With extensive experience in analytics and performance optimization, Milena Traikovich is an expert at driving effective campaigns. However, her most profound insights into digital strategy came not from a successful campaign, but from a personal battle with content creator burnout. In this conversation, she explores the psychological toll of relentless content demands and how an unconventional experiment with AI tools became a lifeline. We’ll delve into the surprising metrics of low-effort content, the mental freedom found in abandoning perfectionism, and how AI can serve as a temporary bridge for creators who feel like they’re about to collapse, offering a path toward a more sustainable and authentic online presence.
You describe burnout as a “quiet erosion of enthusiasm” and found relief using an AI tool. Could you walk us through that first experiment? What was the step-by-step process of turning a static photo into a video and what was your immediate reaction to the result?
It truly was a quiet decay. The passion was just gone, replaced by this sense of obligation, and the cursor blinking on an empty caption field felt like an accusation. The experiment started from pure desperation. A friend sent me a link to an AI tool, and my first thought was that it was just another gimmick. But I was so depleted that I was willing to try anything. The process was shockingly simple: I found an old photo from last summer on my camera roll—nothing special, just a memory—and uploaded it. I didn’t have to think about lighting or angles or editing. Thirty seconds later, a short, dancing video appeared on my screen. My immediate reaction wasn’t, “Wow, this is brilliant art.” It was a profound sense of relief. It was content. It was something to post that required almost zero creative energy, and for someone in the depths of burnout, that felt like a miracle.
Your metrics during the AI experiment were surprising, with average reach jumping from 185 to 240. Beyond the algorithm favoring video, what other factors do you believe contributed to this unexpected boost in engagement, and how did these numbers change your perception of “high-effort” content?
Those numbers were a genuine shock. I was prepared for everything to collapse, but instead, my average reach climbed, and my engagement rate actually ticked up from 4.8% to 6.2%. The most obvious reason is that the algorithm rewards video, and it doesn’t seem to care how that video is made. But I think there was something more human happening, too. My followers cared more about consistent presence than they did about high production value. I was still showing up, and that mattered. This experience completely shattered my perception of “high-effort” content. I had been pouring hours into staging, shooting, and editing photos, believing that the effort was directly tied to the reward. The data proved otherwise. It was a liberating realization that I didn’t have to exhaust myself to maintain a connection with my audience.
The article notes a key psychological benefit was “reduced perfectionism.” Can you share an anecdote about a post that underperformed during this period? How did your emotional response differ from before, and how did that change your approach to content creation moving forward?
The shift away from perfectionism was probably the most significant benefit. Before the experiment, a post that underperformed felt like a personal failure. I’d spend 90 minutes on a single photo, and if it didn’t get the engagement I hoped for, it was crushing because I was so emotionally invested. During the AI month, I remember one video that completely flopped. It got almost no likes or comments. My reaction was a simple shrug. I had invested maybe five minutes in its creation, from finding the photo to posting. Since I hadn’t poured my soul into it, the low performance didn’t sting. It was just data. That experience fundamentally changed my approach. It taught me to detach my self-worth from the metrics and gave me permission to create content that was “good enough,” freeing me from the paralyzing fear of not being perfect every single time.
You mention that many use AI to “survive, not thrive,” referencing parents or those with chronic illness. Based on your conversations, what’s a common thread in how this demographic uses these tools, and what advice would you give them for communicating this shift to their audience?
The common thread is that AI becomes a tool for maintaining presence during a period of immense personal strain. It’s not about growth hacking; it’s about survival. I spoke with a mother of two who had maybe 20 minutes a day for her small business’s social media, and someone managing a chronic illness who used AI on days when they physically couldn’t do a photo shoot. For them, these tools are a lifeline that keeps their accounts from going dark when life demands all their energy. My advice for communicating this shift is to lean into transparency. You don’t owe anyone a detailed explanation, but a simple, honest caption like, “Leaning on some new tools to keep things going while I’m focused on other priorities,” can work wonders. It reframes the change not as a decline in authenticity, but as a practical, human choice to manage limited resources, which is something most audiences can deeply relate to.
You frame AI tools as a “bridge, not a destination” for creators. For someone currently on that bridge, what are the first three practical steps they should take to address the root causes of their burnout and build a more sustainable strategy for when their creative energy returns?
That “bridge” metaphor is critical because these tools are a temporary support, not a permanent solution. The first step for anyone on that bridge is to conduct an honest audit of their creative process. Pinpoint exactly where the energy drain is coming from. Is it the pressure to shoot new photos? The mental load of writing witty captions? You can’t fix the problem until you identify its source. Second, redefine what “consistency” means for you. The algorithm might prefer daily posts, but your mental health might require posting only three times a week. A sustainable strategy is one that aligns with your actual capacity, not an arbitrary industry standard. Finally, you must build and enforce boundaries. This could mean setting a timer for social media use or scheduling days where you don’t post at all. These steps begin the work of dismantling the unrealistic expectations that led to burnout in the first place, creating a healthier foundation for when your creative spark returns.
Do you have any advice for our readers who recognize themselves in your story of burnout and are feeling pressured to maintain an unsustainable level of content creation?
Absolutely. If you recognize yourself in this story, the most important thing you can do is give yourself permission to lower the standards you’ve set for yourself. The pressure we feel often comes from within—this belief that every post must be perfect and that taking a break means failure. It’s not true. Remember that social media will survive if you post less frequently, but your mental health might not survive if the pressure continues indefinitely. Start by acknowledging that “adequate” is enough. A simple post is better than no post if it keeps you from burning out. Use whatever tools you need—whether it’s AI, content scheduling, or just a simpler format—to create breathing room. Your well-being is far more important than any algorithm. Protect your creative energy as your most valuable asset, because without it, there is no content.
