Autor: Markus Chen

In jewelry, the tiniest flaw can change everything. A scratch, a cloudy edge, a cut that’s slightly off — it’s enough for a buyer to walk away. But sometimes, I wonder if we’ve become too obsessed with perfection.

When I first learned to cut gemstones, my instructor told me, “You can’t erase every flaw — only decide which ones to keep.” At the time, it sounded like a warning. Now I think it’s advice for life.

Perfection is safe — predictable, polished, approved. But growth usually starts with mistakes: the uneven cut that teaches patience, the wrong measurement that forces you to slow down, the failure that makes you ask why. I used to redo every project until it looked flawless. Now, I look for the small imperfections that make each piece unique — a curve that catches the light differently, a line that reminds me a human hand made it.

The more I work with gemstones, the more I realize people are the same. Our rough edges — our doubts, quirks, and failures — are what make us distinct.

So when I design now, I leave room for imperfection. Because sometimes, the most beautiful pieces aren’t the ones that shine the brightest — they’re the ones that tell the most honest story.

I grew up switching languages the way some people switch channels. At home, I spoke Chinese with my dad; at school, German; online, English. At first, it was just survival — a way to fit in wherever I was. But over time, I realized each language unlocked a different version of me.

In German, I’m direct — sentences snap into place like puzzle pieces. In English, I’m more reflective, almost poetic. In Chinese, I speak less but feel more. Each language changes the rhythm of my thoughts, the tone of my jokes, even the way I see the world.

It used to confuse me — who am I really, if I keep switching? But I’ve come to see it differently: identity isn’t a fixed line; it’s a bridge. Moving between languages taught me empathy. It made me listen harder, notice tone, and read what’s not being said.

Now, when I meet people from different cultures — whether at jewelry fairs or at school — I realize how language shapes connection. It’s not just about words; it’s about the effort to understand.

Being between languages used to make me feel split. Now, it feels like strength — a skill that lets me belong anywhere and build bridges where others see walls.

The most important lessons I’ve learned didn’t come from a textbook — they came from moments when I didn’t know what to do next.

During my time volunteering at a hospital in Jaipur, I expected to just help with paperwork. Instead, I found myself in the middle of a crowded ward during Diwali, when half the staff were on leave. Patients waited for hours, and there weren’t enough nurses to organize them. I didn’t have medical training, but I noticed chaos wasn’t caused by a lack of care — it was a lack of coordination. So I started grouping patients by urgency, using a whiteboard and colored stickers. By the end of the day, waiting times dropped by almost an hour.

That experience taught me something I now carry into everything I do: learning happens fastest when you step outside your comfort zone.

Whether I’m analyzing Netflix’s business strategy for my IB project or designing eco-friendly jewelry for my stall, I find myself asking the same questions — How can this work better? What’s missing? That’s what excites me about university: not just absorbing information, but applying it, testing it, and improving it.

To me, education isn’t a place — it’s a mindset. And I can’t wait to bring that mindset to the next level.

People often talk about saving the planet as if it requires something massive — a new law, a global agreement, or an invention that fixes everything. But I’ve learned that change often begins much smaller than that.

For me, it started with a plastic cup. At a jewelry fair in Munich, I noticed how every booth handed out free coffee in single-use cups. It seemed normal until I saw the trash bins overflowing by noon. The next day, I brought my own cup. It felt insignificant, even awkward at first. But one vendor noticed and followed. By the end of the week, five booths were doing the same.

That moment made me realize something powerful: habits spread faster than we think. One small act can challenge what’s “normal.”

When I started my eco-jewelry project, that same idea guided me. Using recycled silver or adding supplier notes to each product didn’t change the whole industry, but it made customers ask questions — and that’s where real change begins.

Sustainability, I’ve realized, isn’t about perfection; it’s about momentum. Each small decision — refusing a cup, reusing a tag, recycling a chain — adds up, not because it saves the planet overnight, but because it changes how we think.

Big impact doesn’t always start big. Sometimes, it starts with one person deciding that “small” still matters.

When I was younger, I used to think leadership meant speaking — being the loudest, the one with the plan. But over time, I’ve realized that real leadership often starts with silence.

I first learned this behind the jewelry counter at my dad’s fairs. Buyers spoke in quick bursts — German, English, Mandarin — switching mid-sentence when numbers didn’t match. I couldn’t always keep up, but I noticed something: the best deals didn’t come from the best talkers, but from the best listeners. My dad would lean back, nod quietly, and wait. Within seconds, the buyer would start explaining what they really wanted — not just the price, but the feeling they were chasing: exclusivity, trust, a story.

That pattern stuck with me. At school, I began to notice how many conflicts happened because people were too busy preparing their next argument instead of actually hearing the other person. When I started mentoring a younger student who had just moved to Germany, I didn’t try to give advice right away. I just listened. It turned out he didn’t need solutions, just someone to understand what being “the new kid” felt like.

Listening taught me more about empathy than any leadership workshop could. It’s not passive — it’s an active kind of patience, a way of seeing beyond words.

Now, whether I’m helping at a fair, working on a group project, or just sitting with friends, I remind myself: speak less, notice more. Sometimes the quietest person in the room understands the most.

For a long time, I thought business and sustainability were opposites — one focused on profit, the other on limits. But over time, I realized the best entrepreneurs see sustainability as strategy, not sacrifice.

When I helped organize our stall at Inhorgenta Munich, I noticed customers increasingly asking about traceability. They wanted stories, not just sparkle. That shift fascinated me. It made me think about how transparency and innovation could actually drive profit by building long-term trust.

Now, every time I design a new jewelry piece or analyze a company case in IB Business Management, I think about impact beyond revenue. Sustainability isn’t just a moral choice anymore — it’s a market advantage.

That’s what I want to keep exploring: how creative, responsible business decisions can shape industries for the better. Because if a single recycled silver ring can start a conversation, imagine what an entire business could do.

When I started using recycled silver, it felt symbolic. But then I learned the numbers: producing recycled silver cuts carbon emissions by up to two-thirds compared to newly mined silver. That’s not symbolism — that’s real impact.

At first, I sourced from small European refiners who melted down old jewelry scraps. But I wanted to go further — to show customers why this matters. So I began creating infographics comparing energy use between recycled and mined silver. I shared them at fairs and on my blog. The reactions surprised me. People wanted to know more. Some even brought in old jewelry to recycle.

It reminded me how awareness fuels action. Change doesn’t always start with government policy or big brands. Sometimes it starts with a student selling one honest product at a time.

Recycled silver isn’t a trend — it’s proof that sustainability can shine just as brightly.

Trade fairs are my classroom. Forget whiteboards — mine are glass display cases filled with sapphires and tourmalines.

At my first fair in Munich, I learned more about business in one day than any textbook could teach me. I watched deals fall apart over a handshake, saw how body language could change a buyer’s decision, and learned to switch between English, German, and Chinese in seconds.

Once, a customer hesitated over price, and instead of lowering it, my dad calmly explained the stone’s craftsmanship. It worked — the buyer agreed. That moment taught me that selling isn’t about pressure, it’s about confidence and clarity.

Now, whenever I help behind the counter, I focus on listening more than speaking. Every conversation reveals something new — how trust is built, how culture affects negotiation, and how even under bright lights, transparency matters most.

The jewelry fair taught me business isn’t just about gemstones — it’s about people.

It started small — a recycled silver ring, a weekend flea market, and a cardboard sign that read “Sustainable Jewelry.” I didn’t expect anyone to stop. But when a woman picked up a necklace and asked, “How can I be sure this is recycled?”, I realized how important honesty is in business.

I showed her my supplier sheet, hallmark tag, and carbon comparison chart. She smiled and bought the piece. A week later, she emailed to say she had started stocking recycled silver in her own shop. That single message felt bigger than any sale — it proved that small choices can spread change.

The project has grown since then. I now design and sell limited pieces made from certified recycled silver. Each comes with a story card explaining its material source. It’s my way of combining creativity with responsibility — turning jewelry into a conversation starter about sustainability.

Every sale isn’t just income; it’s impact.

When most people look at a gemstone, they see sparkle. I see a story — one that starts far from the jewelry counter. At my dad’s fairs in Munich and Hong Kong, I’ve watched buyers argue over carats and clarity, but rarely over origin. That silence made me curious: where do these stones really come from?

I started researching and was shocked to learn how many gems are mined under poor conditions, with little environmental oversight. The same sapphire that shines under bright lights might have come from a mine that destroyed a river ecosystem. It made me realize that beauty often hides responsibility.

Since then, I’ve made it my goal to understand the full journey of a gemstone — from mine to market. Every time I hold one, I think about the people, places, and trade routes behind it. It’s changed the way I see business: profit matters, but transparency builds trust.

I still love gemstones, but now, I love asking questions about them even more.