Monthly Archives: August 2026

Engineering Microalgae for Enhanced Immunotoxin Therapy: From Production to Delivery

DOI: 10.31038/JPPR.2026911

Abstract

Immunotoxins (ITs), promising agents for targeted cancer therapy by fusing targeting moieties with potent toxins, face significant clinical translation hurdles including poor stability, systemic toxicity, inefficient tumor delivery, and a lack of scalable production platforms. This review highlights engineered microalgae as an innovative integrated “production-delivery” platform to address these limitations. Capitalizing on their high biocompatibility, genetic tractability, and costeffective cultivation, microalgae can be engineered via surface functionalization and chloroplast/nuclear genetic manipulation to directly produce and deliver ITs, thereby bypassing complex chemical conjugation and enhancing therapeutic integrity. Beyond serving as efficient carriers, these engineered systems demonstrate unique synergistic capabilities: their motility or externally guided (e.g., light/magnetic) navigation improves deep tumor penetration; photosynthetic activity alleviates tumor hypoxia and modulates the immunosuppressive microenvironment; and inherent immunomodulatory components (e.g., polysaccharides) activate innate immune cells, creating a favorable context for IT efficacy. Despite remaining challenges in expression optimization and precise in vivo targeting, the convergence of synthetic biology and smart material design positions engineered microalgae as a transformative platform poised to advance the next generation of safe, effective, and affordable IT based cancer therapeutics.

Keywords

Immunotoxin, Engineered microalgae, Drug delivery, Biocompatibility cancer therapy

Introduction

Cancer ranks as the second leading cause of death globally, with incidence rates showing a persistent upward trend year on year [1]. National cancer statistics reveal that approximately 10 million people die from cancer annually, with global cancer cases projected to rise to 28.4 million by 2040 [2]. Cancer cells pose a major threat to the life and health of patients due to their uncontrolled proliferation and easy metastasis to other organs or tissues. However, traditional therapies such as chemotherapy and radiotherapy often have limited clinical efficacy due to poor specificity, strong systemic toxicity, and tumor drug resistance [3-5]. In recent years, new anticancer therapies have been emerging. Among them, biological targeted therapy can achieve the dual goals of accurately killing cancer cells and protecting normal tissues, and its side effects are significantly lower than those of synthetic drugs, which has attracted wide attention. ITs are a typical representative of this strategy [6-9]. Composed of a targeting moiety (usually a monoclonal antibody or antibody fragment) and a cytotoxic payload (such as gelonin toxin or Pseudomonas aeruginosa exotoxin A) via chemical conjugation or recombinant fusion, they can selectively induce cell death by recognizing specific antigens on the surface of cancer cells (Figure 1) [10,11], providing a highly efficient targeted approach for cancer therapy [12]. Although preclinical studies of ITs have shown good prospects, its clinical application is still restricted by multiple factors [13]: (1) Systemic toxicity caused by nonspecific binding to normal cells; (2) It is easily degraded by protease in the blood; (3) The toxin induces neutralizing antibodies and induces immunogenicity; (4) low penetration efficiency for solid tumors; (5) It is difficult to maintain its biological activity during large-scale production. Among these, two issues are particularly prominent: the high immunogenicity induced by exogenous toxins and the lack of a suitable large-scale production platform. The former readily triggers an anti-ITs anti-body response in the body, accelerating drug clearance and increasing the risk of adverse reactions such as allergies and cytokine release syndrome; The latter limitation arises from traditional platforms failing to meet the production requirements for soluble expression and low toxin residue levels of ITs, thereby hindering industrialization progress [14,15].

Figure 1: Schematic diagram of IT structure and tumor targeting mechanism. A. Structure of IT B. Tumor Targeting Mechanism: 1. The target molecule of IT binds specifically to the antigen (or receptor) on the surface of tumor cells. 2. ITs are internalized into tumor cells by receptor-mediated endocytosis. 3. Upon entry into the cell, the IT is transported to the lysosome where it undergoes degradation to release the free cytotoxic payload. 4. The cytotoxic payload acts in the cytoplasm: it either disrupts the DNA strand or inhibits protein synthesis. 5. Apoptosis of tumor cells was induced to complete targeted killing.

To address these challenges, there is an urgent need to develop highly efficient integrated drug “production-delivery” systems that enhance the stability, targeting, and bioavailability of ITs while overcoming bottlenecks in large-scale production. As a kind of diverse photosynthetic microorganisms, microalgae have become a research hotspot of new biological carriers due to their inherent advantages [16,17]. More importantly, as an expression platform with both eukaryotic modification ability and low-cost culture characteristics, eukaryotic microalgae can not only directly produce the core functional modules of ITs (such as targeting fragments, toxic molecules, and immune activation elements), but also provide an important reference for the optimization of ITs by developing special expression systems and delivery technologies. In recent years, relevant research results have preliminarily verified its feasibility (Table 1). In addition, microalgae can regulate the tumor microenvironment (TME) and tumor-associated microbiome (TAM) through engineering, creating favorable conditions for ITs to play a therapeutic role [18-20].

Table 1: IT functional components and other functional proteins produced by eukaryotic microalgae.

Recombinant protein

Function Expression host Genome engineered

Core Highlights

References

IT components          
CD22-targeting ITs (αCD22PE40, αCD22CH23PE40) Treatment of B-cell lymphoma Chlamydomonas reinhardtii Chloroplast Chloroplast Expresses both monomeric and dimeric forms, which are soluble and enzymatically active; specifically binds CD22-positive B cells for efficient killing; significantly prolongs survival of tumor-bearing mice; avoids in vitro chemical conjugation, reducing off-target toxicity (Tran et al., 2013) [21]
Human IgG antibody against Hepatitis B Virus surface protein (CL4mAb) Prevention of Hepatitis B virus infection Phaeodactylum tricornutum Nuclear genome Efficiently secretes fully assembled functional antibodies, with a maximum concentration of 2550 ng/mL in culture medium; high purity of secreted antibodies eliminates complex purification steps, enabling low-cost production (Hempel and Maier, 2012) [22]
Attenuated E7 protein of Human Papillomavirus 16 (E7GGG) Prevention of HPV-related lesions and cancer C. reinhardtii Chloroplast Chloroplast High solubility and strong immunogenicity; induces specific antibody production and T-cell proliferation; provides effective protection against HPV-related tumors; can be produced under sterile and controlled conditions complying with Good Manufacturing Practice(GMP) standards (Demurtas et al., 2013) [23]
Fusion protein of multiple antihypertensive peptides (RPLKPW, LKPNM, AINPSK) Treatment of hypertension C. reinhardtii Chloroplast Chloroplast Fusion expression of multiple angiotensin-converting enzyme inhibitory peptides; in vivo experiments confirm antihypertensive effect, with the most significant blood pressure reduction 6 hours after oral administration; suitable for direct development of functional foods without complex purification (Carrizalez-López et al., 2018) [24]
Major birch pollen allergen (Bet v 1.0101) Allergen immunotherapy (AIT) for allergic diseases C. reinhardtii Chloroplast Chloroplast Similar secondary structure and immunological activity to Escherichia coli-expressed counterparts; effectively binds human IgE and mouse-specific IgG; serves as a safe and efficient production platform for oral desensitization vaccines (Hirschl et al., 2017) [25]
Other Functional Proteins          
Plasmodium falciparum PfCelTOS-IL2 antigen-adjuvant fusion protein Malaria prevention (pre-erythrocytic and transmission-blocking vaccine) C. reinhardtii Chloroplast Chloroplast Mixotrophic culture (low light) promotes protein accumulation; the fusion protein is soluble, correctly folded, and immunologically active; IL-2 adjuvant enhances antigen immunogenicity (Shamriz and Ofoghi, 2018, 2019) [26-27]
White Spot Syndrome Virus (WSSV) VP28 protein Prevention and control of WSSV infection in shrimp C. reinhardtii Chloroplast Chloroplast Codon optimization enables efficient expression; the algal strain tolerates the weakly acidic environment (pH 4.0) and 0.3% bile salts in shrimp digestive tracts; oral administration results in a shrimp survival rate of 87%, serving as a carrier for aquatic animal oral vaccines (Kiataramgul et al., 2020) [28]
Hyperthermophilic endoglucanase (CelB)-PTXD chimeric protein Lignocellulosic degradation, biofuel production C. reinhardtii Chloroplast Chloroplast Cultivable in non-sterile, phosphite-containing medium to avoid contamination; enzyme activity reaches 7.37–8.57 U/g dry weight; PTXD endows the algal strain with phosphorus source selectivity, ensuring culture stability (Cutolo et al., 2021) [29]

The engineering strategy further expands the potential of microalgae as IT delivery vectors, and surface modification technology can enhance the specific binding to tumors by coupling targeting ligands [30]. Genome engineering can achieve stable expression of ITs in the chloroplast or nucleus [31,32]. Microalgae-based micro-robots have the ability of autonomous movement and responsiveness to environmental stimuli, and can actively navigate to tumor sites [33,34]. These engineered microalgal systems not only protect ITs from degradation but also reduce off-target toxicity, increase tumor accumulation, and synergistically regulate anti-tumor immune responses [35,36]. In this review, we systematically review the latest progress of engineered microalgae in IT-mediated tumor therapy, including the inherent characteristics of vectors, targeted engineering strategies, synergistic mechanisms, challenges, and prospects, in order to provide a prospective reference for technological innovation and clinical translation in this field.

The Core Potential of Eukaryotic Microalgae as an Integrated “Production-Delivery” Platform for ITs

Recent advances in biopharma have laid the foundation for the research and development of complex protein drugs. However, due to the structural characteristics of macromolecules, industrial production of these drugs is still facing challenges. Cell-free protein synthesis cannot achieve large-scale manufacturing at present, and the production of protein drugs (such as ITs) mainly relies on living cell-based expression systems. Different expression systems have their own advantages and disadvantages (Table 2) [37-41]. Eukaryotic microalgae have unique advantages, such as prokaryotic operation convenience and eukaryotic modification ability, which are extremely promising alternative platforms. Their core advantages are reflected in the synergistic adaptation of “production” and “delivery” dimensions.

Table 2: Comparison of different recombinant protein expression systems.

Evaluation Indicator

Eukaryotic Microalgae (e.g. C. reinhardtii) Bacteria (e.g. Escherichia coli) Yeast (e.g. Saccharomyces cerevisiae) Transgenic Plants (e.g. Tobacco) Plant Viruses (e.g. Tobacco Mosaic Virus) Mammalian Cells (e.g. CHO Cells)

Transgenic Animals (e.g. Cattle and Sheep)

Glycosylation Ability Eukaryotic: mammalian – like; Prokaryotic: None None Incorrect (high – mannose type) Correct (mammalian – like) Correct (mammalian – like) Correct (mammalian – like) Correct (mammalian – like)
Target Protein Folding Quality Good Poor Medium Good Good Excellent Excellent
Genetic Manipulation Convenience Highly Convenient Highly Convenient Relatively Convenient Highly Convenient Relatively Convenient Moderately Convenient Highly Convenient
Scale up production feasibility Easily Achievable Easily Achievable Easily Achievable Easily Achievable Easily Achievable Moderate Difficulty Good Feasibility
Proliferation Rate Rapid Extremely Fast Relatively Fast Slow Relatively Fast Slow Slow
Product Output Level Medium Extremely High Relatively High Relatively High Extremely High Relatively Low Relatively Low
Cost of cultivation Extremely Low Extremely Low Relatively Low Relatively Low Relatively Low High High
Biosafety Level High Safety Low Safety Safety Unknown High Safety High Safety Moderate Safety High Safety
Potential Contamination Type Low Contamination Risk Endotoxin Contamination Low Contamination Risk May contain pesticides, herbicides and toxic plant metabolites Unknown Contamination Status May carry viruses, prions and oncogenic DNA May carry viruses, prions and oncogenic DNA

These photosynthetic microorganisms belong to the kingdom Protista, encompassing two major groups: prokaryotic cyanobacteria (blue-green algae) and eukaryotic microalgae. They are widely distributed across marine, terrestrial, and extreme ecosystems, and their rich species diversity enables adaptation to diverse applications [42]. Most clinically relevant species (e.g., C. reinhardtii, Dunaliella salina, Chlorella vulgaris, Haematococcus pluvialis) are FDA-approved Generally Recognized as Safe (GRAS) level, with no human pathogen host risk and outstanding biosafety [43]. Its chloroplasts can stably express foreign proteins, and the correct folding rate of over 90% can be achieved by the eukaryotic folding system, and the products are not contaminated by endotoxin. It has the ability of post-translational modification, such as disulfide bond formation, and there is no transgene silencing mechanism. It has successfully expressed SCFV, full-length human IgG1, and a variety of recombinant proteins [44,45]. The nuclear genome also supports efficient transformation. Although the amount of protein accumulation is slightly lower than that of the chloroplast, the resources of alternative markers, promoters, and reporters are abundant, and the expression efficiency can be improved through strategies such as codon optimization [46,47]. Genetic modification techniques for microalgae have become increasingly sophisticated, with transformation methods including DNA-coated nanoparticle uptake, CRISPR-Cas9-mediated transformation, electroporation, gene gun delivery, and Agrobacterium-mediated transformation [48,49]. In addition, the nuclear genome, chloroplast genome, and mitochondrial genome can all realize foreign gene integration, which goes far beyond some expression platforms that can only undergo nuclear transformation [50]. C. reinhardtii, as a model organism, possesses comprehensive molecular genetic tools and genomic databases. It exhibits rapid growth rates (doubling every 8 hours) and can be cultured under phototrophic, mixed-trophic, or heterotrophic conditions. Non-toxic and capable of low-cost protein secretion, its chloroplasts have successfully synthesized complex therapeutics such as foot-and-mouth disease virus VP1-toxin fusion proteins [51]. Diatoms (e.g., P. tricornutum) have attracted attention due to their silicified cell walls and unique ecological functions. Both the nuclear genome and plastidial genome have been stably transformed, and functional monoclonal antibodies can be efficiently secreted and expressed [52,53], providing more species options for IT production. Prokaryotic cyanobacteria have also been genetically engineered to achieve the synthesis of biofuels, bioplastics, and secondary metabolites [54]. Their genetic manipulation technologies (such as plasmid expression systems and homologous recombination) have laid the foundation for the subsequent expression of Its [55].

Biocompatibility and Low Immunogenicity Biocompatibility and Low Immunogenicity

Most clinically relevant microalgae are of the FDA-approved GRAS grade and have a long history of use in the field of food supplements. Their core advantage lies in the dual biocompatibility encompassing production host tolerance and in vivo therapeutic safety. At the production level, microalgae can tolerate the expression of complex ITs by means of the chloroplast sequestration mechanism [21]. At the level of in vivo application, its cell wall polysaccharide (predominantly β-1,3-glucan), photosynthetic proteins (sharing 30%-40% similarity with human homologous proteins), and phospholipid composition similar to that of human cell membranes can minimize immune rejection to the greatest extent [56]. They can also be enzymatically cleaved into non-toxic metabolites, combining host tolerance with in vivo therapeutic safety. Unlike traditional hosts, they do not rely on protease-deficient mutations or balanced lethal systems to circumvent toxin toxicity [57]. In the C57BL/6 mouse model, the drug delivery system constructed with microalgae showed no obvious inflammatory response within 72 hours after intravenous injection (the serum IL-6 level increased by ≤15% compared with the control group), and no inflammatory infiltration was observed in liver tissue sections [58]. By comparison, traditional expression systems have significant limitations: ITs expressed by Escherichia coli are prone to residual endotoxins, which can trigger inflammatory reactions such as fever and vascular leak syndrome [59]. The high-mannose glycan modification of Pichia pastoris tends to induce anti-carrier antibodies, with the antibody positive rate increasing with the frequency of administration [60]. Mammalian cells (e.g., CHO cells) are liable to retain animal-derived components, which increases the risk of allergies [61]. Microalgal microrobots can also be engineered to enhance safety: erythrocyte membrane, macrophage membrane, or PEG molecules can be coated on the surface to achieve immune escape, reduce macrophage phagocytosis rate, and prolong the circulation half-life [62]. Biodegradable materials such as GRAS strain and Fe₃O₄@SiO₂ are selected to ensure that the carrier is enzymatically metabolized without long-term accumulation, which makes it suitable for intravenous, oral, local injection, and other routes of delivery [63]. For example, oral administration of microalga-adriamycin complex can avoid intestinal mucosal injury and penetrate the intestinal barrier, providing new possibilities for the treatment of gastrointestinal tumors [64-66].

Surface Modification of Microalgae: A Key Support for Targeted Delivery of ITs

The surface of microalgae cells is naturally rich in active functional groups. Through a variety of flexible ways, such as covalent coupling, electrostatic interaction, membrane coating, and bioorthogonal reaction, microalgae can modify antibodies, peptides, aptamers, and other targeting elements to significantly improve the specific binding and enrichment ability of ITs to tumor tissues. In traditional modification strategies, microalgae such as C. reinhardtii and Arthrospira platensis are naturally negatively charged on their surfaces, enabling them to efficiently adsorb positively charged ITs (e.g., PE38 toxin domain, saponin) or targeting ligands through electrostatic interaction [67]. For instance, the spirulina-based drug delivery system (SP@Dox) developed by Zhou Min’s team from Zhejiang University achieved targeted tumor accumulation in a breast cancer lung metastasis model. Compared with the unmodified group, the tumor selectivity was increased by 2-3 fold, and the drug accumulation in normal lung tissues was reduced by more than 40% [68]. The chlorella-based biomimetic carrier coated with macrophage cell membrane can precisely deliver ITs by virtue of its inflammation-homing property. This not only increases the drug concentration in inflammation-associated tumor tissues by 3.2-4.5 fold but also reduces the non-specific distribution in normal organs such as the liver and kidneys [69]. In addition, microalgae can be adapted to different tumor targets to form a “one carrier and multiple targets” mode, which can be conjugated with trastuzumab, hyaluronic acid, and cetuximabfor HER2-positive breast cancer, CD44 high expression pancreatic cancer, and EGFR positive lung cancer, respectively, and the preparation cost is more than 40% lower than that of synthetic vectors such as liposomes [70-72].

Different from traditional systems that can only produce ITs, microalgae can achieve the integration of “production-modification”. For example, C. reinhardtii chloroplast can stably express ITs, and the carboxyl group on ITs surface can be directly covalently coupled with RGD peptide without additional purification steps [73], and the specific binding rate is over 85%; The modification of ITs expressed in Escherichia coli requires at least five steps of inclusion body dissolution, renaturation and multiple chromatography, which easily leads to the loss of toxin activity [74]. The targeted modification of ITs expressed in mammalian cells is easily interfered with by serum components [75]. The emerging bioorthogonal reaction (click chemistry) further amplifies the advantages of microalgae modification: Cu (I) -catalyzed azido-alkyne cycloaddition (CuAAC) can form a stable covalent bond between the targeted molecules and microalgae, and the tumor cell binding rate is 5-7 times higher than that of the unmodified group [76]; Strain-enhanced azido – alkyne cycloaddition (SPAAC) can achieve specific coupling under physiological conditions without metal catalyst [77], and retain ITs activity and carrier biocompatibility to the greatest extent. The surface modification of microalgae not only achieves efficient targeted delivery of ITs but also simplifies operation and reduces cost through an integrated process, which provides key technical support for the clinical transformation of ITs.

Structural Stability and High Loading Capacity of Microalgae: The Key to Efficient Delivery of ITs

The unique multi-level cellular structure of microalgae (rigid cell wall, phospholipid bilayer cell membrane, chloroplast and other intracellular compartments) can not only provide a physical barrier for ITs to resist acid-base environment and enzymatic degradation, but also achieve high-capacity loading by means of porous structure and intracellular storage, simultaneously solving the core defects of ITs which are easy to degrade and conformational instability. At the same time, it reduces the process complexity of in vitro loading and provides a double guarantee for efficient delivery.

(1) The multilayered structure confers strong stability and prolongs the active period of ITs

The rigid cell wall (containing cellulose, peptidoglycan, silica, and other components) acts as a “first line of defense” to physically isolate proteases, nucleases, and acidic environments in the blood [78], such as the siliceous shell of diatoms and the model toxin encapsulated by the cellulose-pectin complex cell wall of Chlorella. After incubation in the simulated fluid containing 1mg/mL trypsin for 72 hours, the activity retention rate was more than 70%, which was much higher than 15%-20% of the free toxin [79]; Spirulina-peptidoglycan cell wall could reduce the contact between protease and intracellular toxin, and the toxin activity could maintain more than 65% after 48 hours of incubation in pH 5.0 acidic environment [80]; The phospholipid bilayer can isolate pH-sensitive toxins (e.g., Pseudomonas aeruginosa exotoxin A) from the acidic environment of endosomes and lysosomes through hydrophobic interaction, resulting in a 3.3-fold longer half-life in vivo than the free form [81,82]; The thylakoid membrane of chloroplast can also provide a “secondary protection”, which can achieve a continuous and slow release of ITs in the cytoplasm even if the microalgal cell membrane is destroyed by lysosomes, avoiding toxic burst or rapid degradation [83]. In contrast, ITs expressed by Escherichia coli (e.g., PE38, DT388) require additional modification with BSA or PEG to resist degradation, with a half-life of only 2-4 hours [84]. ITs expressed by Pichia pastoris lose more than 60% of their activity within 24 hours in a simulated intestinal environments [85]. For ITs expressed by mammalian cells (e.g., CHO cells), low-temperature storage and stabilizers are necessary. Moreover, their stability decreases significantly in the presence of an acidic environment and proteases, making them unable to tolerate the complex tumor microenvironment [86,87]. In contrast, microalgae can achieve the stable existence of ITs without additional modification by virtue of their natural structure.

(2) Multiple load mechanism to achieve high-capacity delivery and adapt to different types of ITs

Microalgae support three loading modes, including physical encapsulation, chemical conjugation, and intracellular expression and storage, which can be flexibly adapted according to the hydrophilicity, hydrophobicity, and molecular size of ITs. The loading capacity of microalgae is significantly higher than that of synthetic vectors and traditional expression system-derived vectors. In terms of physical encapsulation, the porous silica shell of diatoms and the intracellular cavity of Chlorella can encapsulate small-molecule toxins or bioactive conjugates in batch, and the loading capacity of some microalgae-based carriers is better than that of traditional liposomes [88]. In the chemical coupling mode, the active groups, such as the hydroxyl group and the carboxyl group, on the cell wall surface could form covalent bonds with ITs to achieve stable loading. Microalgae such as Spirulina had high coupling efficiency and could well retain the loading molecular activity [89]. Under the mode of intracellular expression and storage, the chloroplast genome of microalgae can directly express ITs and store them [90]. The chloroplast of C. reinhardtii has been proven to be an efficient expression platform for recombinant therapeutic proteins. The products exhibit excellent solubility and comparable activity to those from traditional systems. Meanwhile, the thylakoid membranes of the chloroplast can provide protection for the expressed products, endowing them with greater advantages in activity retention compared to prokaryotic expression systems. Additionally, mild ultrasonic treatment can form nanoscale micropores in the chlorella cell wall to enhance encapsulation efficiency. Regulating the nitrogen source concentration in the culture medium can induce microalgae to accumulate lipid droplets, significantly increasing their loading capacity for hydrophobic molecules [91].

(3) Synergy of Stability and Loading Capacity, Adapting to Diversified Therapeutic Scenarios

In local long-acting tumor therapy, embedding the microalgae-bioactive molecule complex in sodium alginate bio-degradable hydrogel and implanting it locally at the tumor site can not only protect the loaded molecules from degradation by hydrolytic enzymes but also achieve sustained release through the porous structure, thereby extending the local effective treatment cycle [92]; In the scenario of systemic delivery, bioactive molecules encapsulated by spirulina can resist degradation by metabolic enzymes in the body after intravenous injection, enhance the enrichment efficiency at tumor sites, and alleviate off-target toxicity to organs such as the kidneys [93,94]. Traditional expression systems have long faced the core bottleneck of stability and load imbalance. Microalgae, through the synergistic advantages of structural protection and high capacity loading, simultaneously solve the key problems of insufficient stability and low delivery efficiency of ITs, providing a more suitable integrated solution for diverse clinical scenarios.

Complementary Applications of Microalgae and Conventional Platforms

Different expression platforms exhibit distinct adaptabilities, and there is no absolute superiority or inferiority among them: the microalgae platform is suitable for ITs that do not require complex glycosylation and demand low-cost, large-scale production (e.g., CD22-targeted ITs). Its culture cost is only 1/5 to 1/3 of that of Escherichia coli and more than 80% lower than that of CHO cells [95]; Mammalian cells are still the preferred choice for highly active ITs requiring precise glycosylation, which can achieve complex post-translational modifications and ensure ITs in vivo stability and targeted binding activity [96]. E. coli can be used for rapid expression of short peptide toxin fragments with a short turnaround time (only 24-48 hours), which is suitable for preliminary functional verification in the laboratory stage [97]. For practical applications, a strategy of “segmented production + in vitro assembly” can be used, such as microalgae expressing the target ligand and toxin backbone, followed by mild chemical coupling (e.g., SPAAC click chemistry) to achieve functional assembly, which takes both production cost and product activity into consideration.

Limitations of Existing Loading Strategies and Breakthroughs in Microalgal Recombinant Expression Systems

The production and delivery of traditional targeted drugs (including “magic bullet” drugs such as ITs) have long faced core technical bottlenecks, which seriously restrict their clinical translation efficiency. Currently reported microalgae-based microrobots (Figure 2), while integrating the natural motility of microalgae with engineered modification properties, achieve autonomous movement driven by flagella and can be precisely regulated via external stimuli such as light and magnetic fields [98,99]. These robots offer a promising solution for the active navigation and targeted delivery of ITs. However, such systems primarily achieve targeted drug delivery through chemical modification strategies like covalent binding and electrostatic adsorption, or physical loading methods such as biomembrane encapsulation [100,101], and thus still possess significant inherent limitations.

Figure 2: schematic depicts the natural properties, actuation methods, functionalization strategies, and biomedical applications of microalgae-based robots.

The first is the “single-use” limitation. The microalgae and the drug are not integrated in the design, and the micro-algae carrier has no regenerative loading capacity after the loaded part works, which is eventually removed by immune cells and cannot be reused. For example, the C. reinhardtii -red blood cell membrane-coated nanoparticle robot developed by the University of California, San Diego, can specifically deliver doxorubicin to lung metastatic tumor sites, significantly reduce tumor volume, and extend the median survival time of model mice from 27 days to 37 days [102]. However, it still fails to overcome this limitation. Second, large-scale production is limited, chemical modification requires secondary treatment, and biofilm encapsulation is limited by capacity, proliferation, and transmission, which leads to a cumbersome process and about 40% reduction in efficiency [103]. Thirdly, there is insufficient loading stability and adaptability. Chemically modified drugs are prone to detachment, leading to off-target toxicity. Biomembrane encapsulation has a narrow adaptability range for drugs with different molecular weights and hydrophilic-hydrophobic properties. For instance, ITs with a molecular weight greater than 100 kDa are difficult to load efficiently, while the loading rate of chemically modified small-molecule toxins may drop to less than 50% of the initial value after 24 hours of in vivo circulation [104]. For example, in the spirulina delivery system modified with Fe₃O₄ nanoparticles, the detachment rate of the loaded doxorubicin reaches 58% after 24 hours of in vivo circulation, resulting in toxic reactions induced by drug accumulation in some normal tissues [105].

The recombinant expression system in eukaryotic microalgae provides an innovative way to break through these limitations and is expected to solve the key challenge of the lack of efficient adaptation production platforms for ITs. The core breakthroughs focus on three aspects: first, the integrated production of carrier and drug. Microalgae are genetically engineered to directly express ITs or functional antibodies, and then stably stored or directed released by means of chloroplast isolation, signal peptide-mediated secretion, and other mechanisms, without in vitro modification or encapsulation steps, to avoid the loss of drug activity and the risk of contamination. For example, Synechocystis sp. PCC 6803 ex-pression system constructed by Zhang et al. successfully expressed phycocyanin (C-PC) and prepared polyclonal anti-bodies with a titer as high as 1: 1,025,000. Western blot analysis confirmed its high specificity, and due to the absence of in vitro chemical modification throughout the process, the antibody activity retention rate exceeded 95% [106]. Another study confirmed that when using chloroplast engineering technology to express fish virus subunit vaccines, the isolation and protection effect of the thylakoid membrane could make the antigen activity retention rate up to 94%, and the production efficiency was 38% higher than that of the traditional process [107]. Second, it possesses the capability of sustainable proliferation and stable expression. The engineered microalgae, after modification, can reproduce repeatedly under simple conditions, and their progeny can still stably carry and express ITs, achieving “one-time modification and continuous production.” This eliminates the need for repeated synthesis and significantly simplifies the production process. For example, the glass bead transformation method established by Kindle et al. successfully achieved nuclear transformation of Chlamydiae reinhardtii, which provided a reliable technical basis for the introduction of exogenous genes [108,109] further optimized the exogenous gene expression system of C. rhinophylla by inserting endogenous regulatory elements into the transgenic sequence, which significantly improved the expression stability. After successive passages, the expression of exogenous genes in the recombinant algal strain did not decrease significantly, and the growth rate was consistent with that of the wild-type algal strain [109]. Third, it enhances delivery safety and efficiency. ITs are expressed and stored by microalgae themselves, avoiding the reduction in biocompatibility caused by chemical modification. Meanwhile, by integrating the natural motility of microalgae with engineered navigation modules such as light and magnetic responsiveness, it enables full-chain controllable delivery encompassing “autonomous movement – targeted enrichment – endogenous release.” For example, the functionalized diatom delivery system constructed by De la Soie et al., which is modified with vitamin B₁₂-targeting molecules and a light-responsive module on its surface, achieves a 2-fold increase in targeted enrichment and photoactivated toxicity against colorectal cancer cells [110].

Although there is no direct study on the delivery of ITs mediated by microalgae, microalgae, as a natural delivery carrier with excellent biocompatibility, have accumulated a large number of successful cases in the delivery of “magic bullet” drugs (targeted chemotherapy drugs, immunomodulators, etc.), which provides an important reference for the application of ITs (Table 3). The nuclear and chloroplast genomes of the model microalgae have been transformed efficiently, and the CRISPR-Cas9 precision editing technology is mature. The chloroplast expression system has no transgene silencing and can complete key post-translational modifications. The commercial application of large-scale culture technology lays a solid foundation for the mass production of ITs. This integrated mode of “production-delivery” not only breaks through the limitations of existing microalgal robotics but also builds a low-cost, sustainable, and high-safety system, which is expected to become an ideal platform for the production and delivery of ITs. Subsequent optimization of microalgal surface targeting modifications (such as coupling with specific ligands, such as anti-CD22 and anti-HER2) and IT expression systems (such as chloroplast promoter optimization and signal peptide screening) can achieve synergistic optimization of efficient production and precise delivery, providing a new path for the clinical transformation of “magic bullet” drugs.

Table 3: Targeted delivery and clinical application of microalgae-based robots.

Microalgae Category

Modification Techniques

Carrier Substances

Targeting Methods

Clinical Application

References 

C. reinhardtii Electrostatic interaction load Doxorubicin Light signal-regulated guidance Bioactive substance delivery (Akolpoglu et al., 2020b) [111]
  Click on chemical coupling Ciprofloxacin Passive enrichment in lung capillaries Acute bacterial pneumonia intervention (Zhang et al., 2022b) [112]
  Click chemical modification Vancomycin + Ciprofloxacin Light-controlled targeted delivery Bacterial infectious disease prevention and treatment (Shchelik et al., 2021) [113]
  Cell-penetrating modification Functional drugs Magnetic field-driven navigation Bioactive substance delivery, fluorescence tracing (Santomauro et al., 2018) [114]
C. pyrenoidosa Electrostatic adsorption loading Doxorubicin In situ direct injection Osteosarcoma targeted therapy (Liang et al., 2024b) [115]
  Electrodeposition modification Doxorubicin Magnetic field-regulated navigation Targeted drug delivery efficacy enhancement (Gong et al., 2022) [116]
  Calcium phosphate coating modification / Active dispersion targeting Improvement of radiotherapy resistance in hypoxic tumors (Zhong et al., 2021b) [117]
  Cell membrane coating process Chloroquine + Hematoporphyrin dihydrochloride Immune-mediated targeting Antitumor immunotherapy efficacy enhancement (Gao et al., 2023) [118]
  Hydrogel composite modification Doxorubicin In situ injection administration Hypoxic breast cancer treatment (Lee et al., 2019) [119]
Spirulina Electrostatic adsorption loading Doxorubicin Passive targeting to lung capillaries Breast cancer lung metastasis treatment (Zhong et al., 2020) [120]
  Electrostatic interaction-based loading Doxorubicin In situ injection administration Osteosarcoma clinical treatment (An et al., 2024) [121]
  Electrostatic adsorption technology Astaxanthin Passive entrapment by intestinal villi Radiotherapy-related injury protection (Zhang et al., 2023) [122]
  Cell encapsulation technology Curcumin Passive retention by intestinal villi Oral drug delivery for intestinal diseases (Zhong et al., 2021d) [123]
  Cell encapsulation process Amifostine Passive entrapment by intestinal villi Intestinal radiotherapy injury protection (Zhang et al., 2022a) [124]
  Cell encapsulation technology Metformin In situ injection administration Targeted intervention for osteoarthritis (Liang et al., 2024d) [125]
  Electrodeposition modification process Doxorubicin Magnetic field-driven navigation Chemo-photothermal synergistic therapy (Wang et al., 2019) [126]
  Hydrogel composite modification Resveratrol Floating retention in gastric juice Alcohol-related disease treatment (Hua et al., 2024) [127]

Mechanisms of Enhanced Efficacy in Engineering Microalgae-Mediated IT Therapy

Engineered microalgae can significantly improve the therapeutic effect of ITs through multidimensional mechanisms such as enhancing tumor penetration, regulating tumor microenvironment and tumor-associated microbiome, and cooperative immune regulation. It can effectively solve the key bottleneck of clinical application of traditional ITs and provide core technical support for their clinical transformation.

Enhancement of Tumor Penetration

Microalgae-based microrobots, leveraging the advantages of natural flagella-driven autonomous motility and small size (1-10 μm), exhibit superior penetration capability into solid tumors compared to passive delivery systems such as liposomes and nanoparticles. McCord et al. confirmed via optical tweezers technology that the flagellar propulsive force of wild-type C. reinhardtii is significantly higher than that of flagellar structure-deficient mutants, providing a dynamic basis for its penetration through dense biological matrices [128]; Related studies have shown that C. reinhardtii can effectively cross the physical barrier composed of collagen fibers and glycosaminoglycans in the tumor extracellular matrix (ECM) by means of the voluntary movement driven by two flagella, and its tissue penetration ability is significantly better than that of static nanoparticles [129]. The advantages of self-driven microrobots in solid tumor penetration have been demonstrated in many studies. For example, the Fe₃O₄-mediated self-driven nanobots constructed by Banerjee et al. can penetrate into the core of the tumor in the HCT116 colorectal cancer tumor sphere in vitro, and the drug distribution is significantly better than that of free drug delivery and passive delivery vehicles. The disintegration of tumor spheres can be induced within 72 hours, which effectively solves the problem of uneven distribution of therapeutic agents and insufficient killing of deep cells, and significantly improves the killing efficiency of tumor cells [130].

Regulation of Tumor Microenvironment and Tumor-associated Microbiome

Polysaccharides, proteins, and antioxidant substances in microalgae can reduce inflammatory response, alleviate tumor hypoxia, and enhance anti-tumor immunity. In terms of microenvironment regulation, studies have shown that spirulina can significantly reduce the levels of TNF-α and other pro-inflammatory cytokines in tissues by inhibiting the NF-κB signaling pathway, and play an anti-inflammatory role [131]; Seaweed polysaccharides can inhibit macrophage activation by blocking the nuclear translocation of NF-κB, thereby reducing the release of IL-6 and TNF-α [132]; In addition, spirulina polysaccharides can effectively inhibit the polarization of tumor-associated macrophages (TAM) towards the tumor-promoting M2 phenotype (an anti-inflammatory macrophage subtype that promotes tumor angiogenesis, invasion, and metastasis), thereby collectively improving the tumor inflammatory microenvironment [133]. More importantly, the photosynthesis of microalgae can produce oxygen continuously in the tumor site, which not only enhances the killing activity of ITs against hypoxic cancer cells but also enhances the activity of immune cells. In terms of microbiome regulation, Ge et al. [134] confirmed that oral administration of spirulina can selectively regulate the structure of intestinal flora and increase the abundance of beneficial bacteria through its rich β-glucan and other prebiotics, thereby improving the body’s immune function [134]. Relevant studies have further confirmed that the increase in the abundance of beneficial intestinal bacteria can promote the maturation of dendritic cells and indirectly enhance the anti-tumor immune response of immunotherapy, which provides a mechanism to support the synergistic effect of engineered spirulina [135].

Synergistic Immunoregulatory Effects

The engineered characteristics of microalgae not only enhance their ability as IT delivery vectors, but also achieve synergistic effects with ITs through a variety of ways to improve the effect of anti-tumor immunity. Bioactive components released by microalgae can directly affect the function of immune cells. Polysaccharides (such as β-glucan) can bind to innate immune cell receptors, activate macrophages and dendritic cells, and induce the secretion of key cytokines, including IL-12 and TNF-α, which lay the foundation for the initiation of the acquired immune response. Enhance the body’s recognition and attack of tumor cells [136]; At the same time, its specific compounds can regulate the production of cytokines, reduce the level of immunosuppressive factors in the tumor microenvironment, inhibit the activity of MDSC (tumor-associated myeloid suppressor cells), and create favorable conditions for T cells and NK cells to exert anti-tumor effects [137,138]. Engineered microalgae also have the potential to activate long-term memory immune cells, such as memory T cells, which provides the possibility of improving the long-term efficacy of treatment and enhancing the immune system’s long-term monitoring and elimination ability against cancer cells. This direction is worthy of further exploration [139-141]. Additionally, microalgae can combine with immune-activating particles, such as CpG oligonucleotides, to further stimulate the anti-tumor activity of immune cells. Through the coordination of delivery systems and immune activation mechanisms, microalgae can significantly enhance cell-specific immune responses [142]. In the combination therapy scenario, microalgae can achieve an amplification of efficacy when combined with other cancer therapies, such as checkpoint inhibitors and CAR-T cell therapy. This combi-nation can not only provide sustained release of immunomodulatory factors but also efficiently deliver ITs to form synergistic effects through multiple mechanisms [143,144]. Through continuous improvement of the coordination strategy of microalgae and ITs, the killing ability of tumor cells can be greatly improved, and exploring the differences in the roles of different microalgae species in activating different immune pathways also opens up a new direction for follow-up research in this field.

Challenges and Future Prospects

Although engineered microalgae have shown significant potential in IT production, they still face several technical bottlenecks. Firstly, the expression efficiency is low. At present, the expression level of microalgal recombinant proteins is generally low, which is difficult to meet the needs of large-scale clinical application; Secondly, the purification process is complex, the microalgae cell wall structure is dense, which increases the difficulty of protein extraction, and the traditional fragmentation method may also lead to the degradation of the target protein; In addition, the immunogenicity problem should not be ignored. The glycosylation pattern of the microalgae expression system is different from that of mammalian cells, which may cause the expressed ITs to trigger non-specific immune responses in the host. In terms of targeted delivery, the tumor enrichment efficiency of microalgal vectors still needs to be improved. During oral administration, gastric acid and digestive enzymes in the gastrointestinal tract will cause significant damage to microalgal cells, resulting in low bioavailability. When injected intravenously, unmodified microalgae are easily cleared by the reticuloendothelial system and shorten the half-life of blood circulation. Synthetic biology technology has provided a clear optimization path to solve the above bottlenecks. By introducing heterologous signal peptide genes into model microalgae such as C. reinhardtii and reconstructing the ER-Golgi secretion pathway, the secretion efficiency and extracellular recovery rate of recombinant proteins can be significantly improved [145]; At the same time, the central carbon metabolism network and amino acid synthesis pathway were optimized to increase the supply of key amino acids and provide raw material support for the efficient synthesis of special structure Its [146].

The development of intelligent delivery systems is also the core of future research. The integration of blue-light-inducible promoters can realize the precise activation and release of ITs by light [147], and the pH-sensitive modification technology can make the microalgal vectors respond to the acidic tumor microenvironment to achieve targeted release and increase the local therapeutic concentration [148]. Advancing clinical translation requires multidisciplinary collaboration, with breakthroughs focused on three key areas. First, establish GMP-compliant large-scale microalgae cultivation and purification processes. Optimize parameters in closed photobioreactors—including light intensity (120–150 μE·m⁻²·s⁻¹), temperature (25±1°C), and pH (7.0–7.5)—to ensure batch consistency of products (purity ≥95%, coefficient of variation in activity ≤10%) [149]; second, enhancing immunogenicity-related research by conducting systematic safety evaluations (including acute toxicity, chronic toxicity, and immunogenicity assessments) and developing standardized clinical assessment methods (e.g., measuring anti-microalgal carrier IgG and IgE antibody titers in patient serum) [150]; Third, optimize the administration method by using enteric coating or targeted nano-suspensions to increase oral bioavailability from 10%–15% to over 30%, thereby reducing the required dosage and the risk of adverse reactions [151,152].

At present, preliminary progress has been made in the preclinical study of microalgae-mediated ITs. For example, anti-CD22 ITs expressed by C. reinhardtii were intraperitoneally injected consecutively at a dose of 10 mg/kg for 4 weeks in a mouse model of B-cell lymphoma; the tumor inhibition rate reached 58%-72%, with no significant weight loss or liver and kidney function damage observed. In the future, combination therapy and personalized treatment will become the core development direction. Micro-algal IT combined with CAR-T cell therapy can alleviate tumor hypoxia through microalgal oxygen generation, inhibit M2 macrophage polarization, and increase the infiltration rate of CAR-T cells by 2-3 times [153]; Based on patient-derived tumor organoids, suitable combinations of microalgae-expressing ITs (such as anti-HER2 ITs + immune activation module for HER2-positive breast cancer) can be rapidly screened to achieve “tailored” precision treatment and reduce the incidence of adverse reactions [154].

Conclusion

Engineered microalgae, as an emerging platform for IT production and delivery, offer innovative solutions for cancer treatment through their exceptional biosynthetic capabilities, outstanding cost-effectiveness, and favorable biocompatibility. From fundamental research to clinical translation, this platform has achieved significant progress in IT design, efficient production, and elucidation of the mechanism of action, demonstrating remarkable potential, particularly in targeted therapies for hematological malignancies and solid tumors. In the future, with the continuous development of synthetic biology, gene editing and nanobiotics, engineered microalgal systems will be iteratively upgraded to the direction of intelligence and precision. By optimizing expression efficiency, innovating delivery systems and developing combined treatment strategies, microalgal IT expression is expected to become one of the core technologies of the next generation of cancer immunotherapy. It provides a new way to solve the key problems such as drug resistance and side effects in current cancer treatment.

Author Contributions

Yuxin Xie: Conceptualization, Visualization, Data curation, Writing – original draft. Xiaoyu Deng: Formal analysis, Writing – review & editing. Quan Wang: Supervision, Writing – review & editing. Jishi Lv: Project administration, Supervision, Funding acquisition.

Funding

This research was funded Hubei University of Science and Technology Cultivate Scientific Research Project (2025-26X11).

Conflicts of Interest

The authors declare that the research was conducted in the absence of any.

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Decolonising Medical Education in Low- and Middle-Income Countries: From Institutional Autonomy to Institutional Responsibility

DOI: 10.31038/JCRM.2026914

Introduction

In our first commentary, we argued that commercialisation and neo-colonial influences have progressively shifted medical education in low- and middle-income countries (LMICs) away from its public purpose, replacing societal needs with market-driven measures of institutional success. We proposed reclaiming social accountability as a guiding principle through which medical schools could realign education with the health priorities of the populations they serve [1]. In our second commentary, we argued that this aspiration cannot be realised unless medical schools possess sufficient institutional autonomy to define educational priorities according to local health needs rather than predominantly responding to externally rewarded indicators of excellence [2]. Together, these arguments explain why reform is necessary and who should determine educational priorities. They leave, however, one important question unanswered: once medical schools possess that autonomy, how should it be exercised?

This commentary argues that the next stage in this progression is institutional responsibility. Institutional autonomy determines who has the authority to define educational priorities; institutional responsibility determines how that authority should be exercised. If medical schools seek greater freedom to determine their educational missions, they must also accept a broader role in strengthening the health systems and societies they serve.

By institutional responsibility, we do not suggest that medical schools replace governments or become solely responsible for healthcare delivery. Governments remain responsible for financing, regulating, and delivering healthcare. Medical schools, however, are not passive educational organisations operating outside health systems. Through their admissions policies, curricula, teaching hospitals, faculty practice, research agendas, partnerships with health services, and graduate outcomes, they exert substantial influence over the capacity, priorities, and future direction of national health systems. The question is therefore not whether medical schools influence healthcare, but whether they consciously accept responsibility for the influence they already possess.

We therefore propose institutional responsibility as the logical progression of the arguments advanced in our previous commentaries. Social accountability establishes the public purpose of medical education, while recent scholarship has increasingly recognised that educational institutions must contribute directly to health system strengthening rather than functioning solely as centres of professional training [3-6].

From Institutional Autonomy to Institutional Responsibility

Institutional autonomy is frequently interpreted as independence from external influence or freedom from regulatory constraints. We use the term differently. Institutional autonomy refers to the capacity of medical schools to determine educational priorities that reflect the health needs of their own societies while continuing to meet internationally recognised standards of educational quality. It is therefore neither isolation from international collaboration nor rejection of accreditation or external evaluation. Rather, it is the ability to exercise independent educational judgement within a globally connected academic community.

Autonomy, however, is not a sufficient objective in itself. Institutions that seek greater authority to determine educational priorities must also demonstrate that this authority is exercised in ways that advance the public good rather than institutional prestige alone. Autonomy without responsibility risks replacing one form of external dependence with another form of institutional self-interest. The important question is therefore no longer who determines educational priorities, but how educational authority should be exercised once it has been reclaimed.

This question is particularly important in LMICs. Over recent decades many countries have expanded medical education considerably while continuing to experience shortages of healthcare workers, inequitable distribution of services, weak primary healthcare systems, and substantial migration of health professionals. Increasing the number of medical schools or graduates has not consistently translated into stronger health systems. These challenges arise from complex political, economic, and social factors and cannot reasonably be attributed solely to medical schools. Nevertheless, educational institutions are influential participants within these systems. Decisions concerning student selection, clinical training, research priorities, postgraduate education, and partnerships with health services directly shape the future health workforce and influence the capacity of health systems to respond to national needs.

Institutional responsibility therefore broadens the traditional understanding of educational success. Medical schools have historically been evaluated through measures such as graduate competence, accreditation status, research productivity, international rankings, and academic reputation. These indicators remain important and should not be abandoned. However, they capture only part of an institution’s contribution. Equally important is the extent to which medical schools strengthen health systems, contribute to workforce sustainability, generate knowledge relevant to national priorities, and improve health equity. Educational excellence and societal contribution should therefore be understood as complementary rather than competing dimensions of institutional success.

Viewing medical schools as civic institutions rather than simply educational providers represents an important conceptual shift. Universities have long been recognised as institutions that contribute to economic development, public policy, and social progress beyond their teaching functions. Medical schools should similarly be understood as anchor institutions within healthcare systems. Their responsibility extends beyond producing competent graduates to fostering partnerships with communities, supporting healthcare delivery, informing public policy, generating locally relevant evidence, and strengthening the resilience of the health systems within which they operate. This conception is consistent with calls for medical schools to function as socially accountable institutions that actively contribute to strengthening health systems [3-6].

This perspective does not diminish the legitimate aspirations of students or faculty. Medicine remains an important profession that offers opportunities for career development, international collaboration, and social mobility. Nor does institutional responsibility imply that graduates should be prevented from pursuing opportunities abroad. Rather, it asks institutions to consider whether their collective strategies—including admissions policies, educational programmes, research priorities, and relationships with health services—are contributing meaningfully to the long-term health needs of the societies that support them.

Recognising this broader institutional role requires moving beyond general principles towards practical action. Institutional responsibility should not remain an abstract aspiration. Instead, it should provide an operational framework through which medical schools can evaluate their decisions, priorities, and societal contributions. This requires institutions to evaluate success not only through educational outcomes but also through their contribution to health system improvement [3,4].

Institutional Responsibility Framework (IRF)

To translate these principles into practice, we propose a Institutional Responsibility Framework (IRF) comprising five interconnected domains through which medical schools can operationalise their broader societal role. The IRF is not intended to replace accreditation standards or regulatory requirements. Rather, it provides a conceptual framework through which medical schools can align educational excellence with meaningful contributions to health systems and society.

Educational Responsibility

Educational responsibility requires medical schools to align admissions policies, curricula, assessment, and postgraduate training with nationally identified health priorities. This extends beyond ensuring that graduates meet internationally accepted standards of competence. Educational programmes should prepare future physicians to respond effectively to the epidemiological, demographic, social, and health system challenges most relevant to the communities they will serve. Success should therefore be evaluated not only by examination performance or postgraduate placement, but also by graduate preparedness to address local healthcare needs. This aligns with international calls for health professions education that is responsive to societal needs and national health priorities [3-6].

Service Responsibility

Medical schools should recognise their contribution to healthcare delivery as an integral component of their institutional mission.

Teaching hospitals, university clinics, community outreach programmes, and rural training platforms should function not only as educational settings but also as mechanisms through which institutions contribute directly to improving access to healthcare and strengthening local health services. This reflects the growing recognition that academic institutions function as anchor organisations capable of contributing directly to health system performance [3,4]. Long-term partnerships with communities should replace episodic outreach activities, allowing educational institutions to participate meaningfully in improving population health while simultaneously enriching student learning.

Workforce Responsibility

Medical schools substantially influence the quality, distribution, and sustainability of the future health workforce. They should therefore work collaboratively with governments, professional regulators, healthcare providers, and employers to support workforce planning and development. The Commission on the Education of Health Professionals argued that medical schools should actively participate in workforce transformation rather than limiting their role to producing graduates [3]. Institutional responsibility includes promoting career pathways that encourage service in underserved areas, strengthening primary healthcare, supporting postgraduate training in priority specialties, and contributing to strategies that improve workforce retention. Graduate migration is influenced by numerous economic and political factors beyond the control of educational institutions; however, medical schools can help create educational environments and professional opportunities that strengthen national workforce sustainability.

Knowledge Responsibility

Research agendas should increasingly emerge from locally identified health priorities rather than being driven solely by international funding priorities or publication incentives. Similar arguments have been advanced within contemporary scholarship on decolonising medical education, which calls for greater recognition of locally generated knowledge and contextually relevant research agendas [7]. Academic excellence should encompass implementation research, health systems improvement, policy engagement, quality improvement, and community impact alongside conventional bibliometric indicators. Medical schools should aspire not only to consume internationally generated evidence but also to produce knowledge that informs national policy, strengthens healthcare systems, and addresses contextually relevant health challenges.

Governance Responsibility

Institutional responsibility also requires more inclusive models of governance. Communities should move beyond being recipients of educational activities to becoming meaningful partners in institutional decision-making. Patients, community representatives, healthcare professionals, policymakers, and civil society organisations should contribute to strategic planning, curriculum development, institutional evaluation, and priority setting. Inclusive governance also reflects the principles of socially accountable institutions advocated in international guidance [4-6]. Such participation strengthens institutional legitimacy, ensures that educational priorities remain responsive to societal needs, and reinforces trust between medical schools and the communities they ultimately serve.

These five domains are mutually reinforcing. Educational reform cannot succeed without workforce planning; research cannot achieve societal impact without engagement with healthcare systems; and institutional autonomy cannot generate public trust without responsible governance. Together, they reposition medical schools as civic institutions whose responsibilities extend beyond educating future physicians to strengthening the health systems within which those physicians will practise.

Conclusion

Our first commentary argued that medical education in LMICs must reclaim its public purpose by resisting the growing influence of commercialisation and externally driven measures of success [1]. Our second commentary proposed that this objective cannot be achieved unless medical schools possess sufficient institutional autonomy to determine educational priorities according to the needs of the societies they serve [2]. This commentary completes that progression by arguing that autonomy alone is insufficient unless it is accompanied by institutional responsibility.

Institutional responsibility does not ask medical schools to replace governments or assume sole responsibility for healthcare delivery. Rather, it recognises that medical schools are influential institutions whose decisions shape future health workforces, research agendas, clinical services, and relationships with communities. Their educational mission cannot therefore be separated from their broader contribution to the health systems within which they operate.

Taken together, these three commentaries propose a progressive framework for reforming medical education in LMICs. Social accountability establishes the public purpose of medical education. Institutional autonomy enables medical schools to determine locally relevant educational priorities. Institutional responsibility provides the practical framework through which those priorities can be translated into meaningful institutional action. This perspective complements contemporary efforts to strengthen socially accountable and health-system-oriented medical education while extending them through a stronger emphasis on institutional responsibility [3-7].

Ultimately, the success of a medical school should not be judged solely by the physicians it graduates, the research it publishes, or the rankings it achieves. Equally important is the extent to which it contributes to stronger health systems, healthier communities, and more equitable societies. Ultimately, medical schools should be judged not only by the physicians they graduate, but also by the societies those physicians help to build. Institutional responsibility therefore represents not an additional obligation, but the fullest expression of the public purpose of medical education.

Declarations

Competing Interests

The author declares that there are no competing interests.

Funding Information

No external funding was received for this work.

Author Contribution

AFK conceptualised the commentary, conducted the literature review, drafted the manuscript, and approved the final version for submission.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to acknowledge the contributions of researchers whose work informed the development of this commentary.

Keywords

Institutional responsibility, Medical education, Institutional autonomy, Social accountability, Health systems strengthening, Decolonisation, Low- and middle-income countries (LMICs)

References

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  2. Khan AF (2026) Decolonising Medical Education in Low- and Middle-Income Countries: Beyond Social Accountability—Reclaiming Institutional Autonomy. Journal of Clinical Research and Medicine 9: 1-3.
  3. Frenk J, Chen L, Bhutta ZA, Cohen J, Crisp N, Evans T, et al. (2010) Health professionals for a new century: Transforming education to strengthen health systems in an interdependent world. Lancet 376: 1923-1958.
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Decolonising Medical Education in Low- and Middle-Income Countries: Beyond Social Accountability—Reclaiming Institutional Autonomy

DOI: 10.31038/JCRM.2026913

Introduction

In our previous commentary, we argued that reclaiming social accountability was essential if medical education in low- and middle-income countries (LMICs) was to resist the growing influence of commercial metrics and remain responsive to the societies it serves [1]. Social accountability, as defined by the World Health Organization and more recent AMEE guidance, calls upon medical schools to align their education, research, and service activities with the priority health concerns of the populations they are mandated to serve [2,3]. This principle provides an important moral direction for medical education. However, it leaves a more fundamental question unresolved: who determines what counts as educational excellence?

This question has become increasingly important as medical schools in LMICs seek to balance national health priorities with growing expectations for international recognition. Accreditation systems, publication metrics, university rankings, research productivity, and graduate mobility have become influential indicators of institutional success. These measures undoubtedly strengthen quality assurance and encourage academic excellence. Yet they also shape institutional priorities, often in ways that reflect global rather than local expectations.

The purpose of this commentary is not to argue against international collaboration or internationally recognised standards. Medicine has always advanced through the international exchange of knowledge, shared scientific evidence, and collaborative innovation. Rather, we argue that decolonisation requires a distinction between shared standards of educational quality and externally determined educational priorities. Social accountability defines the purpose of medical education, but institutional autonomy determines whether medical schools possess sufficient authority to pursue that purpose when local priorities differ from internationally rewarded measures of success.

When Success Is Defined Elsewhere

Contemporary discussions of decolonising medical education have focused largely on curricula, knowledge systems, representation, and global partnerships [4-6]. These debates have been essential in exposing how historical and contemporary power relationships continue to influence medical education. Less attention, however, has been paid to the institutional mechanisms through which educational priorities are established.

Most medical schools do not make decisions in isolation. Institutional strategies are shaped by accreditation requirements, regulatory expectations, funding opportunities, faculty promotion criteria, research assessment exercises, and graduate outcomes. Increasingly, these are also influenced by international indicators such as WFME recognition, university rankings, citation metrics, and international postgraduate opportunities. Each serves a legitimate purpose. Collectively, however, they create powerful incentives that influence how institutions define success.

The consequences are not necessarily deliberate, but they are significant. Activities that improve international visibility, high-impact publications, international collaborations, and globally recognised accreditation, are often rewarded more readily than initiatives whose primary impact is local, such as implementation research, rural clinical education, community partnerships, or health systems strengthening. These are not competing forms of excellence; nevertheless, institutional reward systems frequently privilege one over the other.

The challenge, therefore, is not whether international standards are beneficial. Rather, it is whether medical schools possess sufficient freedom to determine how those standards should be balanced against the needs of the health systems they ultimately serve.

Reclaiming Institutional Autonomy

Institutional autonomy should not be understood as independence from regulation, rejection of international standards, or withdrawal from global collaboration. Rather, it refers to the ability of medical schools to determine their own educational priorities within internationally accepted standards. In other words, quality should be shared internationally, but purpose should be determined locally.

This distinction is particularly important in LMICs, where health systems often face challenges that differ substantially from those of high-income countries. Institutions may need to prioritise primary healthcare, rural workforce shortages, implementation research, community-based education, or locally prevalent diseases. These priorities are legitimate expressions of educational excellence, even if they contribute less to conventional measures of international prestige.

Institutional autonomy therefore changes the questions that medical schools ask. Instead of asking only, “How can we improve our international standing?” institutions should also ask, “How can we better prepare graduates for the health needs of the populations we serve?” These questions are complementary rather than contradictory, but they do not always produce the same institutional decisions.

For example, faculty promotion systems based almost exclusively on publication metrics may unintentionally discourage research that influences local policy or strengthens health services but attracts fewer citations. Similarly, educational innovation aimed at improving rural workforce retention or strengthening district health systems may have profound societal impact without substantially improving university rankings. Institutional autonomy enables medical schools to recognise these contributions as markers of excellence rather than treating them as secondary to internationally rewarded achievements.

Importantly, autonomy should not diminish accountability. On the contrary, it strengthens it. Rather than being judged solely by external indicators of institutional performance, autonomous medical schools remain accountable for demonstrating that their educational priorities respond meaningfully to national health needs. Accountability therefore shifts from institutional conformity to institutional relevance.

Looking Forward

Reclaiming institutional autonomy requires changes at multiple levels. Regulatory authorities and accreditation bodies should continue to safeguard educational quality while allowing sufficient flexibility for institutions to respond to local health priorities. Likewise, universities should broaden promotion and evaluation systems to recognise implementation research, health policy contributions, community-engaged scholarship, and health system innovation alongside conventional academic metrics.

International partners also have an important role. Collaboration should increasingly be characterised by reciprocity rather than diffusion, recognising that educational innovation can emerge from every region of the world. Partnerships should strengthen locally identified priorities rather than assuming that successful models developed elsewhere can simply be transferred into different social and healthcare contexts [4-6].

Finally, institutional autonomy should not be interpreted as limiting the legitimate aspirations of students. For many learners, medicine represents not only a profession but also an important avenue of social mobility. International postgraduate training and career opportunities have benefited individuals, families, and health systems worldwide. The objective is therefore not to discourage international engagement but to ensure that institutional priorities are not driven predominantly by external labour markets at the expense of national health needs.

Conclusion

Our previous commentary argued that reclaiming social accountability was essential if medical education was to move beyond commercial measures of success [1]. This commentary extends that argument by suggesting that social accountability alone is insufficient if institutions lack the authority to determine their own educational priorities.

Institutional autonomy is not a rejection of international collaboration, accreditation, or quality assurance. Rather, it is the capacity of medical schools to interpret educational excellence through the realities of the societies they serve while remaining internationally connected and academically rigorous. Decolonisation therefore requires more than changing what is taught; it also requires reconsidering who determines why it is taught and how success is ultimately judged.

Medical schools in LMICs should aspire to meet international standards while retaining the confidence to define excellence according to their own healthcare priorities. Only then can decolonisation move beyond curricular reform towards genuine institutional transformation. Institutional autonomy is therefore best understood not as the endpoint of decolonisation, but as the foundation upon which the next stage of reform—institutional responsibility—can be built.

Declarations

Competing Interests

The author declares that there are no competing interests.

Funding Information

No external funding was received for this work.

Author Contribution

AFK conceptualised the commentary, conducted the literature review, drafted the manuscript, and approved the final version for submission.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to acknowledge the contributions of researchers whose work informed the development of this commentary.

Keywords

Medical education, Social accountability, Decolonisation, Institutional autonomy, Low- and middle-income countries

References

  1. Khan AF (2026) Decolonising Medical Education in Low- and Middle-Income Countries: Reclaiming Social Accountability Beyond Commercial Metrics. Journal of Clinical Research and Medicine 9: 1-3.
  2. Abdalla ME, Taha MH, Onchonga D, Preston R, Barber C, et al. (2025) Instilling social accountability into the health professions education curriculum with international case studies: AMEE Guide No. 175. Medical Teacher.
  3. Taha MH, Abdalla ME, Cameron E, Dharamasi S, Strasser R, et al. (2026) Leadership as a catalyst for advancing social accountability in health professions education: AMEE Guide No. 187. Medical Teacher.
  4. Rashid MA, Ali SM, Dharanipragada K (2023) Decolonising medical education regulation: A global view. BMJ Global Health 8: e011622.
  5. Eichbaum QG, Adams LV, Evert J, Ho MJ, Semali IA, et al. (2021) Decolonizing global health education. Academic Medicine 96: 329-335.
  6. Naidu T (2023) Southern theory and decoloniality in health professions education. Medical Education 57: 692-700.

Lorentzian Distribution of Sn in the Ehrenfriedersdorf Pegmatite

DOI: 10.31038/GEMS.2026872

Abstract

The results indicate that tin enrichment is closely linked to processes occurring during the transition from supercritical to subcritical melt–fluid conditions. The Lorendian character of the distribution is consistent with critical phenomena, phase separation, and long-range correlation effects rather than conventional equilibrium partitioning. These findings support a model in which a substantial proportion of tin was introduced by mantle-derived supercritical fluids or melts, providing an alternative explanation for the exceptional enrichment observed in the Ehrenfriedersdorf deposit and related Variscan tin systems. Beyond its implications for the Ehrenfriedersdorf deposit, this study provides a new conceptual framework for understanding metal enrichment near critical melt–fluid transitions, with potential applications to the genesis of tin and other rare-metal deposits worldwide.

Keywords

Tin (Sn), Lorentzian distribution, Pseudo-Lorentzian distribution, Ehrenfriedersdorf tin deposit, Variscan tin deposits, Pegmatite, Pegmatitic quartz, Melt inclusions, Granitic melts, Ore-forming elements, Cassiterite (SnO₂) 

Introduction

Melt inclusions in pegmatitic quartz from the Variscan tin deposit Ehrenfriedersdorf, Erzgebirge, Germany, provide important information on the evolution of volatile-rich granitic melts and on the enrichment of ore-forming elements such as tin. During investigations of rehomogenized melt inclusions, different inclusions initially appeared to show variable proportions of glass and fluid. To evaluate these variations quantitatively, the water content of the inclusion systems was determined by Raman spectroscopy, and tin concentrations were measured by electron-microprobe techniques. This approach produced a large analytical data set in which water can be used as a common reference component for comparing the behavior of tin and other elements. A key requirement for this interpretation is the homogenization of melt inclusions at controlled temperatures and pressures. Previous experimental work demonstrated that melt inclusions from the Ehrenfriedersdorf pegmatite were trapped under different temperature-pressure conditions. Therefore, approximately 500 µm-thick doubly polished sections were prepared, and a new sample was used for each homogenization experiment. Experiments were carried out at constant pressure conditions of 1, 2, and 3 kbar and at temperature steps of 50°C between 500 and 750°C, with each step held for 20 hours. Additional intermediate temperature steps were later performed as controls. Further experimental details are given by Thomas et al. (2009) [1] in the electronic supplementary material. In the present contribution, tin is examined as a representative element because its distribution relative to water shows an unexpected and highly systematic pattern. Plotting Sn concentration against H2O content reveals a Lorentzian-type distribution in projection, whereas the full interpretation requires consideration of the three-dimensional H2O-temperature-Sn relationship. The aim of this study is therefore to describe the Lorentzian distribution of Sn, evaluate its geometric correction from the projected plane to the real solvus-curve path, and discuss the implications for element enrichment in the Ehrenfriedersdorf pegmatite system.

Sample Material

Pegmatite quartz from the Sauberg mine near Ehrenfriedersdorf, Erzgebirge, Germany, was used as the sample material. The investigated quartz contains melt inclusions that are suitable for reconstructing the composition and evolution of the pegmatitic melt. A concise description of the geological setting and sample background is given by Thomas (2026) [2], including the relevant references cited there. The data points used in the present study represent mean values calculated from at least ten paired measurements of H2O content and Sn concentration. Where direct measurements were not available, selected values were obtained by interpolation to complete the distribution pattern.

Results

Figure 1 shows the generalized results of the tin and water determination in the coordinates X = H2O in [%(g/g)], Y = temperature in °C, and Z = Sn concentration in ppm.We see from the three-dimensional diagram that Sn is related to the solvus curve (in the H2O-temperature plane) and forms a three-dimensional shape, which shows as a projection to the parallel plane (H2O-Sn) that goes through the critical point (25.9% H2O at 720°C) of the solvus curve an even Lorentzian distribution curve.

Figure 1: Distribution of Sn in the H2O-T-Sn-room.

The computer (analyses with OriginPro 6.1) gives the following characteristic Lorentzian data (Table 1). Because the projected axes are Sn in ppm and H2O in %, the projected area is approximately: ppm ∗ % H2O. The Lorentzian curve for the projection onto the H2O-Sn plane is shown in Figure 2.

Table 1: Results of the Lorentzian distribution (projection to the H2O-Sn-plane).

Area

Center Width Offset Height R2
58852 25.7 % H2O 2.29 % H2O 582.2 ppm Sn 16345 ppm Sn

0.98356

Figure 2: Lorentzian curve for Sn in the coordinates H2O [%(g/g)] and Sn (ppm). The characteristic data are in Table 1.

Because this plot is only a projection into the H2O-Sn plane, the area and width data are too small. To solve the area dilemma, we determine the arc segment of the solvus curve, for which the equation Y = 457.88726062 + 24.41440722*X – 0.67448344*X*X + 0.00446272*X*X*X is valid in the H2O-T plane (H2O = X, T = Y), between the points X1 = 5.0 and X2 = 52.0 and Y1 = 563.7 and Y2 = 531.2.

The arc-length integral is (see, for example, Thomson, 1956) [3]

So

Also, the vertical change along the polynomial between the endpoints is approximately

Y (52) – Y (5) ≈ -32.5

but the curve first decreases strongly and then increases strongly, so the total traveled curve length is much larger than the straight-line endpoint distance.

Therefore:

L ≈ 433.74

The arc length 433.74 for the solvus curve is therefore, by division, the factor 433.74/32.5 ≈ 13.3. By this factor, the area of the room Lorentzian curve is greater than the projection (Table 2).

Table 2: Results of the corrected area of the room Lorentzian distribution.

Area

Center Width Offset Height R2
785,430 25.7 % H2O 30.6 % H2O 582.2 ppm Sn 16345 ppm Sn

0.98356

The area under the Lorentzian curve means the integrated amount represented by the peak.

In your case, the Lorentzian curve describes Sn concentration as a function of H2O content. Therefore, the area is not just the maximum Sn value; it is the total Sn enrichment spread over the H2O interval.

then:

  •  is the background or offset,
  • is the center of the peak,
  • ϒ is the width parameter,
  • A is the area of the Lorentzian peak above the background.

So the value Area = 58852 in Table 1 means:

the integrated Sn enrichment above the background in the projected H2O–Sn plane.

Because the axes are H2O in % and Sn in ppm, the projected area has the unit approximately:

ppm Sn ∗ %H2O.

Thus,

58852 x 13.35 ≈ 7.86 x 105

So the corrected area represents the integrated Sn enrichment along the real solvus-curve path, not only its 2D projection.

Using the same correction factor from your document, the real width for the room curve is:

With:

Projected width = 2.29 % H2O

we get:

2.29 x 13.3458 = 30.56

So the real width is approximately: 30.6 % H2O in the same corrected arc-length scale of the H2O–T solvus curve. Applying the same arc-length correction factor used for the area, the projected Lorentzian width of 2.29% H2O corresponds to a real room-curve width of approximately 30.6 units along the solvus curve (see Table 3).

Table 3: Results of the corrected area of the room Lorentzian distribution.

Area

Center Width Offset Height R2
785,674 25.7 % H2O 30.6 % H2O 582.2 ppm Sn 16345 ppm Sn

0.98356

An explanation of the data is in Table 4.

Table 4: Primary projected and corrected room-curve Lorentzian parameters.

Parameter

Primary projected value Corrected room-curve value

Change

Area 58,852 ≈ 785,674 Changes by the arc-length factor.
Center 25.7 % H2O 25.7 % H2O No change in the H2O coordinate.
Width 2.29 % H2O ≈ 30.6 arc-length units Changes if expressed along the real solvus curve.
Offset 582.2 ppm Sn 582.2 ppm Sn No change; vertical Sn value.
Height 16,345 ppm Sn 16,345 ppm Sn No change; vertical Sn value.
R2 0.98356 0.98356 No change in the fit quality.

Only the area and the width are transformed by the arc-length correction factor. The center, offset, height, and R2 remain unchanged when they are reported in their original coordinates.

What Represents the Area?

The fitted area

A = 785 674 ppm Sn × % H2O

and the integral is

where Sn is in ppm, and H2O is expressed in percent. Thus, the area has mixed units and is not yet a mass.

Calculation of the Average Sn Concentration

The average concentration represented by the Lorentzian over the H2O interval is

with

ΔH2O = 30.6%.

The H2O center remains 25.7% H2O,

  • The offset is 582.2 ppm Sn, and it represents the background Sn concentration or baseline level of the Lorentzian Because it is a vertical Z-value in ppm Sn, it is not affected by changing the horizontal coordinate from projected H₂O distance to real arc length.
  • Raman-band positions were calibrated before and after each measurement series using the Si band of a semiconductor-grade single-crystal silicon chip. Based on 20 repeated measurements, run-to-run reproducibility was ± 0.2 cm⁻¹ for silicon (520.2 ± 2 cm⁻¹) in the range from 100 to 1450 cm⁻¹. As a second reference, a water-clear diamond crystal from Brazil was used. The first-order diamond line was measured at 1330.1 ± 0.6 cm⁻¹, with a FWHM of 5.1 ± 0.1 cm⁻¹ (see also Solin and Ramdas, 1970).
  • The height also remains unchanged. The height value, 16345 ppm Sn,is a vertical concentration value in the Sn It describes how high the Lorentzian peak rises above the offset/background. Because the arc-length correction changes only the horizontal coordinate from projected H2O distance to real distance along the solvus curve, it does not change vertical Sn values.

Discussion

We have shown that the simple Lorentzian function on projection to the H2O-Sn plane is only a first approximation, because the room-curve of the Sn-distribution in the H2O-T plane is significantly larger. From the arc-length integral, the total traveled curve length is much larger than the straight-line endpoint distance: L ≈ 433.74. As a result, the area and the width under the room curve significantly increase. That means that Sn enrichment in the pegmatites from Ehrenfriedersdorf is very large and incompatible with the enrichment of tin in granites. In Thomas (2026) [2], the Lorentzian data for 8 further elements are presented. The two Gaussian distributions (Zn, WO3) in Table 1 are exceptions that must be tested. According to Hösel (1994) [4], the granites from Ehrenfriedersdorf contain, on average, 36.2 ± 17.7 ppm Sn and are typical Sn granites. Granites generally contain 3 ppm Sn [5]. That is an enrichment of about 12. The deposit contains many pegmatites and pegmatite-like bodies [6] see Figure D in it. So a rich Sn deposit as Ehrenfriedersdorf cannot be formed by further enrichment of Sn via hydrothermal processes. We would need a huge amount of water and a multistage enrichment process. This contribution shows evidence of a high-temperature source of tin and water. A large part of the Sn and water also comes with supercritical fluids (SCF) or supercritical melts (SCM) from mantle depths [7]. That fluid contains not only dissolved tin but also suspended crystals of orthorhombic cassiterite in high amounts, as demonstrated by Thomas (2024) [8].

Above, we have shown that the transition of a supercritical melt/ fluid (SCF, SCM) to a subcritical state occurs when temperature and/or pressure drop below the critical point. The following key things happen:

  • Above the critical point, there is no sharp distinction between liquid and The material exists as a single supercritical phase.
  • Crossing below the critical point restores the liquid-vapor phase A distinct liquid phase and single vapor phase can exist again.
  • If the path crosses the coexistence curve, the fluid may separate into liquid and gas, often through nucleation and growth of bubbles or droplets.
  • Near the critical point, properties such as diffusivity, viscosity, density, compressibility, and heat capacity change very rapidly.
  • In many systems, the change is not always abrupt exactly at the critical point; supercritical fluids can pass through a region where they gradually change from liquid-like to gas-like This crossover concept is described as the Widom line.

From Figures 1 and 2 and Table 1 in Thomas (2026) [2], we know that a row of elements is Lorentzian distributed after a supercritical-to-subcritical transition, with enrichment factors from 1000 to 10000 at the center ~ equal to the critical point of the solvus curve. Such processes are usually critical-concentration mechanisms, not ordinary equilibrium partitioning.

Possible reasons include:

1. Critical-point density fluctuations:

Near the critical point, density fluctuations become extremely large. Certain trace elements may strongly prefer one local environment over another. As the system crosses into the subcritical regime, these fluctuations can “collapse” into separated phases, concentrating elements into narrow zones (boundary layers: see London, 2008) [9]. This can produce very sharp peaks, long tails resembling a Lorentzian distribution, and partition coefficients that exceed normal values.

2. Fluid-melt phase separation:

When a supercritical melt-fluid system unmixes, one phase may become highly enriched in incompatible elements, and the complementary phase becomes depleted. Element concentrations can increase by orders of magnitude if the enriched phase occupies only a tiny fraction of the volume (melt inclusion).

3. Spinodal decomposition (see Binder, 1987) [10]:

If the system enters a spinodal region rather than nucleating discrete droplets, composition waves form spontaneously, and peak concentrations may follow Lorentzian or Cauchy-like profiles because correlation lengths become very large near criticality.

4. Focusing by diffusion and advection:

During rapid decompression, the elements migrate toward fluid-rich channels; flow and diffusion can “focus” elements into narrow fronts. The resulting profile often has a sharp center and broad wings that are better fit by Lorentzian than Gaussian.

5. Nanoparticle or colloid transport:

Many metals, for example (Sn, Nb, Ta), can be transported as nanoclusters, colloids, or complex molecular processes with finite variance.

When the supercritical state breaks down, these species may precipitate into extremely small volumes (melt and fluid inclusions), generating apparent factors of 10000 or more.

Why specifically a Lorentzian distribution? A Gaussian profile usually indicates many independent random processes with a finite variance. A Lorentzian form often appears when correlation becomes long-ranged, critical phenomena dominate, rare large excursions control the distribution, and resonance or singular behavior occurs near a critical point [11].

Conclusions

Tin concentrations in melt inclusions from the Ehrenfriedersdorf deposit follow a pseudo-Lorentzian distribution in H₂O–T–Sn space, with enrichment closely associated with conditions near the supercritical–subcritical melt–fluid transition. Correcting for the geometry of the H₂O–temperature solvus reveals that conventional two-dimensional projections substantially underestimate the extent of Sn enrichment. The results suggest that critical phenomena played a major role in tin transport and accumulation and support a significant contribution of mantle-derived supercritical fluids or melts to ore formation. More broadly, this approach provides a new framework for investigating metal enrichment in tin and other rare-metal systems.

Acknowledgment

The author thanks Dr. Adolf Rericha (Falkensee, Germany) for the intense discussion on the Lorentzian distribution of elements.

References

  1. Thomas R, Davidson P, Rhede D, Leh M (2009) The miarolitic pegmatites from Königshain: a contribution to understanding the genesis of Contrib Mineral Petrol 157: 505-523.
  2. Thomas R (2026) Attempt to interpret the exceptional element enrichment and distribution in pegmatites related to the Variscan tin deposit at the example of Ehrenfriedersdorf, Geol Earth Mar Sci 8: 1-8.
  3. Thompson SP (1956) Höhere Mathematik und doch verständlich. Pg: 238.
  4. Hösel G (1994) Das Zinnerz-Lagerstättengebiet Ehrenfriedersdorf/ Freiberg. Pg: 195.
  5. Rösler HJ, Lange H (1975) Geochenische VEB Deutscher Verlag für Grundstoffindustrie Leipzig. Pg: 700.
  6. Schröcke H (1954) Zur Paragenese erzgebirgischer Zinnlagerstätten. Neues Jb Mineral. Abh 87: 33-109.
  7. Thomas, R.; Davidson, P.; Rericha, A.; Recknagel, U (2023) Mineral inclusions in a crustal granite: Evidence for a novel transcrustal transport mechanism.Geosciences 13.
  8. Thomas R (2024) The CaCl2-to-rutile phase transition in SnO2 from high to low pressure in Geol Earth Mar Sci 6: 1-4.
  9. London D (2008) Pegmatites. The Canadian Mineralogist. Special Publication 10. Pg: 347.
  10. Binder K (1987) Theory of first-order phase transition. Reports on Progress in Physics 50: 783-840.
  11. Thomas R (1994) Estimation of the viscosity and the water content of silicate melts from melt inclusion EJM 6: 511-535.

Direct Mantle–Crust Interaction by Supercritical Fluids and Melts: Evidence from High-Pressure Mineral Inclusions

DOI: 10.31038/GEMS.2026863

Abstract

High-pressure and ultra-high-pressure mineral inclusions enclosed in comparatively low-pressure crustal rocks provide evidence for rapid material transfer between deep lithospheric or mantle-related domains and upper-crustal mineral-forming environments. This study summarizes observations from emerald-bearing rocks of the Habachtal/Austria, prismatine granulite from Waldheim/Saxony, topaz from the Greifenstein granite, cassiterite from Variscan tin deposits, and related occurrences. The documented phases include diamond, moissanite, coesite, stishovite, lonsdaleite, reidite, orthorhombic cassiterite, and other high-pressure minerals. Many occur as smooth spherical or subspherical crystals, locally with composite textures, indicating entrainment, mechanical abrasion, and possible chemical modification during transport. These features cannot be explained satisfactorily by conventional low-pressure hydrothermal models or by equilibrium mineral assemblages inferred for the host rocks. Instead, they are interpreted as evidence for transfer by supercritical fluids or melts in which H2O and aluminosilicate components are fully miscible. Such media combine high mobility with the capacity to carry dissolved elements and suspended mineral relics, allowing tiny high-pressure crystals to move rapidly through the crust and survive before complete inversion to low-pressure polymorphs. The Raman-confirmed presence of diamond spherules in emerald from Habachtal provides additional evidence that high-pressure mineral relics were transported into the emerald-forming environment by supercritical media. These supercritical systems also provide a mechanism for extreme, selective enrichment of elements. Water-rich melt inclusions, Lorendian element distributions, and high Sn and Be concentrations indicate non-equilibrium concentration during the transition from supercritical to undercritical conditions. Together, the evidence supports direct mantle–crust interaction mediated by supercritical fluids or melts and suggests that this process may be important, but previously underestimated, in the formation of granitic, pegmatitic, and ore-related systems..

Keywords

Coesite, Diamond, High-pressure mineral inclusions, Mantle–crust interaction, Metal enrichment, Moissanite, Supercritical fluids, Supercritical melts, Trans-crustal transport, Water-rich melt inclusions.

Introduction

High-pressure and ultra-high-pressure mineral inclusions hosted by rocks that otherwise record comparatively low-pressure crustal conditions pose a fundamental problem for conventional models of crustal mineral formation. Minerals such as diamond, moissanite, coesite, stishovite, reidite, lonsdaleite, and orthorhombic cassiterite require formation or stabilization at pressures far above those inferred for many host assemblages. Their survival in granitic, pegmatitic, metamorphic, and ore-related settings therefore requires a mechanism capable of rapidly transferring material from deep lithospheric or mantle-related domains into upper-crustal environments while limiting transformation to lower-pressure polymorphs. Recent observations from emerald-bearing rocks of the Habachtal, prismatine-bearing granulite from Waldheim in the Saxon Granulite Massif, topaz from the Greifenstein granite, and cassiterite from Variscan tin deposits point to such a process. These occurrences contain high-pressure mineral relics, water-rich melt inclusions, and trace-element distributions that are difficult to explain by equilibrium crystallization or conventional low-temperature hydrothermal redistribution alone. In several examples, the inclusions are smooth, spherical to subspherical, or composite, suggesting entrainment, mechanical abrasion, and possible chemical modification during ascent. This contribution evaluates the interpretation that supercritical fluids or melts served as the principal carrier. When H2O and aluminosilicate components become fully miscible, supercritical media can combine the mobility of fluids with the element-carrying capacity of melts. In this state, they can mobilize dissolved components and entrain mineral relics, enabling rapid trans-crustal transfer of high-pressure phases and selective enrichment of metals and volatile components. The paper builds on earlier work presented at the ACROFI IX meeting in Nanjing in 2022, where complete miscibility between silicate melts and hydrous fluids and the enrichment of selected elements in the supercritical state were discussed. Since then, additional observations have strengthened the case that this mode of transfer may represent a broader geological process. The following sections summarize key examples and examine their implications for direct mantle–crust interaction, rapid material movement, and the formation of granitic, pegmatitic, and ore-related systems.

Results

Emerald from the Habachtal

The Habachtal emerald deposit provides an important starting point for evaluating the role of deep-derived inputs in crustal mineral-forming systems [1,2]. Re-homogenization experiments on melt inclusions yielded temperatures of approximately 700°C at 5 kbar, substantially higher than many earlier estimates for emerald formation in this locality. As shown in Figure 1, a key observation is the presence of water-rich melt inclusions containing approximately 30 wt.% H2O. These inclusions were previously easy to overlook or misclassify as solid inclusions, but their abundance and composition indicate that they are central to understanding emerald formation at Habachtal. Similar secondary inclusion planes have also been observed in topaz from Schneckenstein [3], where they occur perpendicular to the c-axis. Following Taleb’s (2018) [4] emphasis on rare but highly significant observations, these inclusions can be regarded as diagnostic rather than incidental. Their occurrence challenges interpretations based solely on conventional fluid inclusions. In addition, Figure 2 shows a well-defined Lorentzian relationship between MgCO3 content and water concentration, suggesting non-equilibrium enrichment in a supercritical medium.

 

Figure 1: Melt inclusions in emerald from Habachtal/Austria. a) Melt inclusion in emerald composed of a large glass part (G), two liquid phases L1 and L2, and a small vapor phase (V). b) Melt inclusion in emerald with glass (G), liquid (L), and vapor (V). c) Melt inclusion in the same emerald crystal. G – glass, L – liquid phase, V -vapor phase, and a MgCO3 daughter crystal.

The relationship shown in Figure 2 can be interpreted as evidence for an ion-exchange process involving carbonate complexes, expressed schematically as BeCO3 → MgCO3. In this interpretation, Be was transported in a supercritical fluid as a carbonate species, whereas Mg was supplied by interaction with the surrounding rocks. A broader summary of supercritical fluids and melts in granites and pegmatites is given by Thomas et al. (2022) [5].

 

Figure 2: Lorentzian distribution of MgCO3 content versus water concentration in carbonate-bearing melt inclusions.

New Raman spectroscopic results, including the detection of diamond spherules in emerald and in melt inclusions, support the involvement of supercritical media in emerald formation (Table 1).

Table 1: Results of Raman measurements in the first-order diamond Raman region of emerald from Habachtal, Austria.

Diamond

FWHM G-band FWHM n
1331.5 ± 1.5 cm-1 62.0 ± 20.0 cm-1 1579.1 ± 6.4 cm-1 63.2 ± 12.4 cm-1

9

FWHM = full width at half maximum; n = number of measured crystals.

The broad first-order diamond band and associated G-band indicate very small, structurally imperfect diamond or diamond-like carbon (DLC) particles, consistent with rapid transport and partial modification in a supercritical medium. The principal result from Habachtal is that emerald crystallization began near 700°C and 5 kbar from a supercritical, water-rich silicate melt containing approximately 30 wt.% H2O. These conditions require a reassessment of the deposit’s formation model. These results contrast with previously accepted pressure-temperature estimates for the pre-Alpine event (<3 kbar and <450°C) and the Alpine event (4.5–6 kbar and 500–550°C [6-9]. Those estimates were derived mainly from mineral equilibria, whereas the present observations point to a supercritical input that may not have been in equilibrium with the host assemblage.

Spherical Crystals in the Prismatine Rock from Waldheim/ Saxony

To test whether this process is restricted to Habachtal or reflects a broader phenomenon, prismatine-bearing granulite from Waldheim in the Saxon Granulite Massif was examined by polarization microscopy and micro-Raman spectroscopy. The Waldheim samples contain ultra-high-pressure mineral inclusions in rocks that otherwise record crustal metamorphic conditions. Water-rich stishovite and coesite occur in the prismatine-bearing granulite. According to Ono et al. (2017) [9], these phases indicate pressures of approximately 8–9 GPa at about 1000°C, corresponding to depths of roughly 240–300 km. These values are far higher than the maximum pressure of about 1.0 GPa estimated for prismatine crystallization by Rötzler et al. (2008) [10]. A characteristic feature of the Waldheim material is the abundance of spherical to subspherical mineral inclusions with smooth surfaces and diameters commonly between 10 and 50 µm. These inclusions are mostly monomineralic and include zircon, diamond, moissanite, coesite, and related phases. They occur mainly in prismatine but are also present in corundum, dravite, garnet, and sillimanite. In the prismatine rock, the zircon sphere frequency is approximately 180 per cm3. Kalkowsky (1907) [11] had already described such smooth zircon spheres as resembling oil drops, although no genetic interpretation was proposed at that time. Some inclusions are composite, with one rounded crystal enclosed within another; for example, anorthite spheres occur within a corundum matrix. These textures suggest mechanical abrasion and possible chemical corrosion during movement in a fast-moving supercritical fluid or melt. The occurrence of spheres within spheres further implies that the process was multi-stage. Figures 3–6 illustrate representative spherical and subspherical inclusions from the Saxon Granulite Massif. Their morphology and internal relationships provide direct textural evidence for transport and entrainment.

Figure 3: a) Reidite-zircon inclusion in quartz. b to d) zircon in prismatine. e) a conglomerate of coesite ellipsoids in prismatine. f) spherical anorthite crystals in an ellipsoid corundum crystal.

Figure 4 shows a zircon–reidite inclusion in the center of an elliptical high-quartz crystal. Radial fractures in the quartz host are consistent with volume expansion during the transformation of primary reidite to zircon. Figure 5 shows an elliptical kyanite inclusion in dravite.

Figure 4: Zircon-reidite crystal in the center of a high-quartz crystal.

The zircon–reidite transition requires minimum pressures of approximately 8–12 GPa at 1100–1900 K under supercritical conditions [12].

Figure 5: Elliptical kyanite inclusion in dravite. Near this inclusion is a spherical aggregate of nano-diamond, moissanite, and graphite, as well as a water-rich supercritical melt inclusion.

Figure 6 shows albite enclosed within a spherical corundum crystal, providing another example of a composite inclusion texture. These spherical crystals are mineralogically foreign to the Waldheim prismatine assemblage and are therefore interpreted as exotic inclusions introduced during rapid transport via supercritical media.

Figure 6: Albite inclusion in a spherical corundum crystal.

If supercritical transfer is a general geological process, comparable evidence should occur in other settings. Variscan mineralizations in the Erzgebirge commonly show features consistent with supercritical fluids or melts. That prompted a search for comparable rounded inclusions in granitic minerals, where similar textures were identified in topaz and plagioclase.

Spherical Crystals in Topaz from the Greifenstein Granite

Topaz from the Greifenstein granite contains numerous rounded to elliptical inclusions. Their smooth morphology suggests incorporation during the rapid crystallization of the host topaz. Such rapid growth may have helped preserve high-pressure minerals derived from greater depth (Figure 7).

Figure 7: Disk-like elliptical graphite inclusion in topaz of the Greifenstein granite.

As in the Waldheim prismatine rock, the Greifenstein inclusions are out of equilibrium with the low-pressure host assemblage. Their occurrence in topaz therefore provides additional evidence for the introduction of high-pressure and high-temperature mineral relics from deeper domains (Figures 8-10).

Figure 8: Diamond in a moissanite (SiC)-rich spherical inclusion in topaz from the Greifenstein granite. This inclusion is about 30-55 µm below the surface of the 300 µm-thick sample. Toz – topaz host crystal, TozOH – OH-rich topaz, SiC – moissanite, D – diamond, Qtz – quartz (primary stishovite or coesite – see the asymmetric volume change), Coe – coesite.

Figure 9: The diamonds in moissanite in topaz of the Greifenstein granite are mainly of the hexagonal diamond polytype. From 28 measurements, we obtained a value of 1325.4 ± 4.4 cm-1 for the diamond first-order line. The FWHM is 10.8 ± 4.1 cm-1. FWHM – Full Width at Half Maximum.

Figure 10: A complex moissanite (SiC) inclusion in topaz (Toz-2) from the Greifenstein. granite. D – diamond, Sti – stishovite, Coe – coesite, Qtz – quartz. Toz-1 is an earlier topaz inside the moissanite aggregate. The paragenesis clearly shows that no preparation step introduces the moissanite inclusion.

Note that the SiC powder used for sample preparation has a grain size of 10 µm and always shows sharp edges (Figure 11).

Figure 11: Raman spectrum of moissanite, with bands at 755.5, 778.9, and 956.7 cm-1, and a two-phase diamond–lonsdaleite particle, with bands at 1310.7 and 1322.3 cm-1. The lonsdaleite mode of hexagonal diamond can vary between 1320 and 1327 cm-1.

Additional evidence comes from ore minerals that contain relics of high-pressure, high-temperature conditions. A representative example is the occurrence of mostly rounded orthorhombic cassiterite inclusions in tetragonal cassiterite from Variscan tin deposits in the Erzgebirge and Slavkovský les [11,12]. Figure 12 illustrates orthorhombic cassiterite inclusions in tetragonal cassiterite.

Figure 12: Orthorhombic cassiterite (o-SnO2) in tetragonal cassiterite (t-SnO2) Sn-19 from the Sauberg mine near Ehrenfriedersdorf.

Orthorhombic cassiterite inclusions in tetragonal cassiterite are abundant in several samples. For example, the cassiterite sample Sn-58 from Ehrenfriedersdorf contains more than 120,000 orthorhombic cassiterite crystals per cm3, with a mean diameter of 13.2 µm. Larger grains also occur; in sample Sn-70, grains reach 320 µm in diameter. Many orthorhombic cassiterite crystals are of the CaCl2-type structure and correspond to pressures of approximately 18.9 GPa [14], and references therein. Also, the cotunnite-type (PbCl2-type), which forms at pressures >74 GPa and high temperatures, is not rare. Their abundance suggests that Sn was not derived solely from the surrounding granite, but was introduced at least in part by supercritical fluids or melts from greater depth. A simple mass-balance calculation [13] supports this conclusion, because the approximately 38 ppm Sn content of the surrounding granite is insufficient to generate such a large and rich tin deposit. Earlier genetic models explained Variscan tin mineralization mainly through redistribution of granite-derived Sn by low-temperature hydrothermal processes, supported by fluid-inclusion homogenization temperatures near 400°C. However, the discovery of melt inclusions in quartz containing up to 16,300 ppm Sn substantially changes this interpretation. As in the Habachtal emerald system, conventional fluid inclusions appear to record secondary or late-stage processes rather than the primary metal-transport event (Figure 13).

Figure 13: Ehrenfriedersdorf, Sauberg mine: Lorentzian distribution of tin versus water concentration of the corresponding solvus curve. The maximum is about 16,300 ppm Sn and corresponds to the maximum solubility of Sn at the transition from supercritical to undercritical conditions at about 750°C.

Similar Lorentzian distributions, expressed as element concentration versus melt inclusion water content, were observed for 20 elements [5]. We interpret these distributions as resulting from direct interaction between supercritical fluids and/or supercritical melts generated in mantle regions and the crust. A further example is provided by topaz from Schneckenstein [3]. This topaz contains numerous fluid inclusions on planes perpendicular to the c-axis, with homogenization temperatures of 407 ± 25°C. Although these inclusions may appear primary, the same topaz also contains remnants of high-temperature, high-pressure Ti-topaz, diamond-like carbon (DLC) spheres, and statistically distributed spherical, colorless boron inclusions. Boron is normally black or dark-coloured and opaque, but it can become transparent under high pressures of approximately 19–89 GPa as boron atoms rearrange into different crystal structures [16]. Figure 14 shows a Raman spectrum of a mixture of α- and β-boron, as well as a photomicrograph of such a transparent boron sphere.

The Raman bands around 265 and 283 cm-1 are due to the topaz matrix. Because of the large Al supply from the topaz matrix, α- and β-AlB12 components are possible [3,17].

Figure 14: Raman spectrum of a mixture of a- and b-rhombohedral boron in topaz from Schneckenstein. The inset shows a spherical boron crystal with a diameter of 9 µm at a depth of 10 µm. The dark inclusion, possibly diamond, shows that the boron is transparent.

Conclusion

The results show that minerals preserved in comparatively low-pressure crustal host rocks contain inclusions that require high-pressure to ultra-high-pressure conditions. These phases include diamond, boron, moissanite, coesite, stishovite, lonsdaleite, reidite, orthorhombic cassiterite, and related minerals. Their occurrence in emerald, prismatine granulite, topaz, and cassiterite is difficult to reconcile with conventional equilibrium crystallization or low-temperature hydrothermal models alone. In particular, the Raman-confirmed diamond spherules in emerald from Habachtal strengthen the interpretation that high-pressure mineral relics were introduced into the emerald-forming environment by supercritical media. A recurring feature of these occurrences is the presence of smooth, rounded, spherical, or subspherical inclusions, locally including composite textures such as spheres within spheres. These morphologies indicate mechanical abrasion, entrainment, and possible chemical modification during ascent. The high-pressure mineralogy and preservation of metastable phases require rapid transfer, fast enough to prevent complete inversion to lower-pressure polymorphs during emplacement. The most consistent explanation is movement by supercritical fluids or melts in which H2O and aluminosilicate components are fully miscible. Such media combine high mobility with the capacity to carry dissolved elements and suspended mineral relics. In this model, supercritical fluids or melts can entrain tiny high-pressure crystals at depth, move them rapidly through the crust, and introduce them into mineral-forming environments that otherwise record much lower pressures. The Habachtal emerald, Waldheim prismatine granulite, Greifenstein topaz, and Variscan cassiterite examples also show that this mechanism is linked to element enrichment. Water-rich melt inclusions, Lorentzian element distributions, and exceptionally high Sn concentrations indicate non-equilibrium metal and volatile concentrations during the transition between supercritical and undercritical conditions. That provides a mechanism for selectively enriching elements such as Be and Sn and helps explain the unusually productive granitic and ore-forming systems. Overall, the evidence supports direct mantle–crust interaction mediated by supercritical fluids or melts. This process may be more widespread than previously recognized and should be considered when high-pressure mineral relics, rounded inclusion textures, water-rich melt inclusions, and extreme trace-element enrichments occur together in crustal rocks and mineral deposits.

Acknowledgment

I thank Paul Davidson (Hobart, Tasmania), Adolf Rericha (Falkensee, Germany), and Ulrich Recknagel (Schrobenhausen) for their discussions, which helped us prepare the underlying ACROFI lecture in 2022 in Nanjing.

References

  1. Thomas R, Davidson P, Rericha A (2020) Emerald from the Habachtal: new Mineralogy and Petrology 114: 161-172.
  2. Thomas R, Davidson P, Rericha A, Veksler I (2021) Melt inclusions in emerald from the Habachtal/Austria after re-homogenization at 700°C and two kbar. Academica Letters 1-5.
  3. Thomas R (2026b) Preliminary Raman evidence for boron-rich Al-B-C phases in natural topaz from Schneckenstein/Vogtland, Germany. Geol Earth Mar Sci 8.
  4. Taleb NN (2018) Der schwarze Schwan – Die Macht höchst unwahrscheinlicher Pantheon. PG: 624.
  5. Thomas R, Davidson P, Rericha A, Voznyak DK (2022) Water-rich melt inclusions as “frozen “samples of the supercritical state in granites and pegmatites reveal extreme element enrichment resulting under non-equilibrium conditions. Mineralogical Journal (Ukraine) 44: 3-15.
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  12. Thomas R, Davidson P, Rericha A (2025) Zircon-reidite in prismatine granulite from Waldheim/Saxony. Chapter 11 in: Current Research Progress in Physical Science (ed. by Nagata) 156-162.
  13. Thomas R (2026a) Origin of Sn in the Variscan tin deposit Ehrenfriedersdorf. Geol Earth Mar Sci 8: 1-8.
  14. Thomas R (2024a) The CaCl2-to rutile phase transition in SnO2 from high to low pressure in nature. Geol Earth Mar Sci 6: 1-4.
  15. Thomas R (2024b) Rhomboedric cassiterite as inclusions in tetragonal cassiterite from Slavkovský les – North Bohemia (Czech Republic). Geol Earth Mar Sci 6: 1-6.
  16. Parakhonskiy G (2012) Synthesis and investigation of boron phases at high pressure and temperature. Dissertation, University of Bayreuth/Germany. Pg: 117.
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Universalism or Nationalism – Lessons from the Ukrainian War

DOI: 10.31038/GEMS.2026862

Abstract

Beyond the military, economic and political consequences on the whole of Europe, the brutal arrival in 2022 of the Ukrainian conflict has profoundly modified Western social thinking on a level that risks being prolonged in time. The fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 seemed to open a window of freedom of thought, which was translated by an evolution of the conceptions of citizenship. In these conceptions, citizenship was then defined as an attachment to a democratic society and a will to maintain it. This period is now in danger of being forgotten in favor of nationalism and the abandonment of the organization of a world space where different forms of citizenship could coexist. Under what forms can new spatial organizations be imagined amid nationalism?

The Ukrainian crisis, which had been simmering for a long time, abruptly reignited media discourse in 2022 on universalist goals. It erupted amid a climate of relative international peace, which—in the context of the European Union’s formation and gradual expansion—had stripped the ideas of national citizenship of their aggressive nature. In this sense, one could say—and I myself had written at the time that this conflict marked the end of universalism. The increasingly dramatic events of the four years that followed led to more complex interpretations. The event transcended the meaning attributed to it at the time in the Western world, leading to a reexamination of universalism itself. Jürgen Habermas defines citizenship as an attachment to a political culture founded on democracy and civil rights. In today’s media landscape, this definition may seem to reflect a “Western” perspective. A disciple of Castoriadis, Thibault Tranchant aptly notes that “de-Westernized universalism should be situated at the intersection of cultures, not in the form of a consensus, but rather as a process of dynamic co-creation based on the recognition that cultural differences are irreducible.”

The Nationalist Project is Easier to Implement Politically

We are thus at the heart of the debate between nationalism—which is, in a sense, the guardian of cultural diversity—and the internationalism of the universal process. The Ukrainian revolution has drifted somewhat into this debate, just as the French Revolution itself had done in the 18th century, since, having begun with the philosophical demand for democratic discussion, it went on to claim the annexation of a territorial space—Crimea—outside of any democratic debate. In the current context, “Western” philosophers tend to be wary of nationalism; “national spaces are not given; they are constructed through political practices” (Gilles Deleuze), “the nation-state is a reservoir of power for the expression of capitalist social relations” (Anthony Giddens), and Liav Orgad reminds us that 72% of 15- to 24-year-olds worldwide use the internet. The socio-political literature that developed at the junction of the 20th and 21st centuries may now seem not only unrealistic but almost unreal, so strong is the disconnection from the new reality. The crisis of 2022 has absolutely highlighted the two facets of citizenship. For the Russian ruling class, the essential question is the valorization of the national ideology around the strength of a historical tradition, and the assertion of a solidarity between the Great Russia and the countries which were affiliated to it. In this framework the ideology developed during the Ukrainian revolution of 2014 has absolutely no meaning. It can only be interpreted as an absence of patriotism and subjection to Western ideology. Human sciences should not propose as universal truths social or political options specific to the Western world. The crisis has highlighted the Russian dilemma in its contact with Europe. Russia is a part of the old European cultural ensemble of Christian origin, but it remains attached to its imperial status as a nation-state. In the hope of refocusing on Siberia, it is attempting an analogy with China, which has been able to maintain a solid cultural area around itself. The war illustrated the difficulty of defining supposed “cultural” boundaries. It also showed the insecurity created by the intellectual and strategic uncertainties of a country torn between a citizenship based on nationalism and a citizenship based on an attachment to a certain political and moral culture. This difference of perception is not the reflection of the national cultures, because, as Jean Brunhes and Camille Vallaux (1921) [1] note it, “in all the modern countries, one can say that it was established a rhythm which makes alternate the periods of overexcitation of the national cohesions turned against the foreigner and the periods of social internal fights which tend more or less confusedly to the civil war. Ukraine of the 21st century is no exception to this rule, since it began with a civil conflict over freedom and democracy, and after the victories obtained in 2022, thanks to American support, it quickly turned, like Russia, towards a nationalist claim to recover the borders that it had obtained administratively during the USSR.

Universal Empire or Universalism

Under the guise of cosmopolitanism, we are entering an era of intense political upheaval that takes us away from the dreams of a world citizenship which, for Kant (1795) [2], would have been a state of nations (civitas gentiam), which would always grow and embrace all the peoples of the earth in the end. The idea of citizenship attached to the concept of social project is not without ambiguity. “Is it possible to manage, or even solve, global problems within the framework of the market economy?” asks Michel Damian (2015), who adds that “the universal today has only one status, that of the capitalist world market.” A Franco- Serbian author, Nicola Mirkovic (2022) [3], thus compares what he calls “the American Empire” to what the Roman Empire had been. America, he writes, by taking advantage of the weakening of nationalism, governs nations that are not directly subject to it according to its own interests. It thus establishes “a world government by consent, as opposed to colonization by territorial conquest. The Empire develops in this way monetarily, diplomatically, and economically according to its standards. The historian Fustel de Coulanges (1864) [4] does not give a different picture of the way in which Rome had obtained the Empire “without making very great efforts. It supported the aristocracy everywhere, he wrote, and everywhere also the aristocrats were its ally, “they turned their eyes to Rome, counted on it, adopted it as their protector, and chained themselves to its fortune… Almost no one then thought that there was a choice between independence and subjection; for most men the question was only between aristocracy and popular party.

Without wanting to make the Nation a superior objective to any other spiritual conception, it seems difficult not to link a brotherhood of human groups to territorial limits within which they are gathered. The conception of nationalist citizenship has, however, evolved since antiquity. “One no longer loved the fatherland for its religion and its gods” deplores Fustel de Coulanges ,” one loved it only for its laws and its institutions”. As these changed frequently, he adds, in the state of instability in which all the cities found themselves then, “this new patriotism did not have exactly the same effects as that of the old ages”. His conclusion is that this “modern” patriotism, one might say, “became a variable and inconsistent sentiment, which depended on circumstances, and which was subject to the same fluctuations as the government itself.

Cosmopolitan Thinking Challenged by the Link to Soil

One loved one’s country only as much as one loved the political regime that prevailed there at the time; he who found its laws bad had nothing more to attach him to it. The geographers Brunhes and Vallaux (1921) [1] have a similar concern about what could be called intellectual fantasies: “the specialized scientific work of each one of us in his modest field, of necessarily international character, the international congresses, which often put in contact during the years of peace men of all languages and all countries, the increasing internationalization of the capital, of the trade even, all that had led us little by little to dream of a world which does not exist yet”. One comes, according to them, to neglect the powerful realities of human geography, one wants to say by that this distribution of the men in groups whose affinities are made either by the blood, or by the religion, or by the language, and to believe even more vain, or at least secondary, this major distribution of the men in national groups “. These authors reaffirm further this basic idea: “without land, without territory, there can be families, hordes or even tribes, it cannot be conceived that there is a State”. In a reflection on the end of the Nation-State, Jean-Marie Guéhenno (1993) also wonders: “since the Greek City, politics has been the art of governing a community defined by its rooting in a place, city or nation. If solidarity can no longer be linked to geography, if there is no longer a city, if there is no longer a nation, can there still be a politics?.

Distinguishing Nation and State

In a search on texts of the philosopher Proudhon, F.Ferretti and E.Castleton (2016) [5] analyze the links between geography and libertarian thought, and particularly the confiscation by large political units of diverse cultural identities. For Proudhon “the state is an artificial historical invention”. He gives proof of it by the drawing of the international borders, which often follow rivers valleys, whereas they are precisely places where the people are living harmoniously together. The territorial claims of states based on this or that diplomatic treaty or battle of the past are not geography, but messianism. Certainly, he writes, the geographer is the master, “if it pleases him to give to a land surface circumscribed by rivers, mountain ranges, or seas, such a name as he pleases, but this name is no less arbitrary. The federations, which for him are the basis for the formation of a new Europe, are to be realized according to the will of independent peoples. His model is Switzerland, where what constitutes nationality is not race or language, but cantonal independence…

Universalism is obviously not likely to be realized based on relations between nation-states. It could only be achieved “from below”, outside the will of the nation-states. The development of mobility, which the world has experienced since the 20th century, has affected all categories of population and all geographical environments, under extremely diverse social conditions. The territorial contexts, both national and regional, are often partly outdated, without a clear global context of substitution. “The State should always be the superior political organism that makes several nationalities or nations live together,” write Brunhes and Vallaux, but “the State-Territory sooner or later leads to the incorporation of all the beings that live there”. This makes R. Nejadmerh (2022) [6] say that “nationalisms, by reducing national histories to a single story, told from a single perspective, bring in themselves racism and hierarchies”.

Preparing for Peace as Some Prepare for War

Far from being the illusion of a universal peace, universalist thinking is simply the observation that the development of communications makes it possible to envisage in the long term an organization of human society at the earth level, which will obviously never put an end to conflicts, but will regulate them. Derrida (2010) [7], in a philosophical seminar, reminds us, like Kant, that the greatest evils from which humanity suffers are due to war, or, more precisely, “to the incessant preparations for a war to come”. War is therefore “the condition, the element, the essential horizon of the State and of organized society. Without the horizon of war, the State has no reason to exist. The end of war is the end of the State. And Kant goes on: it is only after the completion of this culture, God knows when (Gott weiß wann), that an eternal peace would become possible “…

It is precisely from Derrida that Thomas Dekeyser (2022) [8] is inspired in taking up the questioning of the same seminar: nothing is as uncertain as the world itself. In this recent text, Dekeyser defines geography as “a discipline of the world under construction”. This world under construction by geographic thinking is normally meant to be attractive and presents itself with a promise of meaning, stability, and community. For Dekeyser, however, following Derrida and Heidegger, the possibility of world lessness cannot be excluded. This was the case of the loss of identity and coherence, in the 16th-18th centuries, of the Black African populations caught in the violence of slavery. A new world lessness is not impossible. Can we not imagine now, for example, a century of division between a Siberian-Asian terrestrial space and an oceanic space?. The war in Ukraine, by the trauma it has created in the Northern hemisphere, could be a factor of change in the world atmosphere. This is how the Second World War brought about the end of the colonial system. After a new period of exacerbation of the nationalism of the nation- states, the 21st century could lead to a further rethinking of world organization. “Modern humanity forms a whole” wrote Brunhes and Vallaux, “but a whole does not mean unity, harmony, fraternity or peace. There is not, there cannot be, a static peace, there can only be principles of organization of the world, which are just enough, fruitful enough and powerful enough to allow for the daily imbalances revealed by the geography of history to be corrected without respite, and to re-establish the compromised equilibrium from day to day. In the present conflicts it is obvious that the UN has lost the game, as its predecessor the SDN in the 1920s to 1930s. That means that the way to a kind of Universalism will not be easy. Precautions must be taken: first a fierce design to achieve the project, and the capacity to take advantage of the opportunities. The fall of the Berlin wall was such an opportunity to open discussions in the European field, instead of what, NATO attempted to recruit new members independently. The most important is to respect the life goals of the different countries and the rejection of any denial of others’ ideas. Cohesion cannot be achieved by force, and the world’s present situation may be a good period to follow these rules, if we consider the recent failures of the countries that have tried to overwhelm by force [9-28].

References

  1. Jean BRUNHES, Camille VALLAUX (1921). La Géographie de l‘Histoire. F.Alcan.
  2. Emmanuel KANT (1795). De la paix perpétuelle.
  3. Nicola MIRKOVIC (2022). L’Amérique. Empire. Paris Temporis.
  4. Numa Denis FUSTEL DE COULANGES (1864). La cité antique. Paris. Hachette –1900.
  5. Federico FERRETTI, Edward CASTLETON (2016). Fédéralisme, identités nationales et critique des frontières naturelles: Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, géographe des « Etats-Unis d’Europe.
  6. Rasoul NEJADMEHR (2022). Intercultural integration: a brief Academia.
  7. Jacques DERRIDA (2010). Séminaire. La bête et le Vol. II. Paris. Galilée.
  8. Thomas DEKEYSER (2022). Worldless futures: On the allure of “worlds to come” Transactions of the Institute ofBritish Geographers. 1-13.
  9. Rainer BAUBÖCK (2018). Debating Transformations of National IMISCOE- SpringerOpen.
  10. Pierre BOURDIEU (1993). La misère du monde. Paris Le seuil.
  11. Rogers BRUBAKER (1992) Citizenship and Nationhood in France and Germany. Cambridge Harvard University Press.
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  13. Anthony GIDDENS (1987) The Nation-State and Violence. University Press.
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  21. Caroline NAGEL (2004). Questioning citizenship in an “age of migration” In O’Loughlin et al. (eds). Globalization and its outcomes. New-York. The Guilford Press.
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  27. Peter J TAYLOR (1991). A theory and practice of regions: the case of Environment and Planing D. Society and Space.9.
  28. Thibault TRANCHANT (2026). Créer l’Universel. CNRS Paris.

From Engineering to Counseling: A Case Study of a Taiwanese Female Graduate Student’s Change of Major

DOI: 10.31038/PSYJ.2026814

Abstract

This case study examined the process through which a Taiwanese female master’s student (pseudonym: Alice) transitioned from Materials Science and Engineering (MSE) to a graduate program in counseling. Alice, a 26-year-old woman, studied in an MSE program for one and a half years before deciding to change her academic direction. Following approximately one year of preparation, she was successfully admitted to a counseling psychology graduate program. Data were collected through a single two-hour semi-structured, in-depth interview exploring her experiences of academic and career transition. The data were analyzed using qualitative thematic analysis. The findings revealed several major themes: lack of interest in learning and experimental research, perceptions of becoming a “tool person,” doubts regarding learning and research, the influence of developmental history on internal psychological states, critical turning points in leaving MSE and “resetting” career path, valuing the fit between academic major and personal characteristics, receiving support from significant others, and re-evaluating and career change decision. The overall transition process consisted of four stages: awareness, breakdown and redirection, exploration and weighing, and acceptance and reconstruction. Implications for counseling practice and directions for future research are discussed.

Keywords

Female graduate student, Engineering, Counseling, Change of major

Within Taiwan’s higher education system, the proportion of female students has steadily increased, with women comprising 49.48% of undergraduate students and 47.63% of graduate students. However, women remain underrepresented in engineering-related disciplines; female graduate students in engineering, manufacturing, and construction account for only 24.15% of the total enrollment (Ministry of Education [MOE], 2026) [1]. In recent years, changing majors has become increasingly common among Taiwanese students. In 2020, approximately one in ten first-year students at top universities applied to transfer to a different department [2]. Although a limited number of studies have examined undergraduate students’ experiences of changing majors [3-6], research focusing on graduate students remains scarce.

Scholars have observed that female students in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM) frequently experience the “leaky pipeline” phenomenon, in which women’s representation declines progressively from undergraduate education to graduate training and eventually to the workforce [6-8]. This case study examines the experience of Alice, a Taiwanese female student who majored in Materials Science and Engineering (MSE), a STEM discipline, at both the undergraduate and graduate levels before ultimately transitioning to a graduate program in counseling. This study explores her emotional experiences, cognitive processes, and behavioral responses during this transition, with particular attention to the influence of personal interests, values, support systems, developmental history, and sociocultural context.

Female Graduate Students in STEM

Women remain underrepresented across many STEM disciplines and often study in environments historically shaped by masculine norms and values. As a result, female students may be required to adapt to academic cultures that privilege traditionally masculine traits, while also experiencing what has been termed the “femininity penalty” [9]. Women pursuing STEM degrees and careers encounter multiple structural and interpersonal barriers, including restrictive institutional policies [10,11] limited access to research opportunities [12], insufficient diversity and representation [13], rigid curricular structures [14], and classroom-related challenges such as large class sizes [15]. In addition, campus and departmental climates may impede women’s academic development and sense of belonging [8].

The structure and demands of STEM education may further intensify gender disparities. Berwick (2019) [16] argued that the most significant barriers for women in STEM arise from environmental and social factors, including gender stereotypes, implicit bias, and the broader cultural climate of science and engineering departments. These conditions can continuously hinder women’s persistence and advancement in STEM fields.

Casad et al. (2020) [17], in a survey of 579 female STEM majors, found that higher gender stigma consciousness predicted greater gender-based rejection sensitivity. Rejection sensitivity, in turn, contributed to more negative perceptions of campus climate. Negative campus perceptions increased stereotype threat, which reduced students’ perceived control. Lower perceived control subsequently heightened psychological disengagement from STEM and diminished self-esteem. These findings highlight the cumulative psychological impact of gendered academic environments.

Compared with men, women are also more likely to prefer broader liberal arts-oriented educational experiences and may perceive tension between their educational goals and the rigid requirements of certain STEM programs [14,18] identified several factors that negatively influence women’s participation in STEM, including competitive and low-interaction teaching approaches, “chilly climates” in male-dominated settings, and societal expectations regarding women’s family and career roles. Competitive environments that lack support may undermine women’s confidence and motivation. When female students experience repeated frustration, reduced self-confidence, or insufficient support in classrooms or departments, they may become more likely to leave STEM or change majors [19]. Moreover, the psychosocial climate of classrooms significantly affects women’s comfort and sense of inclusion within learning environments [20].

Female STEM Students in Taiwan

In Taiwan, STEM disciplines constitute a substantial proportion of graduate education, with STEM students representing a large segment of the graduate student population [1]. Gender differences in academic major selection remain pronounced, with men disproportionately represented in STEM fields and women more commonly enrolled in humanities and social science disciplines [21]. Although increasing numbers of women have entered traditionally male-dominated STEM fields, these disciplines continue to be largely male dominated in Taiwan. Because men remain the numerical majority in STEM, academic environments in these fields often reflect masculine norms characterized by competition, hierarchy, and authority. Such environments may create additional challenges for female students as they navigate academic and professional development.

Liu (2001) [22] investigated the career transition processes of women holding undergraduate STEM degrees and identified several factors influencing their initial major selection, including personal interest, departmental reputation, examination performance, parental expectations, social influence, and significant life events. Among women who later transitioned from STEM to non-STEM careers, career changes were influenced by frustration with academic study or work, career satisfaction, social support, emerging opportunities, and personal characteristics. Liu further noted that women’s career development was often constrained by negative social expectations, which reduced self-efficacy. Gender role stereotypes, occupational gender stereotypes, and experiences of discrimination further reinforced internal career barriers. Compared with men, women also placed greater emphasis on marriage and family responsibilities, which often created additional tensions between work and life and negatively affected career development. Wang (1990) [23] examined factors associated with nontraditional career choices among 407 female university students and found that parental, sibling, and peer support played important roles in their career decisions. Similarly, Yang (2002) [24] explored the developmental contexts underlying career themes among female undergraduates in nontraditional technology-related programs. Participants identified several motivations for choosing nontraditional fields, including pursuing personal interests, improving their family’s financial well-being, and maintaining competitiveness with peers. These findings suggest that women’s career decision-making in Taiwan is shaped not only by individual preferences but also by broader familial and sociocultural influences.

Taken together, prior studies suggest that Taiwanese women in STEM navigate career development within a complex interplay of personal aspirations, family expectations, gender norms, and structural barriers. However, existing research has primarily focused on undergraduate students or career transitions after graduation. Little is known about how female graduate students experience changing majors while still enrolled in graduate education. The present study addresses this gap by examining the case of a female graduate student who transitioned from engineering to counseling.

Changing Fields in Higher Education

Research on major changes among students in Taiwanese higher education remains limited, despite the relative commonality of this phenomenon. In 2020, approximately one in ten first-year students at Taiwan’s top universities applied to transfer to a different department [2]. Within engineering colleges, many students sought to transfer into electrical engineering or computer science, whereas economics and law were among the most popular destinations within the social sciences [2].

Using graduation survey data from a university in northern Taiwan collected between 2012 and 2018, Lee (2021) [5] found that students with stronger economic motivations or interest-driven goals were more likely to successfully transfer. Pan (2017) [25] further argued that universities should adopt more flexible transfer standards, as students often seek major changes due to lack of interest in their original field, poor academic performance, or economic pressures. Excessively restrictive transfer policies may prevent students from pursuing fields aligned with their interests and may increase the risk of academic disengagement or withdrawal.

Internationally, changing majors is a common educational experience. More than one-third of students change their major at least once during their undergraduate studies [26-28]. Rather than viewing major change as a single event, scholars increasingly conceptualize it as a developmental process shaped by academic environments, departmental cultures, and students’ evolving self-understanding [26,29]. Learning environments, in particular, play a critical role in shaping students’ academic trajectories and outcomes [30]. Dissatisfaction with the learning context or discontent with aspects of one’s original major often serves as a major impetus for transfer.

Denice (2021) [31], using U.S. university data, found that students primarily changed majors to pursue fields better aligned with their interests and abilities. Major-change decisions were influenced by characteristics of the original major, academic performance, and the degree of social and academic integration within departments. In addition, gender, socioeconomic background, and prior academic preparation significantly predicted transfer behavior. Women, for example, were more likely to leave STEM fields, particularly when exposed to “chilly climates” characterized by gender discrimination and exclusion [32,33].

Qualitative studies similarly highlight the importance of psychological and contextual factors. de los Reyes (2021) [34] examined students who left STEM after their junior year and identified three major influences: poor academic and career fit, mental health concerns, and dissatisfaction with STEM learning environments. These factors contributed to students’ decisions to leave STEM and redirect their career trajectories. Likewise, Meyer et al. (2022) [35] identified academic achievement, the degree of fit or mismatch between personal career interests and major content, and parental or peer evaluations of the initial major choice as key predictors of major change. Their findings suggest that academic performance, person–major fit, and social expectations jointly shape transfer decisions. In particular, misalignment between career interests and major content strongly predicts cross-disciplinary transfers.

The prevalence of major changes may also reflect the ongoing development of students’ expectations, perceptions, and identities during higher education [36]. As students recognize discrepancies between their initial expectations and long-term career goals, they often experience confusion, uncertainty, and stress amid numerous academic and occupational possibilities [37]. Lower academic performance frequently signals a mismatch between students and their chosen major and is considered a strong predictor of transfer. Students with weaker academic performance are more likely to move into fields with substantially different curricular structures and learning demands [26].

Although changing majors may lead to more suitable academic and career pathways, the process also carries significant costs. Major changes may delay graduation, increase educational expenses, and elevate dropout risk due to additional coursework requirements. Such consequences include extended time to degree, reduced returns on prior educational investment, and greater risk of academic withdrawal [38]. At the same time, changing majors can yield positive outcomes by enabling students to correct unsuitable initial choices, improve academic performance, increase graduation likelihood, and achieve greater alignment between academic training and career goals [39].

Astorne-Figari and Speer (2019) [26] further demonstrated that lower academic performance often reflects academic mismatch and strongly predicts transfer decisions. They also found that students tend to select majors that “look like them,” meaning fields whose demographic characteristics resemble their own. For instance, women are more likely to transfer into majors with higher female representation and are significantly more likely than men to leave STEM fields. Women’s departure from STEM may not necessarily reflect a lack of interest in science or mathematics, but rather a response to cultural environments characterized by intense competition, male dominance, gender stereotyping, and diminished belonging.

Major change can therefore be understood as a significant educational transition involving identity reconstruction and adaptation. Silver (2024) [40], in interviews with 38 U.S. undergraduates who had changed majors, conceptualized this experience using Bridges’ (2004) transition framework, which includes three stages: endings, neutral zones, and new beginnings. During the endings stage, students reflected on their self-perceptions, including whether they possessed the abilities required by their original major, and recognized the limitations of their initial choices. In the neutral zone, students engaged in tentative exploration of alternative fields while navigating uncertainty, pressure, and insufficient support. Finally, during new beginnings, students adapted to their new majors, reconstructed their identities, and developed clearer career directions. This framework suggests that changing majors involves not only academic adjustment but also substantial psychological transformation.

Rationale of the Study

This study is grounded in Holland’s (1997) [41] typological theory and the five models of Social Cognitive Career Theory (SCCT). Together, these frameworks provide a useful foundation for understanding the psychological and contextual factors involved in academic and career transitions, particularly decisions to change majors.

Holland’s (1997) [41] typological theory proposes that individuals seek environments that best match their vocational interests, personalities, and values. In higher education, such environments include the curricular content, learning experiences, and interpersonal climate associated with a student’s academic major. Individuals continually attempt to achieve congruence between personal characteristics and environmental conditions. When students perceive a strong fit between their vocational interests and their major, this congruence increases motivation, engagement, and persistence. Conversely, when students perceive a mismatch between their interests and learning environment, they may become dissatisfied and consider changing majors [35]. Learning contexts therefore play a critical role in academic decision-making, as students often seek educational environments that foster a sense of belonging and align with their personal values and aspirations.

SCCT further explains how career interests, choices, persistence, and adaptation develop through dynamic interactions between personal and contextual factors. Lent and Brown (2019) [42] noted that SCCT originally consisted of three interrelated models and was later expanded to five.

The first model, interest development, explains how individuals develop interests in particular academic or career domains. Individuals who possess stronger self-efficacy beliefs and anticipate positive outcomes from engaging in a given activity are more likely to develop sustained interest in that domain.

The second model, choice-making, explains how individuals make educational and career decisions based on their interests, abilities, and environmental conditions. After interests are formed, individuals establish goals and take actions to pursue them. Career decisions are shaped not only by internal characteristics but also by contextual influences, including family support, economic resources, educational opportunities, and sociocultural expectations.

The third model, performance and persistence [43], focuses on performance outcomes and persistence in educational or vocational settings. Self-efficacy, outcome expectations, ability, and environmental supports jointly influence whether individuals can maintain engagement when facing academic or occupational challenges.

The fourth model, satisfaction and well-being [44], emphasizes individuals’ subjective experiences of satisfaction, psychological well-being, and adjustment in academic or work settings. When educational experiences align with personal interests, values, and goals, individuals tend to experience greater satisfaction and well­-being. In contrast, incongruence between personal needs and environmental demands may reduce satisfaction and negatively affect psychological functioning.

The fifth model, career self-management [45], focuses on how individuals regulate and manage career-related tasks across the lifespan, including career decision-making, job search, adaptation, and work–life balance. Self-efficacy, goal setting, outcome expectations, and environmental supports influence the effectiveness of career planning and adaptation.

Taken together, the five SCCT models provide a comprehensive framework for understanding students’ decisions to change majors. Students may lose interest in their original field or develop stronger self-efficacy and more positive outcome expectations in a new domain, leading to intentions to transfer. Major-change decisions are shaped by multiple factors, including personal abilities, values, family expectations, institutional structures, and available resources. Persistent academic difficulties, poor performance, or insufficient support in the original major may weaken commitment and prompt consideration of alternatives. Similarly, low satisfaction, psychological distress, or poor fit between learning experiences and personal needs may motivate students to seek more suitable environments. From this perspective, changing majors can be understood as an active process of career adjustment, identity reconstruction, and self-management.

Drawing on Holland’s theory and SCCT, the present study reveals how a Taiwanese female graduate student navigated the transition from engineering to counseling. These above theoretical frameworks provide a lens for understanding how person–environment fit, self-efficacy, outcome expectations, support systems, and psychological adjustment shaped her decision-making process and academic transition.

Method

This study adopts a qualitative case study approach, primarily because this method enables an in-depth exploration of individual cases to better understand social phenomena. It allows researchers to grasp the complexity of social realities and uncover the underlying causes behind them. Through detailed examination of specific cases, the study seeks to gain insight into participants’ subjective experiences and perspectives, as well as to analyze the diverse and intricate relationships between individuals and their social environments. The method of case study is suitable for revealing the contextual details and subjective experiences of Alice’s major switching from MSE to counseling program.

Participant

The participant (Alice) is a 26-year-old master’s student majoring in counseling psychology at a research-oriented university in Taiwan. She was enrolled in MSE bachelor’s program for four years, and then in MSE master’s program for one and a half year. She is one of the few female students in the programs of MSE. After she quitted from MSE master’s program, she spent one year for preparation and then switched her major to counseling master’s program. She is willingly shared her experiences regarding her journey of studying in MSE, and switching from MSE to counseling field.

Researcher

The author serves as a full-time faculty member and part-time counseling psychologist in higher education. She has provided guidance and counseling services to undergraduate and graduate students for many years. As an experienced counseling psychologist and educator, the researcher has supported students and clients in understanding issues related to major selection, person–major fit, and decisions regarding academic major changes.

Interviewer

A research assistant (RA) with a master’s degree in counseling conducted one interview. Prior to the study, the RA completed courses in interviewing skills, qualitative research, and research methodology. She received training and completed pilot studies to refine her interviewing skills. She built a trusting relationship with the participant, Alice, and maintained an open, nonjudgmental manner during the interviews.

Data Collection

Data collection was conducted through one in-depth interview, lasting 120 minutes. Also, the interviewer completed personal reflections to reveal her observations, thoughts and reactions during and after the interview. Alice was fully informed about the study’s purpose and procedures and provided informed consent before participating. The interview aimed to elicit detailed accounts of her experiences, with sample queries such as: “Please describe your experiences in the field of MSE.” “Please describe any significant or memorable perceptions and reactions you have encountered over your academic career in MSE at the higher education level.” “What motivated you to quit the MSE graduate program? “ “How did you go through the process of quitting the MSE program, searching for a new career direction, and finally enrolling in “counseling” master’s program? “ “If applicable, how would you advise prospective graduate students consider their major choice and career development?”

Data Analysis

The researcher serves as the analyst. The data comprised interview transcripts and the interviewer’s reflective notes. This care report utilized thematic analysis [46] to analyze the data related to experiences of a female graduate student switching from MSE to counseling master’s program. Thematic analysis proceeded through several steps. Audio recordings were transcribed verbatim. The researcher adopted an open and inquisitive stance, repeatedly reading transcripts and noting thoughts, feelings, and potential meanings or themes. Initial codes were generated based on both surface-level semantics and deeper meanings. Themes and subthemes were then extracted from the codes, organized into coherent descriptions, and conceptualized to capture underlying significance. The analyst reviewed and refined themes to ensure they accurately and comprehensively reflected the data, verifying internal consistency within themes and clear distinctions between themes. Each theme’s essence and content were clarified, and theme names were aligned with their meanings. Finally, the researcher provided detailed descriptions of the analysis and prepared the report.

To enhance validity and reliability, steps were arranged into a detailed protocol and database [47]. Transcripts were examined for accuracy during transcription, with careful comparison of data with codes and forming notations. Validation strategies proposed by Creswell and Miller (2000) [48] were employed, including extended engagement and continuous observation. Multiple sources and methods were integrated to clarify themes or perspectives. Rich, thick narratives were formulated to elaborate the participant and settings encountered in the interview. Member checking was adopted, inviting the participant to review rough drafts and offer feedback. A peer of the researchers served as an external auditor, scrutinizing the research process and evaluating the results.

Results

Lack of Interest in Learning and Experimental Research

Alice recalled that her daily life in the MSE graduate program revolved almost entirely around laboratory operations, instruments, reagents, data analysis, report writing, and reading journal articles. She described her experience in the MSE program as tedious, imbalanced, and emotionally exhausting, accompanied by little intrinsic motivation for experimental research. Reflecting on her lack of engagement, she stated, “I really had no interest in those experiments. They felt boring, and I was too lazy to read the journal papers.”

Repeated experimental failures further intensified her discouragement. Despite investing substantial time and effort, her experiments often failed to produce acceptable results, leaving her with little sense of achievement or progress. She described the repetitive nature of graduate research as especially draining: “During my first year of graduate school, the experiments basically kept failing… I kept repeating the same procedures and tasks without clear feedback… the frustration was really heavy.”

Over time, this persistent frustration extended beyond her academic work and affected her overall daily functioning. Her graduate life became characterized by low energy, emotional exhaustion, and a growing imbalance between academic demands and personal well­-being. She often felt stuck and unmotivated to read, attend classes, or conduct experiments. She also reported depressive feelings and a profound sense of depletion. As she explained: “The next day I had a lab meeting, but I really didn’t want to do anything. I just lay in bed, not wanting to get up… waking up in the morning, I really didn’t want to get out of bed… my whole life felt completely without energy.” Her narrative suggests that the loss of interest in learning and research was not merely academic disengagement but a broader psychological experience involving emotional fatigue, diminished motivation, and reduced vitality.

Perception of Becoming a “Tool Person”

As Alice became increasingly disengaged from her academic work, she also began reflecting on the values embedded within the MSE environment. She perceived the graduate training culture as highly performance-oriented, where productivity and measurable research output served as the primary indicators of value. Within this context, she felt that individuals were appreciated mainly for what they could produce rather than for who they were as human beings.

Alice described feeling as though she had become a “production machine,” valued only for her output. She used the phrase “tool person” to capture her sense of dehumanization within the MSE environment. In her view, the field prioritized results, publications, and efficiency while leaving little room for emotional expression, individuality, or human warmth. She explained: “In MSE, the standard of value is whether you produce enough output… I felt like a tool, not valued as a person… the whole training environment made me uncomfortable.” This perception of being reduced to a functional instrument deepened her dissatisfaction with the field. Rather than experiencing research as meaningful intellectual inquiry, she increasingly experienced it as a system of production governed by external standards of achievement.

Her discomfort was further reinforced by her repeated experimental setbacks. Because her experiments often produced flawed or inconsistent data, she became more aware of the tension between the idealized image of scientific rigor and the messy reality of research practice. This gap intensified her frustration and strengthened her perception that the academic environment valued productivity over personhood.

Doubts regarding Learning and Research

Beyond dissatisfaction with the MSE environment, Alice gradually developed deeper doubts regarding the nature of scientific learning and research itself. During graduate school, she began reflecting on what it meant to learn, conduct research, and pursue knowledge. In this process, she recognized a fundamental contrast between her earlier educational experiences and the epistemological demands of graduate research.

Her previous learning experiences in STEM had largely been structured around clear procedures and correct answers. Success was often defined by accuracy, mastery, and the ability to arrive at predetermined solutions. In contrast, MSE research required tolerance for ambiguity, exploration of the unknown, interpretation of uncertain data, and acceptance that outcomes were often provisional rather than absolute. This epistemological shift proved deeply unsettling for her.

Alice described the prolonged trial-and-error process of research as emotionally difficult. She struggled with the absence of immediate feedback and the unpredictability of outcomes, especially because she lacked intrinsic interest in the research itself. She reflected: “In the past, learning always had correct answers. My tolerance for uncertainty is really low. Having to explore unknown things without knowing if my effort will be rewarded… that was very frustrating, especially when it was something I wasn’t interested in.”

Her low tolerance for uncertainty, combined with limited intrinsic motivation, made sustained engagement in research increasingly difficult. As a result, she began questioning not only her willingness to remain in MSE but also her broader academic direction. This period marked an important turning point in her self-understanding, as she became increasingly aware of the growing gap between her personal values, interests, and the demands of scientific research.

Her experience reflects a deeper struggle involving the reconstruction of both her knowledge perspective and academic identity. Rather than merely questioning whether she could succeed in MSE, Alice was confronting a more fundamental question: whether the scientific domain itself aligned with who she was and how she wished to engage with learning and work.

Awareness of the Impact of Developmental History on Psychological States

As Alice’s distress in the MSE program intensified, she gradually began reflecting on the deeper psychological roots of her struggles. She recognized that her poor psychological state, lack of motivation, and persistent sense of being trapped were not solely caused by the immediate demands of graduate school, but were also closely connected to her developmental history. She described repeatedly “hitting walls” without finding a way forward or an outlet for relief.

Through reflection, Alice came to realize that her upbringing and educational experiences had profoundly shaped how she approached learning, achievement, and self-worth. She felt that Taiwan’s education system had trained her to pursue “only correct answers” and to continuously prove herself as a “good student.” This developmental context fostered a strong performance-based sense of self-esteem, accompanied by fear of failure, compulsive striving, and constant pressure to excel. She explained: “Throughout my schooling, I became very afraid of failure because I always had to find the correct answer… I pressured myself to perform well, and my self-worth became tied to being a good student with good grades.”

Alice recognized that this long-standing pattern shaped how she responded to the uncertainty and repeated failures of graduate research. Having internalized the belief that achievement and correctness determined her worth, she found it especially difficult to tolerate situations without clear answers or guaranteed success.

She also became aware that her entry into MSE reflected not only personal choice but broader social values. She had followed a mainstream educational pathway widely associated with success, stability, and prestige. However, her actual experience in the field was marked by repeated setbacks, anxiety, and emotional discomfort. Through this contrast, she realized that her developmental trajectory had provided little support for self-exploration or encouragement to identify environments aligned with her personal characteristics and needs. She reflected: “In this industry, people pursue high salaries and social status… it’s the mainstream. But I felt very uncomfortable. My feelings weren’t valued, and throughout my upbringing there were very few voices encouraging me to explore or find an environment that suited me.”

Alice further noted the influence of her family’s economic circumstances on her psychological state and career decision-making. Limited financial resources heightened her anxiety regarding future career choices and reduced her confidence in trusting her own decisions. She internalized a persistent sense of scarcity and uncertainty, which constrained her perceived freedom when making life choices. The broader social emphasis on STEM careers as financially secure further intensified this pressure.

Reflecting more deeply, Alice admitted that her motivation to study STEM had largely been driven by external expectations rather than genuine personal interest. Her academic persistence had long been sustained by obligation, pressure, and performance-based validation rather than intrinsic motivation. She explained: “My past learning in STEM was always about forcing myself forward… my self-worth was tied to grades and performance. Only then did I feel valuable.”

Upon entering graduate school, however, the psychological costs of this pattern became increasingly difficult to ignore. The intense uncertainty of experimental research, combined with repeated failure and low interest, gradually became a chronic emotional burden. For the first time, she began seriously confronting her unhappiness and questioning whether this path was sustainable. She recalled: “I really wasn’t happy. I was suffering… I started thinking, should my life continue like this?”

This period marked a significant shift in Alice’s self-awareness. She recognized that her past experiences had shaped her into what she described as a “high self-esteem but failure-intolerant” student—someone who could perform well under structured systems of achievement but struggled deeply in environments characterized by ambiguity and repeated setbacks. She ultimately concluded: “Studying MSE made me feel very uncomfortable. Forcing myself into the STEM field was really painful.” Her growing awareness of these developmental influences helped her understand that her distress was not simply a matter of inadequate ability, but reflected a deeper mismatch between her psychological needs, personal values, and academic environment.

Critical Turning Points in Leaving MSE and Resetting Career Path

As Alice’s emotional and psychological burden accumulated, she eventually reached what she described as a decisive turning point—an experience of abandonment, release, and resetting. One day, she realized that she could no longer force herself to continue. She no longer wanted to attend classes, enter the laboratory, or face lab meetings. In that moment of exhaustion and resistance, a simple but transformative thought suddenly emerged: “I don’t have to do this.” Recalling this moment, she said: “At that time… I didn’t want to prepare journal reports, I just wanted to escape from everything in the lab. Then I suddenly thought, hey, actually I don’t have to do it.”

This realization marked a critical psychological shift. For the first time, Alice allowed herself to consider the possibility that she did not have to remain bound to the life trajectory she had previously constructed. Rather than viewing the MSE pathway as inevitable, she began to see it as a choice that could be reconsidered.

Before this turning point, Alice had envisioned a fixed career plan: complete graduate school in MSE, work in the technology industry for several years, accumulate sufficient financial resources by age thirty, and only then pursue what she truly loved. However, this moment of clarity disrupted that rigid timeline. She realized that postponing her authentic interests was itself a choice—one she no longer wished to maintain. She reflected: “After graduating from MSE, I’ll work in the tech industry for a few years, earn enough money by thirty, and then do what I really love. But then I realized—actually, I can do it now. I can quit MSE, reset, and rethink my career path.” This cognitive shift enabled Alice to move from passive endurance toward active decision-making. Instead of waiting for a distant future to pursue a meaningful life, she began reclaiming agency in the present.

After discussing the possibility of taking a leave of absence with her peers and advisor, Alice spent two months reflecting before ultimately deciding to withdraw from the program. She described the decision as profoundly liberating, both emotionally and physically. She recalled: “After making that decision, I felt so happy. Walking out of the MSE building, I felt light and free, like the world was full of vitality… I no longer had to use those boring lab machines… it felt like finally letting myself go.” This turning point represented more than simply leaving a graduate program. It marked a process of psychological liberation from performance pressure, external expectations, and a long­standing identity built around achievement. By stepping away from MSE, Alice released herself from a life characterized by monotony, emotional depletion, and chronic struggle. The act of leaving became a symbolic reset—an opening for self-redefinition and the possibility of constructing a new career path more aligned with her interests, values, and psychological well-being.

Valuing the Fit between Academic Major and Personal Characteristics

Alice’s prolonged struggles in MSE led her to begin counseling sessions during her first year of graduate school, which helped her realize she was not suited to the field. Over time, she developed interest in counseling. She reflected: “I felt staying in the MSE environment was a waste of my talents, because I clearly sensed that my characteristics didn’t fit there.”

Through counseling sessions, she experienced the embodied and emotional aspects of counseling practice. She also participated in group counseling and psychodrama courses, discovering that experiential and interactive learning resonated deeply with her. She explained: “I really like classes that aren’t traditional lectures… in experiential, communicative courses I can feel myself, I have a sense of presence.” In group dynamics courses, she enjoyed writing reflections and insights: “That was interesting for me.”

Gradually, Alice found joy in observing emotional processes and exploring the motivations behind human behavior. She recognized a strong fit between her personal traits and the counseling profession, cherishing the sense of meaning and accomplishment it provided. In contrast, her MSE experience was marked by disinterest in note-taking, journal reading, assignments, and lab work, leaving her feeling like a “bad student.” She admitted: “In MSE courses, I felt like I wasn’t really learning… I wasn’t interested, I wasn’t serious, and it didn’t even feel like a big loss.” By comparison, counseling courses offered interpersonal interaction, emotional engagement, and self-understanding, which gave her a sense of growth and living fully in the present: “In counseling, I need to interact with people… I feel strong emotional tension, and I love it. In class, I feel alive in the moment.”

Receiving Support from Significant Others

Alice’s advisor recognized her lack of interest in MSE and her resistance to experimental research. When she tearfully expressed feeling like a “screw” or “tool,” he empathized: “This is probably the result of the industrial revolution… everyone becomes a small screw, alienated. Even if productivity is high, the human experience is very uncomfortable.” His understanding and encouragement provided comfort and support.

When Alice was still struggling with whether to quit and reset, her advisor urged her: “You’re smart—don’t waste your brain.” His support helped her reconsider her career direction, reinforcing her sense that staying in MSE was a waste of time and talent. He adopted an open mentoring style, affirming her courage to pursue a new path. Upon her decision to leave, he told her: “I admire your courage. At 24, you’re already brave enough to think about your best career development and pursue the life you want. That’s rare.” Alice regarded him as a respected figure in mainstream society, so his words carried weight and strengthened her resolve.

During counseling sessions, her counselor also affirmed her self-exploration, recognizing her determination and perseverance: “You’re very interested in exploring yourself. Using counseling resources during your student years for self-exploration is a great thing.” In group counseling and psychodrama courses, peers acknowledged her engagement and provided positive feedback. One peer remarked: “The fact that you can write these reflections shows you really feel something in these counseling courses.” The encouragement from her advisor, counselor, and peers became a crucial source of support, empowering Alice to abandon MSE, reset, and reimagine her career path. These affirmations played a pivotal role in her transition.

Re-evaluation and Career Change Decision

Alice initially chose MSE because she valued the security, salary, and social status associated with careers in the technology industry. Her original plan was to graduate, work in the tech sector to save money, and later pursue her true interests. However, repeated setbacks in graduate school prompted her to reconsider her career trajectory. She realized that personal interest and meaningful work were more important than financial security or social prestige. She reflected: “At first I thought I’d work in tech for a few years, save money, and at thirty finally do what I love. But then I realized—wait, I can actually do it now!”

During this re-evaluation, Alice became aware of her lack of confidence and anxiety about her family’s financial situation: “One of the sticking points was this deep anxiety… I felt a lack of confidence and trust in myself, which I think is related to my family background. Our financial situation wasn’t very good.” This made her hesitant to leave a field with strong job prospects and high salaries. Yet, after careful consideration, she recognized that forcing herself into a career she disliked would be exhausting and unfulfilling. She explained: “In the lab, I kept doing things I didn’t like. If I worked in tech, it would be the same tasks. For me, the most important thing isn’t job security or money.”

Ultimately, Alice abandoned her earlier plan of prioritizing financial stability and instead emphasized the fit between her career and personal characteristics. She stated: “I want to do something that makes me happy. So I gave up the money and chose what I really want to do—counseling. That gives my life meaning.” Although counseling may not provide the same salary or status as engineering, she valued its alignment with her interests and identity. She emphasized: “Counseling focuses on human feelings… it doesn’t force you to become a certain type of person. It’s not utilitarian. That’s what I like. Being in this field makes me more comfortable.”

The Process of Changing Majors

Awareness Stage

Alice followed mainstream social expectations by majoring in MSE in college and continuing into graduate school, planning to enter the tech industry afterward. Over time, she realized that MSE did not align with her interests. Repeated experimental failures drained her confidence and energy, leaving her exhausted and unmotivated. She described: “My life was in a serious state of imbalance. I felt stuck, like stagnant water, with no vitality at all.” She began reflecting on the utilitarian and “tool-oriented” nature of the MSE system, which emphasized productivity and outcomes over human subjectivity. She recognized that her pursuit of high grades and correct answers had trapped her in a cycle of fatigue and frustration. Her mindset shifted from “I should endure and overcome difficulties” to “Why should I keep suffering and draining myself? Should I continue at all?”

Breakdown and Redirection Stage

One day, Alice broke down crying in the laboratory, which became a turning point. She suddenly realized: “I don’t have to do this.” Years of accumulated frustration erupted, and she acknowledged her unhappiness: “I really wasn’t happy.” Her longing for freedom sparked an awakening, giving her the strength to let go. This moment of realization marked her first step toward abandoning MSE and reclaiming agency.

Exploration and Weighing Stage

After this awakening, Alice experienced relief and joy at the thought of leaving MSE. Yet she also struggled with anxiety about her family’s financial situation. She recognized that becoming an engineer could improve her family’s economic stability: “In this industry, people pursue high salaries and social status. It’s the mainstream.” Through counseling, she gradually shifted her focus from external expectations to internal values. Counselors affirmed her courage to explore herself and pursue her interests. She discovered genuine enthusiasm for counseling courses, which gave her energy and presence. She explained: “Tech jobs have higher social status. But I don’t value money that much, and my material desires aren’t high. Weighing both sides, I chose counseling because it fits my interests and values.”

Acceptance and Reconstruction Stage

Alice eventually learned to accept imperfection and uncertainty, adopting a holistic perspective on career development. She recognized that her family and society had long validated her through grades and academic prestige. Moving beyond the pursuit of mainstream “best choices,” she began affirming her own interests and needs, even while facing tension with societal expectations. She demonstrated resilience, insisting on her decision to change majors. She explained: “With resilience, I can withstand the mainstream tide… allowing new methods, trying new careers, and building confidence is also resilience.” Alice redefined her career as “doing what I care about and what makes me happy,” embodying both resilience and vitality.

Discussion

This study identified several important factors contributing to women’s departure from STEM fields in higher education. Previous studies have highlighted hostile or exclusionary departmental climates [50], frustration and loss of confidence in competitive STEM environments [19], and feelings of isolation or low belonging associated with “chilly climates” [51]. Although Alice did not explicitly report gender discrimination or overt exclusion, she perceived the MSE environment as highly performance-oriented, where academic productivity—such as grades, research output, and measurable achievement—served as the dominant indicator of personal value. This perception contributed to feelings of dehumanization, as if her worth were reduced to that of a functional tool rather than a whole person. Repeated failures in laboratory work gradually eroded Alice’s confidence and self-esteem, leading to reduced perceived control, diminished motivation, and psychological disengagement from the MSE graduate program. This finding supports prior research suggesting that academic climate and institutional culture significantly influence women’s persistence in STEM [16,17,26,29]. It also aligns with Casad et al. (2020) [17], who found that lower perceived control among female STEM students contributes to disengagement and reduced self-worth.

Alice’s narrative further suggests that academic struggles cannot be fully understood without considering developmental history. She described growing up in an environment strongly shaped by mainstream social values emphasizing achievement, performance, and external success. Although this upbringing fostered confidence in achievement-oriented settings, it also limited opportunities for self-exploration and reduced her tolerance for failure. Consequently, the repeated setbacks inherent in graduate-level experimental research became psychologically overwhelming. This finding supports previous research indicating that frustration, loss of confidence, and insufficient support often contribute to women’s decisions to leave STEM [19].

Social support emerged as a critical protective factor during Alice’s transition. Existing literature emphasizes the importance of support networks for sustaining women’s engagement in STEM and facilitating career transitions [52]. In Alice’s case, her advisor, counselor, and peers did not pressure her to remain in engineering; instead, they supported her exploration of whether MSE genuinely aligned with her interests and values. Their acceptance and encouragement allowed her to loosen attachment to her original career plan and consider alternative possibilities.

A particularly salient finding concerns the contrast between learning environments. Alice described MSE as emphasizing productivity, technical competence, and emotional detachment, whereas counseling offered experiential, relational, and reflective learning. Her strong preference for communicative and interpersonal learning supports Hartman and Hartman’s (2009) argument that collaborative and relational learning environments may better support many female students than highly competitive, low-interaction STEM contexts. Her transition therefore involved not only a change in discipline but also movement toward an educational culture more congruent with her relational orientation.

Alice’s experience of poor fit, low satisfaction, reduced motivation, and psychological distress closely aligns with findings from major-change research. de los Reyes (2021) [34] found that students often leave STEM because of poor academic or career fit, mental health concerns, and dissatisfaction with the learning environment. Likewise, Denice (2021) [31] argued that major-change decisions reflect students’ responses to major characteristics, academic performance, and social integration. Alice’s case further supports Astorne-Figari and Speer’s (2019) [26] view that low performance often signals academic mismatch and predicts cross-disciplinary transfer.

Her transition also reflects the STEM “leaky pipeline” phenomenon [6,7], in which women’s representation decreases at advanced educational and career stages. Importantly, Alice’s departure from STEM did not reflect rejection of science or inability to succeed academically. Rather, it reflected disengagement from an environment she experienced as misaligned with her values and identity. This distinction suggests that women’s attrition from STEM should not be understood solely in terms of competence deficits, but also in terms of person–environment incongruence.

Alice’s experience strongly supports Holland’s (1997) [41] theory of vocational choice, which emphasizes person–environment fit. Her disengagement from MSE reflected poor alignment between her interests and the demands of the field, whereas counseling provided stronger congruence with her values of human connection, subjectivity, and interpersonal engagement. This finding is consistent with Meyer et al. (2022) [35], who demonstrated that misalignment between career interests and major content predicts cross-disciplinary transfers.

Alice’s journey also illustrates all five models of SCCT. Her declining interest in MSE and growing engagement in counseling reflected the interest development model. Her decision to leave engineering and pursue counseling reflected the choice-making model, shaped by personal values, abilities, and contextual resources. Her struggles in research reflected the performance and persistence model, as repeated setbacks reduced persistence. Her emotional exhaustion and later psychological recovery illustrated the satisfaction and well-being model. Finally, her active exploration, reassessment, and career redirection reflected the career self-management model, highlighting the dynamic nature of lifelong career development.

Alice’s transition further resonates with Silver’s (2024) [40] application of Bridges’ (2004) [53] transition theory. Her awareness and breakdown/letting go stages parallel the endings phase, during which students recognize unmet needs or lack of fit in their original major. Her exploration and weighing stage corresponds to the neutral zone, characterized by uncertainty and experimentation. Finally, acceptance and reconstruction mirrors the new beginnings stage, in which students reconstruct identity and commit to a new direction. Thus, changing majors can be understood not merely as an academic decision but as a profound psychological and identity transition.

Implications and Limitations

This study highlights the importance of attending to graduate students’ emotional, academic, and career development, particularly when students experience misalignment between personal characteristics and academic environments. Counselors, faculty members, and student affairs professionals should remain attentive to signs of disengagement, loss of motivation, or psychological distress. Holland’s person–environment fit framework and SCCT may serve as useful tools for helping students assess fit, clarify interests and values, and explore alternative pathways.

Practitioners should also recognize the influence of broader sociocultural values on career decision-making. In contexts such as Taiwan, leaving prestigious or high-income fields such as engineering may generate substantial internal conflict and external pressure. Students may struggle with guilt, self-doubt, or fear of social disapproval when considering less conventional paths. Institutions may therefore benefit from providing more flexible transfer policies and transition support systems to facilitate movement into better-fitting disciplines.

This study focused on a single participant and therefore cannot be generalized to all female graduate students in STEM. Future studies should include participants from diverse backgrounds and institutional contexts to better understand variation in major-change experiences. Additional research is needed to examine how female graduate students navigate cross-disciplinary transitions, particularly the psychological and contextual mechanisms underlying movement from STEM into fields with greater female representation, such as counseling.

Conclusion

Alice’s transition from engineering to counseling illustrates how changing majors can represent far more than an academic adjustment. Her journey reflects a process of self-exploration, identity reconstruction, and redefinition of success. Rather than evaluating success solely through external standards such as prestige, salary, or social approval, Alice came to prioritize alignment between her career path and her personal interests, values, and relational needs. Her experience underscores the importance of person–environment fit, psychological well-being, and social support in shaping graduate students’ educational trajectories. Ultimately, this case highlights how changing majors can become a transformative developmental process through which individuals pursue greater authenticity, meaning, and fulfillment.

Disclosure Statement

The author declares no competing interests in relation to this study.

Use of AI Tools

The author used ChatGPT to assist with language editing and manuscript revision.

Author Note

Yii-nii Lin is a licensed counseling psychologist and professor in Taiwan. Her research focuses on counseling and psychosocial development, with particular emphasis on students in higher education. Correspondence concerning this article should be addressed to Yii-nii Lin, Department of Educational Psychology and Counseling, National Tsing Hua University, #101, Sec. 2 Kuang Fu Road, Hsinchu City, Taiwan.

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Immune Mechanisms in Neurodegenerative Disease: Role of Self-reactive Autoantibodies

DOI: 10.31038/EDMJ.20261031

Introduction

Aging- and Inflammation-associated Neurovascular Disorders

Aging, inflammation and immune dysregulation are likely to play role(s) in high prevalence rate(s) of common neurodegenerative diseases such as Alzheimer’s dementia and Parkinson’s disease experienced by older persons [1]. Yet the underlying mechanisms for these associations are incompletely understood. The brain was previously thought to be an immune-privileged site. It is now known, however, that immune tolerance is only partial. Under certain pathophysiologic conditions the brain can harbor resident immune cells. For example, following traumatic brain injury macrophages contribute to neuroinflammation which is an important driver of later occurrence(s) of neurodegeneration.

Here we review prior evidence linking neurodegenerative disorders and subsets of multi-reactive IgG autoantibodies (AAB). A comparison of the chemical structure of two antigenic targets of neurovascular disorders AAB, namely heparan sulfate proteoglycan (HSPG) and the druggable G-protein coupled serotonin 2A receptor, reveals a possible shared anionic motif perhaps accounting for overlap in AAB specificities. Since both antigens are expressed on vascular cells and neurons, their targeting by plasma AAB from ‘neurovascular disorders’ patients appear to validate our underlying hypothesis that vascular injury and inflammation promote humoral immunity to receptors expressed in vasculature and the central nervous system.

Since both antigens are expressed (in part) on endothelial cells, the corresponding targeting IgG AAB are by definition anti-endothelial cell autoantibodies (AECA) which were previously reported to be heterogeneous and linked with autoimmune diseases. None of the AECA-linked disorders discussed here, i.e. adult type 2 diabetes mellitus, recurrent traumatic brain injury or neurodegenerative diseases, however, is a systemic autoimmune condition. Rather they each share a common underlying characteristic of persistent inflammation which may be sufficient to drive AAB production leading to associated pathophysiology.

Novel Autoantibody Risk Factor Associated with Age-related Neurodegeneration

IgG autoantibody formation is an important consequence of persistent inflammation. IgG autoantibodies are known to be long-lasting and can confer life-long protective immunity following repeated antigenic challenges (e.g. vaccines). In the case of immunity to self-antigens however, the pathophysiologic consequence may be severe and equally long-lasting. For example, in traumatic brain-injured adult patients, circulating agonist IgG autoantibodies (AAb) targeted the serotonin 2A receptor (5HT2AR) which has normal roles in mood regulation, spatial learning and perception [2]. Plasma TBI IgG AAb binding to a synthetic peptide identical to the 5HT2AR second extracellular loop was significantly associated with increased level of systemic inflammation (Figure 1A) [3]. Systemic inflammation was also directly proportionally-associated with raised plasma 5HT2AR-targeting AAB in older adult type 2 diabetes mellitus (T2DM) (Figure 1B) [4]and in acute severe Covid-19 infection Figure 1C) [5] consistent with a general role for inflammation in the appearance and level of plasma 5HT2AR-targeting AAB.

Figure 1: Significant positive correlation(s) between peripheral white blood cell count (WBC) and plasma IgG binding to serotonin 2 A receptor second extracellular loop peptide in A) adult TBI B) older adult type 2 diabetes mellitus C) Covid-19 infection. Reproduced from [4,5,6].

In two different adult TBI populations, increased baseline 5HT2AR-activating IgG was a significant predictor of the prospective (2 year- or 1 year-) rate, respectively, of accelerated cognitive decline [6,7] experienced by older or middle-aged, repeated TBI exposed patients. The AAB caused apoptosis in both endothelial cells and mouse neuroblastoma N2A cells by a mechanism involving Gq11/ phospholipase C/inositol triphosphate/Ca2+ and RhoA/Rho kinase signaling pathways’ activation [8]. Independent of TBI exposure, subsets of older adult obese type 2 DM patients harbored AAB which were significantly associated with the occurrence of Parkinson’s disease or dementia. For example, a 60 nanomolar concentration of IgG AAB from Parkinson’s disease (n=10) or dementia (n=2) patients caused significantly greater mean N2a neuroblastoma cell loss after 24 hours incubation compared to identical concentration of autoantibodies in the protein-A eluate of plasma in age-matched diabetic patients without neurodegenerative disorder (Figure 2A; control EL) [9]. Neuroblastoma cell loss induced by (60 nM) concentration of diabetic PD (n=5) or dementia (n=1) auto antibodies was completely prevented by co incubation with 200 nanomolar concentration of M100907, a highly selective 5-HT2A receptor antagonist (Figure 2B) evidence of involvement of the 5HT2A receptor [9] in Ig induced neurotoxicity.

Figure 2: Diabetes Parkinson’s disease (n=10) or dementia (n=2) auto antibodies (60 nM) caused significant N2a neuroblastoma cell loss after 24 hrs incubation compared to identical concentration of autoantibodies in the protein-A eluate of plasma in diabetic patients without neurodegenerative disorder (control EL). B) Neuroblastoma cell loss induced by (60 nM) concentration of diabetic PD (n=5) or dementia (n=1) auto antibodies was completely prevented by co incubation with 200 nM concentration of M100907, a highly selective 5- HT2A receptor antagonist. N2A cells were incubated for 24 hours at 37 degrees. Cell number was determined as described in Methods. Results are mean ± SEM. Reproduced from [9].

An additional important role for injury in the causation of neurovascular AAB was evidenced by the finding that repeated TBI exposures not only caused a significant elevation in the level and titer of IgG AAB, (vs single TBI) (Figure 3) [3], but also an antigenic shift to involve another catecholaminergic receptor, alpha 1 adrenergic, whose receptor activation region is structurally closely-related to the 5HT2AR [7]. These findings are consistent with antigen-driven, adaptive humoral immune processes to a receptor (5HT2A), which is known treatment target in refractory depression and Parkinson’s disease – two of the most common later neurodegenerative complications following TBI.

Figure 3: Multiple TBI exposure is associated with increased autoantibody titer and 5-HT2AR peptide binding potency compared to single uncomplicated TBI. * P< 0.01; Aab-autoantibody. IgG AAb from patients with multiple TBI, single uncomplicated TBI or two or more mild TBI was tested (at the indicated dilutions) for binding to the QN..8 second extracellular loop synthetic peptide in enzyme linked immunoassay. Background binding was 0.05 absorbance units (AU). Reproduced from [3].

Mechanism of ‘Self vs Non-self’ Immune Recognition

The recognition of ‘self vs non-self’ is critical to an organism’s ability to avoid systemic autoimmunity. The immune system normally differentiates self vs non-self-antigens through a developmental process of clonal deletion of B cell receptors (BCR) that exhibit high affinity binding to self-antigens. Recent studies in anti-DNA antibodies, however, demonstrate that a subset of self-reactive BCR clones can survive into adulthood through light chain-editing which reduces high affinity binding of heavy chain CDR3 to self-antigens [10]. These studies in lupus anti-DNA autoantibodies revealed that cationic arginine amino acid residues in the complementarity-determining-region CDR3 of the heavy chain mediate high affinity binding to anionic surface on certain autoantigens, e.g repeating phosphate groups in double-stranded dsDNA [10].

Mutation in the variable portion of light chains, specifically by introducing aspartic acid residues which ‘complement’ CDR3 heavy arginine residues (in anti-DNA antibodies) reduces the affinity of the heavy chain BCR for self-antigens [10]. A subset of ‘partially-edited’ BCR (in which the electrostatic interaction between heavy chain arginine and light chains aspartic acid) is not fully complemented, not only survive the process of clonal deletion but persist in adulthood as ‘self-reactive’ clones which bind glycosaminoglycans [10].

A Subset of Anti-DNA Antibodies are Anti-heparan Sulfate Antibodies

In older adult type 2 diabetes mellitus, we identified increased plasma anti-endothelial cell autoantibodies (AECA) in association with subsets of retinopathy, nephropathy, painful neuropathy [11] and later diabetic depression [12]. A shared target of the AECA was heparan sulfate proteoglycan (HSPG) [1]. HSPG is a known antigen in systemic autoimmune disorders such as systemic lupus erythematosus (SLE) [13] and it is elaborated from capillary basement membranes by the enzyme heparanase in poorly-controlled T2DM or under increased hemodynamic stress [14]. A subset of anti-DNA antibodies in lupus nephritis was reported to be anti-HSPG antibodies [15] indicative that some anti-HSPG antibodies are self-reactive, i.e. arise from self-reactive B cell clones.

Increased Expression of HSPG on Vascular Cells and Neurons

HSPG is highly expressed on both vascular surfaces and in neurons consistent with finding increased HSPG targeting-AAb in neurovascular disorders characterized by microvascular and/or neurologic dysfunction [4]. HSPG also functions as an obligatory co-factor for endothelial cell and neural survival-promoting growth factors such as fibroblast growth factor (FGF2) [16]. Fibroblast growth factor 2 is also important for the proliferation of hippocampal neural stem cells underlying therapeutic responses to anti-depressant treatment [17]. Through binding to the FGF2 co-receptor, anti-HSPG AAb can reduce FGF2 bioavailability potentially interfering with both neuronal and endothelial survival. Heparan sulfate proteoglycan is also a co-receptor for two key molecular regulators of amyloid beta production and clearance in the brain, namely beta (β)-secretase and lipoprotein receptor protein-1 (LRP-1). Since HSPG normally inhibits beta-secretase [18] and stimulates LRP-1 [19], anti-HSPG AAB would be predicted to increase Aβ production and reduce its brain clearance, actions which taken together might contribute to Alzheimer’s dementia progression.

Self-reactive BCR are ‘Multi-reactive’

An important property of self-reactive B cell clones is their inherent multi-reactivity, i.e. they can target more than one kind of self-antigen [10]. Based on the importance of aspartic acid (D) residues in edited light chains for mitigating high affinity heavy chain CDR3 antigen binding, we constructed structural models of heparin sulfate (Figure 4) for comparison to model of a recently identified autoantigen, the serotonin 2A receptor (Figure 5). The NMR structure of heparin sulfate shows a sulfur-sulfur distance of 6.6 Ångstroms (Figure 4). Adjacent aspartic acid (D) residues at positions 231and 232 in the epitope region of serotonin 2A receptor have carbonyl carbon-carbon distance of 6.6 Ångstroms (Figure 5). This makes it possible (if not plausible) that similar electrostatic interaction(s) may occur between heavy chain CDR3 arginine and the anionic region in either heparin sulfate or the two adjacent D residues in the receptor activating region of the serotonin 2A receptor.

Figure 4: Heparin sulfate NMR structure showing sulfur-sulfur distance of 6.6 Ångstroms is shown. Throughout the structure, adjacent sulfur-sulfur distances range from 3.5 Å to 6.6 Å. PDB: 1HPN N.m.r. and molecular-modelling studies of the solution conformation of heparin. Mulloy B, Forster MJ, Jones C, Davies DB, Biochem J (1993) 293 ( Pt 3) p.849-58.

Figure 5: Crystal structure of the human serotonin 2A receptor showing adjacent aspartic acid residues at positions 231and 232. Carbonyl carbon-carbon distance of 6.6 Ångstroms is shown. PDB: 7WC5, From, Structure-based discovery of nonhallucinogenic psychedelic analogs. Cao, D., Yu, J., Wang, H., Luo, Z., Liu, X., He, L., Qi, J., Fan, L., Tang, L., Chen, Z., Li, J., Cheng, J., Wang, S. (2022) Science 375: 403-411.

In a study of older adult TBI (N=35; mean age 65 years old), we tested the IgG fraction of plasma for binding to either a second extracellular loop serotonin 2A receptor peptide or highly-purified HSPG derived from rat pheochromocytoma (PC12) cells. In thirty-one of thirty-five adult TBI patients tested, autoantibody (1/40th dilution = 30 µg/mL) binding to the 5-HT2AR second extracellular loop region peptide was significantly correlated (P< 0.01; R =0.46) with binding to purified PC12-derived HSPG (Figure 6) [3]. These results suggest that TBI autoantibodies may target (in part) strongly anionic sites present on both the 5-HT2AR and neuronal HSPG as a result of injury-induced release of vascular and neural antigens.

Figure 6: Correlation between 5-HT2AR peptide and neuronal HSPG binding in the protein-A eluates from thirty-one of thirty-five older adult TBI patients. A one-fortieth dilution of the protein A eluate was incubated either with 5HT2AR second extracellular loop synthetic peptide or with HSPG purified from rat pheochromocytoma cell culture. Background binding was 0.05 absorbance units (AU) in both assays.

Reproduced from [3].

Agonist Anti-serotonin 2A Receptor AAb in Neurovascular Disorders

The functional effects of AECA in diabetic subsets having retinopathy, nephropathy or painful neuropathy were pleiotropic: the IgG caused endothelial cell apoptosis [20], potent neurite retraction in mouse neuroblastoma cells, and evoked large sustained global increases in intracellular Ca2+ in EC [20] and other cell types [20]. This led us to consider whether (in addition to HSPG) another antigenic target of the IgG may be a Gq11 subclass of G-protein coupled receptor (GPCR) positively coupled to phospholipase C/inositol triphosphate receptor/Ca2+ release signaling pathway. Long-lasting depolarization can be another manifestation of phospholipase C/inositol triphosphate receptor pathway activation in excitable cells. Prior to our discovery of 5HT2AR as a target of neurovascular AAB, we used the fluorescent voltage-sensitive membrane dye, diBac4, in a high-throughput N2A mouse neuroblastoma membrane depolarization assay to screen a library of plasma IgG autoantibodies from patients having a wide range of neurologic, vascular or neuropsychiatric disorders. We found unexpectedly highest level of IgG-induced depolarization in plasma from patients with painful neuropathy, major depressive disorder, or schizophrenia [21] (Figure 7). The 5HT2AR is a well-known treatment target in refractory depression and schizophrenia. This observation led us to test and later demonstrate that the highly selective 5HT2AR antagonist, M100907, dose-dependently completed prevented neurotoxicity in IgG AAB from neurodegenerative diseases including ten patients with Parkinson’s disease (PD) and two having dementia (Figure 2).

Figure 7: Significantly increased membrane depolarization (basal fluorescence) in IgG fraction of plasma from patients having diabetic depression, nephropathy, or other pathologies (schizophrenia, or painful neuropathy) compared to age-matched diabetes without any of these disorders. Diabetic depression (DM Depr), diabetic nephropathy (DM Neph) or other pathologies (Other Path) autoantibodies cause significantly increased mean depolarization in neuroblastoma (N2A) cells compared to control diabetic (DM) autoantibodies.

Reproduced from [21]

The second extracellular loop of the 5HT2A receptor is important in receptor activation. We configured an enzyme linked immunoassay using a synthetic peptide identical to the 2nd extracellular loop (as capture antigen) to screen plasma IgG from adult type 2 diabetes or adult TBI patients for significantly increased binding compared to control groups without a neurovascular disorder. Mean binding to the 5HT2AR second extracellular loop peptide was significantly increased in either TBI or T2DM patients having a neurodegenerative or neurovascular disorder [3,4] compared to control patients with uncomplicated TBI or T2DM (Figure 8). Of interest Parkinson’s disease had the highest prevalence of 5HT2AR-targeting AAB. Seventeen of twenty or 85% of Parkinson’s disease patients whose IgG was tested demonstrated significantly increased binding to the second extracellular loop serotonin 2A receptor antigen.

Figure 8: Enzyme linked immunosorbent assay using the 5HT2AR, second extracellular loop region synthetic peptide Q..N-18 as the solid-phase antigen. Results are arbitrary absorbance units (OD) in a one-fortieth dilution of the protein-A eluate fraction of plasma or serum from A) TBI patients with or without a neurovascular co-morbidity or B) uncomplicated type 2 diabetes (N=6), Parkinsons disease (PD) (N=17), cerebrovascular accident (CVA) (N=7), major depressive disorder (MDD) (N=12) or dementia (N=7). Reproduced from [3.4].

To further test for a specific association between PD and 5HT2AR-targeting AAB, we conducted an RNA seq study in which mouse neuroblastoma cells were briefly exposed to IgG from T2DM, and/or TBI (each subgroup was enriched in PD patients) vs normal patients without PD or targeting IgG AAb. We reported IGF from TBI, DM, and TBI + DM patient subgroups (compared to normals) caused significantly increased gene expression in cell death genes [22]. There was involvement of the mitochondrial dysfunction pathway and Parkinson’s disease pathways in TBI and DM autoantibody-induced gene expression changes in mouse neuroblastoma cells [22]. These data are consistent with prior studies implicating humoral immunity [23], and calcium-dependent proteolysis [24] in the pathogenesis of sporadic PD.

Summary

A summary diagram illustrating the humoral immune markers and mechanisms involved in type 2 diabetes mellitus-and TBI-associated neurodegeneration is shown in Figure 9.

Figure 9: Summary diagram of the diseases, mechanisms, intracellular signaling pathways and tissue effects of circulating self-reactive autoantibodies. Assisted by ChatGPT 5.5.

Competing Interest

The authors declare no competing interests that would affect the objectivity of the presented results.

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  16. Shi J, Fan C, Zhuang Y, Sun J, Hou X, Chen B, Xiao Z, Chen Y, Zhan Z, Zhao Y, Dai J (2019) Heparan sulfate proteoglycan promotes fibroblast growth factor-2 function for ischemic heart repair. Biomater Sci. [crossref]
  17. Woodbury ME, Ikezu T (2014) Fibroblast growth factor-2 signaling in neurogenesis and neurodegeneration. J Neuroimmune Pharmacol. [crossref]
  18. Ozsan McMillan I, Li JP, Wang L (2023) Heparan sulfate proteoglycan in Alzheimer’s disease: aberrant expression and functions in molecular pathways related to amyloid-β Am J Physiol Cell Physiol. [crossref]
  19. Kanekiyo T, Zhang J, Liu Q, Liu CC, Zhang L, Bu G (2011) Heparan sulphate proteoglycan and the low-density lipoprotein receptor-related protein 1 constitute major pathways for neuronal amyloid-beta J Neurosci. [crossref]
  20. Zimering MB, Pan Z (2009) Auto-antibodies in type 2 diabetes induce stress fiber formation and apoptosis in endothelial cells. J Clin Endo Metab. [crossref]
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  22. Zimering MB, Delic V, Citron BA (2021) Gene Expression Changes in a Model Neuron Cell Line Exposed to Autoantibodies from Patients with Traumatic Brain Injury and/or Type 2 Mol Neurobiol. [crossref]
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Cefiderocol Alongside the Newer Β-Lactam/Β-Lactamase Inhibitor Combinations

DOI: 10.31038/IDT.2026712

Commentary

To date, over 12,000 beta lactamases have been identified among gram-negative bacteria [1]. Due to selective pressures, novel enzymes continue to evolve among clinical isolates while patients are living longer with increasingly complex comorbidities. Selecting the right empiric antibiotic in these vulnerable populations becomes more challenging and delays in effective therapy lead to worse clinical outcomes [2]. To make matters even more challenging, carbapenem resistant bacteria deploy not just beta lactamases with rare escape variants to best the latest agents on the market, but altered penicillin binding proteins (PBP), effiux pump overexpression, and porin channel alterations which modern rapid diagnostic tests are unable to capture without whole genome sequencing.

Cefiderocol represents one of the most innovative attempts to overcome the latter of these obstacles. Instead of focusing on passive diffusion through porin channels, cefiderocol unlocks an alternative pathway of cell entry by mimicking a bacterial siderophore, binding iron, and actively transporting itself across the iron transport system.

This “Trojan horse” strategy becomes a novel approach to bypassing porin channel mutations typically seen among various carbapenem resistant bacteria, including metallo-β-lactamase (MBL) producing organisms [3].

However, the findings from our case series demonstrate that this novelty may not be permanent. Particularly among NDM-5-producing Klebsiella pneumoniae, cefiderocol resistance emerged within the siderophore transport pathways, involving CirA. More concerning was the observation that cefiderocol resistance occurred in patients with and without prior cefiderocol exposure. We identified multiple independent CirA disruptions among ST147 isolates suggesting convergent evolution toward a common resistance phenotype rather than simple clonal spread alone. This raises concern that in NDM endemic regions, cefiderocol resistance may become prevalent before drug exposure [4].

The ongoing effort to develop novel therapies for carbapenem-resistant gram-negative infections has increasingly relied on combination approaches. The acquisition of Qpex Biopharma by Shionogi inc and ongoing development of cefiderocol combined with a novel beta lactamase inhibitor xeruborbactam represents a strategy familiar to Infectious Diseases clinicians [5]. The pairing of these two compounds preserves cefiderocol’s bactericidal activity and may provide a more potent solution to the resistance observed in our case series. However, relying solely on a β-lactamase inhibitor to stabilize a β-lactam has inherent limitations due to bacterial evolution and production of escape variant β-lactamases, as seen with both avibactam and taniborbactam [6].

The latest frontier among β-lactamase inhibitors, the 2nd generation diazabicyclooctanes (DBO), are designed to pair β-lactamase inhibition with direct antibacterial activity through PBP2 [8]. PBP2 is an especially attractive target in Gram-negative pathogens due to its essential role in cell wall integrity and is present in relatively low copies relative to other PBPs. As a result, even modest disruptions of PBP2 molecules can destabilize the cell wall leading the rod-shaped morphology of gram-negative bacteria to develop fragile, lysis-prone spheroplasts. Therefore, by destabilizing the cell wall, alternative mechanisms of resistance like effiux pumps and impermeable porin channels may become dismantled as well [9].

Second generation DBO’s like durlobactam have demonstrated this effect even with modest PBP2 binding affinity against Enterobacterales [10]. Indeed, durlobactam has demonstrated in vitro activity among 5 NDM-producing E. coli harboring PBP3 alterations with reduced susceptibility to IDSA’s preferred MBL treatment options ceftazidime-avibactam plus aztreonam and cefiderocol [11]. The second generation DBO’s have unlocked a new frontier in what is unraveling as a multi-pronged approach to the treatment of carbapenem resistant gram-negative infections.

Another second generation DBO, zidebactam, has been combined with cefepime and was recently FDA approved under the brand name Zaynich for complicated urinary tract infections [12]. Zaynich has also shown favorable outcomes in compassionate use cases as rescue therapy for carbapenem resistant therapies without alternative treatment options available [13,14]. Rather than functioning solely as a β-lactamase inhibitor, zidebactam has been described as a β-lactam enhancer with high binding affinity to PBP2, while cefepime, like other cephalosporins, targets PBP1 and PBP3. Together, this multi PBP strategy produces synergistic bactericidal activity against a broad spectrum of gram-negative pathogens, including MBL producing organisms. Early compassionate use data suggests that this approach may retain activity even when IDSA preferred treatment options fail.

Even with these latest novel advances, the field still lacks a true “empiric umbrella” antibiotic capable of reliably covering all carbapenem-resistant Gram-negative pathogens. The emergence of cefiderocol resistance with CirA disruptions among NDM-5-producing ST147 K. pneumoniae reinforces that no antibiotic is immune to bacterial adaptation. Clinicians continue to face difficult decisions when treating patients with prior MDR infections, prolonged healthcare exposures, chronic dialysis dependence, or recurrent antibiotic exposure. For these patients, access to rapid diagnostics, thoughtful stewardship, and familiarity with emerging treatment options will remain essential to getting the right antibiotic on board early.

Disclosures

E.K. has received honoraria for participation in speaker bureau and advisory board activities for Shionogi and is currently employed by Wockhardt USA as a Medical Science Liaison.

References

  1. Beta-Lactamase DataBase (BLDB). Structure and Function. Updated April 6, 2026. Accessed July 16, Available at: http://www.bldb.eu/
  2. Zasowski EJ, Bassetti M, Blasi F, et al. (2020) A systematic review of the effect of delayed appropriate antibiotic treatment on the outcomes of patients with severe bacterial Chest 158: 929-938.
  3. Heil EP, Tamma PD (2021) Cefiderocol: the Trojan horse has arrived but will Troy fall? Lancet Infect Dis 21: 153-155.
  4. Potter MH, Askar W, Gomez-Abundis GF, Carpenter K, Kobic E (2026) NDM-5 and siderophore receptor mutations drive high-level cefiderocol resistance in Klebsiella pneumoniae: a case Infection 54: 533-538.
  5. Shionogi & , Ltd. Shionogi Further Extends Infectious Disease Innovation Platform with Planned Acquisition of Qpex Biopharma, Inc. Published June 26, 2023. Accessed July 17, 2026.
  6. Compain F, Arthur M (2017) Impaired Inhibition by Avibactam and Resistance to the Ceftazidime-Avibactam Combination Due to the D179Y Substitution in the KPC-2 β-Lactamase. Antimicrobial Agents and Chemotherapy 61: e00451-17. [crossref]
  7. Lomovskaya O, Tsivkovski R, Totrov M, Dressel D, Castanheira M, et (2023) New boronate drugs and evolving NDM-mediated beta-lactam resistance. Antimicrob Agents Chemother 67: e00579-23.
  8. Morinaka A, Tsutsumi Y, Yamada M, et (2015) OP0595, a new diazabicyclooctane: mode of action as a serine β-lactamase inhibitor, antibiotic and β-lactam ‘enhancer’. J Antimicrob Chemother 70: 2779-2786.
  9. Ogura T, Bouloc P, Niki H, D’Ari R (1989) Penicillin-binding protein 2 is essential in Escherichia coli for long-term maintenance of cell shape and envelope integrity. J Bacteriol 171: 3025-3030.
  10. Durand-Réville TF, Miller AA, O’Donnell JP, et (2017) ETX2514 is a broad-spectrum β-lactamase inhibitor for the treatment of drug-resistant Gram-negative bacteria including Acinetobacter baumannii. ACS Infect Dis 3: 852-863.
  11. Aitken SL, Pierce VM, Pogue JM, Kline EG, Tverdek FP, et (2024) The growing threat of NDM-producing Escherichia coli with penicillin-binding protein 3 mutations in the United States: is there a potential role for durlobactam? Clin Infect Dis 79: 834-837. [crossref]
  12. Wockhardt Ltd. Wockhardt receives U.S. FDA approval for ZAYNICH™ (cefepime and zidebactam), a novel intravenous antibiotic for the treatment of adult patients with complicated urinary tract infection including pyelonephritis [Internet]. Mumbai and Short Hills (NJ): Wockhardt Ltd; 2026 May 30 [cited 2026 Jul 17]. Available from: https://www.wockhardt.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/wockhardt-zaynich-fda-approval-press-release.pdf.
  13. Tsai S, Nigo M, Kang D, Baptista RP, Tamma PD, et al. (2024) Cefepime-zidebactam therapy for extensively drug-resistant Pseudomonas aeruginosa and Klebsiella pneumoniae infection as a bridge to liver JAC Antimicrob Resist 6: dlae156.
  14. Tirlangi PK, Wanve BS, Dubbudu RR, Yadav BS, Kumar LS, et al. (2023) Successful use of cefepime-zidebactam (WCK 5222) as a salvage therapy for the treatment of disseminated extensively drug-resistant New Delhi metallo-β-lactamase-producing Pseudomonas aeruginosa infection in an adult patient with acute T-cell Antimicrob Agents Chemother 67: e00500-23.

Preliminary Raman Evidence for Boron-Rich Al–B–C Phases in Natural Topaz from Schneckenstein/Vogtland, Germany

DOI: 10.31038/GEMS.2026861

Abstract

Natural topaz crystals from the Schneckenstein deposit, Vogtland, Germany, were examined by optical microscopy and low-power Raman spectroscopy to characterize rare colorless spherical inclusions associated with previously reported diamond-bearing topaz. The inclusions, commonly up to about 25 µm in diameter and including smaller examples near 5 µm, occur within the topaz matrix and are therefore unlikely to represent surface contamination. Raman spectra obtained at low laser power show a characteristic band near 471 cm-1, together with additional bands that are broadly consistent with boron-rich phases or boron-bearing Al–B–C microdomains. Spectral similarities are noted with rhombohedral boron, AlB12-type compounds, and boron carbide components, but these assignments remain tentative because several possible phases have overlapping Raman features. Bands near 1331–1332 cm-1 and around 1450 cm-1 may indicate boron-doped diamond or related carbon-bearing phases, although alternative interpretations cannot yet be excluded. The unexpected optical transparency of the inclusions, possible pressure-related band shifts, and the use of Raman spectroscopy as the principal method make the phase identification preliminary. Overall, the observations provide preliminary Raman evidence for unusual boron-rich Al–B–C microphases in Schneckenstein topaz and may be compatible with high-pressure processes and transport by supercritical fluids or melts during Variscan mineralization. Confirmation by complementary structural and chemical methods remains essential

Keywords

Topaz, Schneckenstein, Vogtland, Raman spectroscopy, Boron-rich inclusions, Rhombohedral boron, AlB12, Boron carbide, Boron-doped diamond, High-pressure mineralization, Supercritical fluids.

Summary

In summary, the Schneckenstein topaz contains rare, water-clear spherical inclusions whose Raman spectra indicate a complex association of boron-rich phases, possible AlB12-type components, boron carbide, and boron-doped diamond. Their occurrence within unprepared natural topaz excludes preparation-related contamination and points to an unusually high-pressure mineral assemblage preserved in the topaz matrix. Although the phase assignments remain provisional, the observations strengthen the interpretation that supercritical fluids or melts played an important role in transporting mantle-derived or ultrahigh-pressure components into the Variscan crustal mineralization system.

Introduction

The Schneckenstein deposit in Vogtland, Germany, is a classical occurrence of natural topaz and has long attracted mineralogical interest because of the quality, transparency, and unusual inclusion inventory of its crystals [1,2]. Earlier work on Schneckenstein topaz included determinations of the fluorine content and studies of fluid inclusions, which revealed boric-acid-rich fluids and provided evidence for complex postmagmatic processes during Variscan mineralization [3]. Recent Raman spectroscopic investigations have expanded this picture by reporting micrometer-sized spherical diamond crystals in Schneckenstein topaz (see Table 1 ), together with additional high-pressure or high-temperature mineral relics [4]. Ti-rich topaz relics with the idealized composition Al2(TiO4)F2 were also described and interpreted as possible indicators of unusual formation conditions. These observations suggest that Schneckenstein topaz may preserve a more complex inclusion assemblage than previously recognized, although the pressure–temperature significance of individual phases remains to be tested carefully. During further microscopic screening of natural, unprepared topaz cleavages, rare water-clear spherical inclusions were observed that differ from diamond in their Raman spectra. The present contribution focuses on these inclusions. Using optical microscopy and low-power Raman spectroscopy, the study documents their occurrence, compares their spectra with reference data for boron-rich phases, and evaluates whether they may represent unusual boron-bearing Al–B–C microphases preserved in the topaz matrix.

Table 1: Results of the Raman measurement in the first-order range of diamond from Schneckenstein [4].

Diamond

FWHM G-band FWHM n

Topaz from Schneckenstein

1326.6 ± 4.2 cm-1

41.6 ± 25.4 cm-1 1597.3 ± 2.8 cm-1 61.2 ± 3.5 cm-1 14
1304.2 ± 1.9 cm-1 22.7 ± 1.7 cm-1 not present

7

FWHM – Full Width at Half Maximum. n – number of measured crystals.

Sample Material

The Schneckenstein topaz samples were collected during a visit to Schneckenstein in October 1960, together with Peter Haupt. In this study, only centimeter-sized natural crystal cleavages, generally perpendicular to the c-axis, were used (Figure 1). Descriptions of the Schneckenstein occurrence are given by Rösler et al. (1968) [1] and Lahl (2012) [2]. The general appearance of the free topaz crystals is shown in Figure 1.

Figure 1: Topaz crystals from Schneckenstein. The Petri dish has a lower diameter of 9 cm. Most specimens have crystal cleavages perpendicular to the c-axis.

A typical Raman spectrum of topaz from Schneckenstein is shown in Figure 2. According to Thomas (2026a [6], 2026b [4], the topaz from Schneckenstein contains 19.26 ± 0.74.% F; earlier measurements yielded 19.15 ± 0.14 % F (Thomas 1982) [3]. The notation % F means [% (g/g)], because wt.% is not a correct and allowed unit (IUPAC 1988), see Ebel et al. (2004) [5]. The Schneckenstein samples are ideal for optical measurements and the study of diamonds, as no preparation is required. Therefore, we can exclude contamination from diamond-bearing tools.

Figure 2: Typical Raman spectrum of topaz from Schneckenstein (532 nm laser, 0.9 mW on sample).

The topaz crystals are generally wine-yellow and water-clear. Only a few crystals contain visible black spots, mostly composed of rutile. The topaz is also rich in fluid inclusions, with homogenization temperatures of 407 ± 25°C (n = 54) and critical behavior [3]. The fluid inclusions are rich in boric acid and are arranged along planes perpendicular to the c-axis. Based on their overall character, they are interpreted as secondary inclusions.

Figure 2 shows a typical Raman spectrum of topaz from Schneckenstein, obtained with the 532 nm laser and a typical sample power of 0.9 mW.

A strong triplet characterizes the Raman spectrum of topaz at approximately 239, 267, and 285 cm-1, and by a medium-intensity band at 923 cm-1. This topaz triplet overlaps with the low-frequency Raman range studied for the inclusions.

Microscopy and Raman Spectroscopy: Methodology

Preliminary studies of the samples were performed with a Zeiss JENALAP pol equipped with a universal stage UT 124 and various compensators (Brace-Köhler and Ehringhaus). We performed all microscopic and Raman spectroscopic studies with a petrographic polarization microscope (BX 43) with a rotating stage coupled with the EnSpectr Raman spectrometer R532 (Enhanced Spectrometry, Inc., Mountain View, CA, USA) in reflection and transmission. We used Raman spectroscopy as the main tool for characterizing the inclusion crystals (diamond, DLC, graphite, carbon), as well as the newly identified boron-bearing phases. The Raman data presented here were acquired using an EnSpectr Raman microscope (RamMics R532). Measurements covered the spectral range from 0 to 4000 cm⁻¹ and were conducted with a single-mode 532 nm laser operating at a maximum output of 50 mW. Analytical settings included a 20 µm entrance aperture, a holographic grating of 1800 g mm⁻¹, and a spectral resolution of approximately 4 cm⁻¹ (generally for the whole range). For most analyses, a long-working-distance Olympus LMPlanFL 100× objective is used. Laser power at the sample surface was continuously adjustable down to 0.02 mW. Higher powers (up to 50 mW) were applied only for overview measurements. Generally, for all Raman measurements during this study, we used 0.9 mW of the 532nm laser on the sample over the whole range (0-4000 cm-1) to prevent local heating, which is particularly critical for boron solids. Raman band positions were calibrated before and after each measurement series using the Si band of a semiconductor-grade single-crystal silicon chip. Based on 20 repeated measurements, run-to-run reproducibility was ± 0.2 cm⁻¹ for silicon (520.2 ± 0.2 cm⁻¹) in the measuring range 100 to 1450 cm-1. As a second reference, we used a water-clear diamond crystal from Brazil. For the first order diamond line, we obtained (1330.1 ± 0.6) cm-1 with a FWHM = 5.1 ± 0.1 cm-1. FWHM stands for Full Width at Half Maximum.

Attention: High Risk of Thermal Phase Alteration

The green lasers possess high energy density and are highly absorbed by dark, ceramic phases like B4C and α-AlB12 or sp2-rich

DLC:

  • Laser-Induced Oxidation: If the laser power is set too high (typically above 5–10 mW at the sample surface), the localized focal spot can rapidly heat up in That converts the sample into B2O3or α-Al2O3 right under the beam.
  • Spectral evidence of burning: The sudden, irreversible emergence of sharp peaks at 378 and 418 cm-1(α-Al2O3) or the widening of the boron peaks mid-scan indicate that the laser power is too high.
  • Fix: Drop the laser power down to 1–2 mW and use longer acquisition times to collect a clean spectrum Therefore, we generally use a laser power of 0.9 mW on the sample.

For example, the fingerprint Raman line at 471.5 cm-1 (0.9 mW) shifts to 477.6 cm-1 at 30 mW and to 477.8 cm-1 at 50 mW; at 50 mW, the characteristic lines of α-Al2O3 at 377.4 and 419.5 cm-1 appear.

Results

Careful screening of the topaz crystals revealed, in addition to spherical diamond crystals, colorless spherical crystals that differ strongly from diamond by Raman spectroscopy. Figure 3 shows a typical crystal. Such large inclusions, about 25 µm in diameter, are rare; smaller ones are relatively widespread. The inset in Figure 3 shows a small inclusion (5 µm) not much wider than the large one, with the same Raman characteristics as the larger one.

Figure 3: Inclusion in topaz. The inclusion is covered by a thin topaz (Toz) layer (36 µm thick). The inserted figure on the left shows the same inclusion, and the smaller one (13 µm depth) on the top left is more typical.

The depth in the topaz matrix shows clearly that the spherical crystals are not surface contamination.

Figure 4 shows the Raman spectrum of an inclusion part not covered with a topaz layer (this inclusion lies directly on the surface.

Figure 4: Overall view of the Raman spectrum of the large inclusion, similar to the crystal-like Figure 3. The Raman band between 1300 and 1500 cm-1, according to Zaitsev (2001) [9], is observed in boron-doped diamond films around the inclusion.

The Raman spectrum has, in addition to the broad and intense band under 200 cm-1 (of unclear origin), an intense Raman peak at 471.5 cm-1, which may serve as a fingerprint of β-rhobohedral boron [7]. Raman spectra from the inclusion in natural topaz from Schneckenstein show bands compatible with boron-rich Al–B or Al–B–C structures. Although a direct assignment to α-AlB12 or γ-AlB12 is not yet possible, the spectra suggest the presence of unusual boron-bearing inclusions or microphases that warrant further structural and chemical investigation. Table 2 (first column) shows the measured results for 0.9 mW laser power on the sample, compared with the data presented by Werheit et al. (2010) [7]. In Table 2, the Raman band corresponding to boron-doped diamond, indicated by the strong band at 1452.8 ± 2.5 cm-1, is not shown. The diamond line is from 10 different inclusions at 1331.2 ± 0.6 cm-1, the FWHM = 26.3 ± 4.2 cm-1. The Raman spectrum of the spherical crystal 5 is shown in Figure 5. A strong Raman fingerprint band at 471.6 cm-1 also characterizes C-doped β-rhombohedral boron. The bands at 261, 848, and 925 cm-1 belong to the topaz matrix.

Table 2: Results of the Raman measurements on 10 different spherical crystals in topaz (this work) and comparison with data from Werheit et al. (2010) [7] and Jay et al (2023) [8] for B4.3C. Data in cm-1. Laser: 532 nm, 0.9 mW on sample.

Thomas

Werheit et al. (2010) [7] and Jay et al. (2023) [8]

First-order Raman lines

α-rh. boron β-rh. boron a-AlB12 π-AlB12 B4.3C
    282    

270

297.4 ± 9.6

  309 294 294  
         

321

351.0 ± 1.6

  357 357 346  
   

376

     

  391      
431.7 ± 1.1   414 416 414

417

  456      
471.1 ± 0.9   480 472 476

477, 488

493.1 ± 9.8

494   495 495  
  527   516 516

529, 536

570.3 ± 3.2

552 565 561 562  
  589 594   578

575

607.9 ± 2.9

    615 615  
    630 632

633

 
 

    656 652
  694 685   680

699

714.2 ± 3.8

713   711 709 719
762.1 ± 1.8 750

773

     
 

778

      768
  795     805

815

   

813

  844 841
854.0 ± 4.4 873 885 866

867

 
     

905  
925.0 ± 3.6 934   927

932

 
   

987

    994
1044.3 ± 2.5     1039 1035

1042

1075.3 ± 4.6

  1097 1058 1058 1071
  1094      

1096

1114.9 ± 9.7

1125   1125 1125 1131
 

1160

       
 

1187

       
  1201   1219

1223

 

1251.1 ± 2.6

1238 1217 1248

1252

 

Second-order Raman lines

1452.8 ± 2.5

1464

       

1719

1710

       

a-rh. boron – a-rhombohedral boron, b-rh. boron – b-rhombohedral boron, α-AlB12 and π-AlB12 – two different crystal modifications of aluminumdodecaboride (AlB12), and B4.3C – boron carbide.

Figure 5: Raman spectrum of spherical crystal 5. The bands around 261 cm-1 are due to the matrix topaz. The strong band at 471.6 cm-1 is the fingerprint line, possibly of the α-AlB12 molecule, and the band at 1100 cm-1 can be assigned to the β-rhombohedral boron. The Raman band at 67.8 cm-1 (about 52.5 cm-1 lower) may result from the E2g mode of hexagonal h-BN.

If we take a Raman spectrum over the range 0-200 cm-1, we observe a Raman band at 51.8 cm-1, which is well fit to the E2g interlayer mode of h-BN. The bands at 1331.8 and 1450 cm-1 are due to B-doped diamond [9]. Because the spherical crystals (inclusions) are completely transparent, it is not possible to achieve high sp2 content. Because we have found more than three such oval-to-spherical crystals in one remnant of Ti-topaz (Figure 2 in Thomas 2026b [4], we can assume that the β-rhombohedral boron is doped with Ti (see also Werheit et al. 2010) (Figures 6 and 7) [7].

Figure 6: Raman spectrum of a small (5µm) colorless inclusion in topaz, mainly composed of rhombohedral boron. The presence of a diamond (1331.2 cm-1) component is only outlined.

Figure 7: Part of the Raman spectrum (Figures 4 and 5), which, according to Zaitsev (2001) [7], is interpreted as boron-doped diamond.

Another interpretation is more probable (because no phase boundary in the inclusion can be seen): the bands at 1121, 1147, and 1249 cm-1 can be assigned to a-AlB12 (see also Table 2); the 1332.3 cm-1 band corresponds to diamond, and the 1301 cm-1 band may be attributed to cubic BC2N.

Interpretation

The interpretation is only provisional because, with Raman alone, a straightforward interpretation is difficult. A large complication is the water-clear transparency of the studied inclusions. Boron is a black semimetal. Under high pressure between 19 and 89 GPa, the B-atoms in different crystal structures can rearrange [10], which is associated with changes in the optical properties. Nearby, all aluminum borides are not transparent [11]. That is also the case for boron carbides [10]. According to the same author [10], for example, e-boron became colorless and fully optically transparent at 62 GPa. A further complication is that the Raman line positions of boron carbides shift under high pressure, not all of them reversibly. At high pressure (27–40 GPa), the crystal structure changes significantly, and the material becomes increasingly transparent. A further complication arises from the possibility of orthorhombic boron oxide [12], which shows a small number of Raman lines that coincide with those of our transparent spherical crystals. Because at room temperature complete transparent spheres with Raman lines of boron and AlB12 are present, we interpret the transparent spheres as a mixture of α- and β-rhombohedral boron with small amounts of B4.3C, which moved by supercritical fluids or melts from mantle depths into the crust. Due to the rapid transport, some high-pressure Raman signatures did not relax.

Discussion

The results are very difficult to discuss because of the straightforward classification. Interpreting the obtained Raman spectroscopic results is not straightforward. Although the spherical inclusions in topaz from Schneckenstein appear homogeneous and water-clear, this poses a significant problem for boron compounds listed in Table 2. All are at room temperature, black, metallic, or very deep red translucent. The origin of this discrepancy may be phase transitions at 27–40 GPa, associated with an increase in transparency [10]. After that, the author observed that e-boron became colorless and fully optically transparent at 62 GPa. All these observations, together with the diamond spheres, demonstrate that the topaz is not a single crustal formation. The participation of mantle components via supercritical fluids (SCF) or supercritical melts (SCM) is necessary. The study of the Schneckenstein topaz shows that during the Variscan period, SCF and/or SCM contributed to mineralization to a greater extent than expected. The author has, in the last four years, shown many examples that proof there influence on the ore deposits [13-20], and references in it. Furthermore, the Schneckenstein topaz is not the only host for such spherical boron minerals. Figure 8 shows a similar Raman spectrum from an inclusion in cassiterite (Sn-58, Magdalena vein, Sauberg mine, Ehrenfriedersdorf; Sn-70; Sn-81) – see Thomas, 1982. Other cassiterites with orthorhombic cassiterite spheres (CaCl2-and cotunnite-types) often contain such B-inclusions, for example, in cassiterite (Sn-70; Thomas, 2024) [21-26]. Also, the cassiterite from Zinnwald contains rhombohedral boron spheres beside diamond, graphite, orthorhombic cassiterites and coesite.

Figure 8: Raman spectrum of a spherical boron mineral mixture in cassiterite from Ehrenfriedersdorf (Sn-58).

Generally, such boron spheres in the Variscan topaz and cassiterites are not rare. By careful screening, such boron minerals cannot be overlooked and demonstrate that the interaction between mantle domains and crust via SCF and/or SCM is a common process that must be borne in mind in any genetic discussion of the Variscan tin and related deposits. These observations are consistent with the preservation of unusual boron-rich Al–B–C microphases in Schneckenstein topaz and may point to high-pressure processes and transport by supercritical fluids or melts during Variscan mineralization; however, confirmation by complementary structural and chemical methods remains essential.

Acknowledgment

I thank all my colleagues with whom I could discuss the problems of interaction between SCF and SCM from the mantle region into the crust.

References

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  13. Thomas R (2026) Diamond in pycnite-rock from Altenberg and in the topaz from the famous Schneckenstein Geol Earth Mar Sci 8: 1-7.
  14. Thomas R, Rericha A (2025) Strong isotope fractionation between 13C and 12C in the supercritical fluids related to the Variscan mineralizations in Erzgebirge, Slavkovsky Les (Kaiserwald), and Lusatian Mountains, Germany, and the Czech Republic and some remarks on the low-pressure formation of diamond. Geol Earth Mar Sci 5: 1-5.
  15. Thomas R, Davidson P, Rericha A, Recknagel U (2022a) Water-rich coesite in prismatine-granulite from Waldheim/Saxony. Veröffentlichungen Museum für Naturkunde Chemnitz 45: 67-80.
  16. Thomas R, Davidson P, Rericha A, Recknagel U (2022b) Discovery of stishovite in the prismatine-bearing granulite from Waldheim, Germany: A possible role of supercritical fluids of ultrahigh-pressure origin. Geoscience 12: 1-13.
  17. Thomas R, Davidson P, Rericha A, Recknagel U (2023a) Ultrahigh-pressure mineral inclusions in a crustal granite: Evidence for a novel transcrustal transport mechanism. Geoscience 94: 1-13.
  18. Thomas R, Recknagel U, Rericha A (2023b) A moissanite-diamond-graphite paragenesis in a small beryl-quartz vein related to the Varsican tin-mineralization of the Ehrenfriedersdorf deposit, Aspects in Mining & Mineral Science 11: 1310-1319.
  19. Thomas R (2023a) Growth of SiC whiskers in beryl by a natural supercritical VLS Aspects in Mining & Mineral Science 11: 1292-1297.
  20. Thomas R (2023b) Unusual cassiterite mineralization, related to the Variscan tin-mineralization of the Ehrenfriedersdorf deposit, Aspects in Mining & Mineral Sciences 11: 1233-1236.
  21. Thomas R (2024) The CaCl2 to rutile phase transition in SnO2 from high to low pressure in Geol Earth Mar Sci 6: 1-4.
  22. Hubble OHW, Kudryashov I, Solozhenko VL, Zinin PV, Sharma SK, Ming LC (2004) Raman studies of cubic BC2N, a new superhard phase. Journal of Raman Spectroscopy 35: 822-825.
  23. Thomas R (2024a) The CaCl2-to-rutile phase transition in SnO2 from high to low pressure in Geol Earth Mar Sci 6: 1-4.
  24. Thomas R (2024b) Rhomboedric cassiterite as inclusions in tetragonal cassiterite from Slavkovský les – North Bohemia (Czech Republic). Earth Mar Sci 6: 1-6.
  25. Thomas R (2025a) Extremely 13C-rich diamond in orthorhombic cassiterites in the Variscan Erzgebirge, Saxony/Germany. Earth Mar Sci 7: 1-5.
  26. Thomas R (2025b) Diamond, diamond whisker, graphite, carbon, and coesite in a quartz crystal from Zinnwald, E-Erzgebirge. Geol Earth Mar Sci 7: 1-6.