tension isn't between authenticity and performance—it's about which facets of authenticity get platformed, and which remain private currency.

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When commercial partnerships enter the equation, the authenticity calculus becomes exponentially more complex. Chia describes her early career as “a tug-of-war between my voice and the brand’s guidelines.” But time and leverage have shifted that dynamic.

“These days, the brands I have the pleasure of working with understand that the creator's voice is also the value. If they wanted a press release, they'd hire PR. Brands come to creators like me because we'll say it with wit, a wink, and maybe a little chaos.”

Shi Qi frames it as responsibility rather than compromise. “Partnerships are an inevitable part of this industry, but I see it as my responsibility to frame them in a way that still feels authentic to me,” she says. “If something feels disconnected from my values, I make it clear and push back. Over time I've learned that audiences are too discerning for inauthentic promotions—they can sense when it's forced. I prioritise honesty with my audience because their trust is ultimately what sustains my career.”

Both influencers have arrived at a similar conclusion: audience trust isn't just good ethics—it's good business. In an oversaturated attention economy, the creator who maintains integrity builds longer-lasting value than the one chasing every sponsorship dollar.

Social media's greatest irony? It simultaneously amplifies creativity and annihilates ownership. Chia has made peace with this paradox through radical acceptance. “After a decade of doing this, my philosophy is: the moment you post an idea online, you've basically set it free. People will remix it, copy it, 'take inspiration,' that's just the internet being the internet. If I kept clutching at 'this is mine,' I'd drive myself mad (and probably become that auntie who screenshots everything for evidence). So I let it go and return to the joy of creating, not copyrighting.”

Ting echoes this sentiment with a slight variation. “The reality is, you can't fully safeguard them. Once an idea is out in the world, it becomes fair game. And honestly, very little is truly original—we all borrow, adapt, and build on each other's work." But she identifies something uncopyable:

“What can't be copied, though, is the voice, the context, and the consistency behind the content. A concept can be replicated, but no one can replace you. So I focus less on ownership and more on sharing my personality and building that relationship with my audience that even when ideas are copied, they come back to watch my content for me.”

Burnout is the specter haunting every creator’s late-night editing session. Chia’s first encounter with it? Downright petrifying for someone who admittedly thinks their way through problems. “Suddenly, no matter how hard I thought, I couldn't 'logic' myself back into inspiration or motivation. That loss of control was scary,” she says.

A therapist reframed her understanding entirely: “Burnout isn't bad. It's simply the mind's way of saying, ‘Yo, I'm inflamed. I can’t and don't want to think anymore. I'm shutting down now. Byeeee.’” It was a perspective shift that changed Chia’s relationship with creative exhaustion. “The real danger isn't burnout itself. It's not recognising the signs early enough.”

Her current strategy? Permission to be boring, or to be offline and on-the-go doing what she loves best, like pickleball, yoga, cooking or simply staring at the ceiling.

"I think, as creators, we're wired to constantly entertain, to turn everything into content, to make every moment 'worth sharing.' But sometimes the best thing we can do (at least for me) is stepping away from the performance and just being human.”

Ting approaches it through rhythm rather than balance. “Some seasons are intense, but I make sure to carve out moments that refill my energy—spending time with loved ones, taking space to be still, and realigning with what truly matters.” She believes burnout happens when creators fall out of flow. “Sometimes slowing down, stepping away, and letting real life inspire you again is the smartest strategy.”

For the educator-turned-influencer, returning to classrooms provides grounding. “I began creating because I wanted to make content that entertains while positively shaping young minds. Even though I stepped away from full-time teaching, returning to classrooms from time to time grounds me—it reminds me why I started.” Her students provide the ultimate reality check: “They never hesitate to remind me that I'm not 'all that'! Nothing keeps you grounded like honest kids.”

As our conversation winds down, what emerges is a portrait of two content creators who have cracked a code that eludes many in their industry: success without self-erosion.

They've learned that authenticity isn't a fixed state but a constant negotiation. That creativity and commerce can coexist when boundaries are clear. That influence is built not on perfection but on consistent, evolving honesty.

Chia continues to champion the joy of creating over the anxiety of protecting. Ting remains anchored to her why—those young minds she entered this industry to impact.

Both have discovered that the antidote to digital burnout isn't abandoning the digital entirely, but remembering who you were before the first video uploaded, the first follower clicked, the first brand partnership landed.

In an age where everyone's performing authenticity, perhaps the most radical act is simply this: knowing when to turn the camera off, step into the messy ordinariness of offline life, and trust that the content will be there when you return—richer, truer, more alive because you remembered you're human first, creator second.

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