Wearing My Worth in Emerald and Grit

I never needed luxury to feel worthy — I was born into it. My childhood wasn’t a lesson in scarcity; it was a lesson in elegance. I remember my mother’s emerald ring — not just because it glittered in the afternoon light, but because of the way she moved when she wore it. There was a kind of language in her hands, in the quiet certainty of someone who doesn’t ask for permission to be seen. That’s where my love for jewelry began — not from longing, but from inheritance. Not material, but emotional.

When I think about where my relationship with jewelry really began, I don’t think about a store or a showcase. I think about my mother. Specifically, the way her emerald ring would catch the light when she reached for her tea. We weren’t flashy. It wasn’t that kind of luxury. Ours was quieter — woven into the way she walked, the scent of her scarf, the music she played while brushing her hair. That ring — it wasn’t expensive, at least not by today’s standards. But it meant something. And I think that’s what drew me to jewelry in the first place. It wasn’t about beauty. It was about memory. The feeling of something lasting, passed down, worn not for show, but because it said something about you without you having to speak.

It wasn’t planned. None of it was. The first time I made something — a piece of jewelry, I mean — I wasn’t trying to be anyone. I was just alone one afternoon, picking through this little box of broken things my aunt had left. A bent clasp. One green bead. Part of a chain. And I don’t know why, but my hands just started moving. Maybe I was remembering something, or trying to fix something else. Not the jewelry — something in me. I didn’t think of it as “design.” Not then. It just… happened. That piece never even left the house. But I kept it. I still have it. And sometimes, when I hold it now, I remember how quiet that room was. And how it was the first time I made something that felt like mine.

I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just never cared much for the loud kind of luxury. The type you feel the minute someone walks into the room and needs you to know what brand they’re wearing. That’s never been my thing. I’ve always noticed the quiet stuff. Like how someone tucks a sleeve, or how their perfume stays after they leave. There’s something in that silence. I think that’s where the real elegance lives — in the things that don’t have to try. You either see it or you don’t. And honestly? That’s what I think luxury is. The parts of us that don’t shout — but stay.

I never liked pieces that tried too hard. You know the ones — big, bold, obvious. That’s not me. I’ve always gravitated toward details that whisper. Like the way a curve can be just a little bit off — not wrong, just unexpected. Or how a stone catches the light when you’re not looking straight at it. You’d miss it if you blinked. But that’s the magic. I don’t add those things for attention. I add them for the person who’s paying attention. Someone who feels the difference, even if they can’t explain it. Maybe because that’s how I’ve always been — noticing the quiet parts. The parts most people overlook. And honestly, I don’t even know if you can teach that kind of seeing. But it’s where I always end up — in the quiet, unnoticed corners, where something small just feels… right.

Luxury, for me, has always started on the inside. It’s never really been about how rare something is — it’s about how it makes you feel. I’ve seen it happen. A woman puts on a ring I made, and something shifts. She stands a little taller. Her shoulders relax. Sometimes she touches her neck like she’s remembering something. Maybe it’s not the ring that changed her. Maybe she just needed a reason to see herself again. That moment — when she catches her reflection and really sees herself — that’s the part I live for. Not the sparkle. The recognition. The return.

There’s something strange — and kind of beautiful — about making something for someone you haven’t met. You don’t know her name, her voice, what she’s been through. And still… somehow, you know. I find myself designing for her like I’ve known her forever. She’s not loud. She doesn’t need to be. There’s a calm kind of strength in the way she moves — like she doesn’t ask for space, she just takes it. And maybe she’s always been that woman. Or maybe she’s still learning how to become her. Either way, I want the piece to feel like it’s been waiting for her. Quietly. Patiently. Like it knows who she is before she even puts it on.

In this region, jewelry isn’t just something you wear — it’s something you carry. A wedding. A goodbye. A promise. We don’t say it out loud, but we all know what that gold bangle meant when it was passed down. It’s heavy, but not in grams. In memory. In meaning. A client once held a necklace and said, “My grandmother wore something just like this.” And then she just… went quiet. I didn’t ask more. I didn’t need to. That’s how it works here. We don’t wear jewelry because it’s expensive. We wear it because it remembers things we don’t always know how to explain.

Sometimes, when a woman tries on a piece I’ve made, there’s a pause — not the kind you plan for, but the kind that sneaks up on both of us. I remember one moment especially: she looked at her reflection, smiled faintly, and said, “This feels like me, somehow.” That stuck with me. That’s why I design — not to follow trends, not to flash, but to stir something she maybe hadn’t felt in a while. Because when jewelry is right, it doesn’t just decorate — it reconnects. It brings someone back to herself. And when that happens, even the air around her changes.

I didn’t need a report to tell me what I already sensed, but when Bain & Company released their 2023 Global Luxury Report, something clicked. When I finally read the data, I wasn’t surprised—just reassured. It said that close to 65% of luxury purchases in the Middle East aren’t really about price tags or reputation. They’re about something harder to define—what a piece makes you feel, or who it brings to mind. That number wasn’t abstract to me—it looked like the quiet breath before a woman says, “This reminds me of my mother.” It felt like the silence after a ring is slipped on with trembling hands. That number has eyes. It has stories. It lives in the way my clients look at a piece before they even speak.

👩‍💼 About the Author

Sarina Raftari is the CEO and Creative Director of KHALIFAT Jewellery, an Iranian-born luxury brand with a soul rooted in heritage and a vision sculpted by modern elegance. With a background in strategic management (MBA), HR leadership, and fine jewelry design, Sarina’s work bridges the worlds of emotion, identity, and artistry.

Born into a culture where jewelry speaks louder than words, she believes every gem tells a story—and she’s here to make sure it’s heard.

🔸 Based in the Middle East and London

🔸 Luxury Brand Strategist | Talent & Culture Advocate

🔸 Passionate about emeralds, legacy, and women’s voices in business

📧 [email protected]

📱 +49 1523 1436176

🌐 sarinaraftari.wordpress.com