Sophia Lorenz

This morning, I arrived at a client’s penthouse in Munich, Germany, for the final walkthrough. The project had been going on for six months, and I was confident everything was in order. I'd overseen every detail, from the custom cabinets to the perfectly measured curtains.

But the moment I walked in, I could tell something was wrong. My client, a tech entrepreneur, stood in the kitchen, staring at a tiny chip on the edge of the new marble countertop. It was barely noticeable, but to him, it might as well have been a crack down the middle.

“How could this happen?” he demanded, his frustration palpable.

I understood his concern. He’d spent a fortune on this remodel and expected nothing less than perfection. I assured him I’d handle it, but inside, I was bracing myself for the conversation with the contractor, who was already on edge after a few delays earlier in the project.

At 48, I’ve navigated countless situations like this, but they never get easier. Balancing the high expectations of clients with the realities of construction is a constant tightrope act. When I called the contractor, he was, as expected, defensive, insisting the chip wasn’t his fault. We went back and forth, neither of us willing to budge. Finally, I offered to split the repair cost—a compromise neither of us loved, but it would get the job done.

I called the client back to update him. He sighed, clearly dissatisfied but accepting. “I just want it to be perfect,” he muttered.

As I hung up, I looked around the apartment. The soft morning light highlighted every meticulously crafted detail. It was beautiful, yet I knew that in a few months, this chip would be forgotten as life took over. Glasses would be set down too hard, chairs would scrape the floor, and perfection would give way to the reality of everyday living.

I love my job, but days like this remind me how exhausting it can be to chase perfection in a world where nothing stays perfect for long.