Latest / Style Project: Skincare, confidence & wellness / Creating a Sanctuary Space Within a Small Apartment | Style Project
Transcript
- You know that feeling when you walk through your front door and the weight of the entire world just crashes onto your shoulders? Let’s be real for a second—it doesn’t have to be that way, even if your living room is barely big enough to turn around in. I want you to take a deep breath right now. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Good. Now, imagine you are standing at your own front door. You just got home. Maybe it was a long day at work, maybe it was a day filled with difficult conversations, or maybe it was just one of those days where everything felt slightly too loud and too fast. And you reach for your keys, unlock the lock, and push the door open. What hits you first? For a lot of us, especially those of us living in cities, what hits us isn’t relief. It’s clutter. It’s the visual noise of things we haven’t put away, surfaces covered in mail, clothes draped over chairs like they’re waiting for permission to stay. That threshold moment should be the boundary between the chaos of the outside world and the calm of your inner world. But when your space feels chaotic, that boundary dissolves. You don’t get to exhale. You carry the stress from the street all the way into your bedroom, because your sanctuary has become another source of anxiety. I know this because I used to live exactly like that. When I was working in fashion, my apartment was basically a showroom for my career. Everything had to look perfect, curated, expensive. But inside? Inside, I was drowning in stuff I didn’t need. I thought more objects meant more stability. I was wrong. Stability comes from space. Not square footage, but mental space. The empty air between things. Today, I want to talk about how to find that air, even if you are renting a shoebox in Brooklyn or sharing a flat with three other people in London. You can create a sanctuary without throwing away your life or moving to a cabin in the woods. Let’s challenge a myth right here. We are told that luxury is about having lots of things. Big furniture, heavy drapes, shelves packed with books you’ve only glanced at once. But true luxury, the kind that actually heals you, is often defined by absence. It’s the absence of visual noise. It’s the quietness of a clear surface. Think about the last time you stayed in a high-end hotel. Did you notice the piles of brochures on the desk? No. You noticed the smooth wood, the soft light, the clear view. Your eyes could rest. That is what we are trying to achieve at home. It’s not about minimalism as an aesthetic trend. It’s about minimalism as a practice of care. When you clear a surface, you are giving your brain a break from processing information. Every object on your counter is a tiny demand on your attention. ‘Look at this.’ ‘Use this.’ ‘Remember this.’ When you remove them, you give yourself permission to just be. Start small. Pick one surface. A nightstand, a kitchen island, a entryway table. Clear it completely. Put everything back except three items. Three! Maybe a lamp, a glass of water, and a candle. See how different the room feels? It’s not emptiness; it’s intention. You are curating a space that serves you, not one that serves your guilt. If you feel anxious while doing this, that’s normal. Let’s sit with that anxiety for a moment. Why do we cling to things? Often, it’s because we’re holding onto versions of ourselves we used to be, or futures we think we should have reached. But your space is for who you are today. And who you are today deserves room to breathe. Now, let’s address the elephant in the room. Or rather, the lack of room in the room. If you live in a studio apartment, or a shared flat where your bedroom is also your office and your dining room, the idea of clearing the whole place might feel impossible. So, let’s shrink the goal. Let’s build a micro-sanctuary. This is a corner. Just four feet by four feet. It can be a window seat. It can be a specific chair in the corner of your living room. It can even be your bed, if you treat it as a no-work zone. The rule is simple: this spot is sacred. Nothing else happens here. You do not eat here. You do not answer emails here. You do not fold laundry here. You only exist here for rest, for reading, for dreaming. I created this after leaving the industry. My body needed to know that there was a place where I didn’t have to perform. I turned my bathroom vanity into a spa corner. Just for ten minutes a day. Soft lighting, a specific scent, no phone allowed. It became my anchor. When the world got too loud, I retreated to that vanity. I washed my face, I looked at myself, and I reminded myself that I was separate from my productivity. You can do this too. Find that corner. Declutter it fiercely. Add one thing that brings you joy—a plant, a soft throw, a piece of art that makes you smile. Make it so inviting that you actually want to go there. Because here’s the truth: if your sanctuary isn’t appealing, you won’t use it. And if you don’t use it, it doesn’t exist. It becomes just another pile of stuff. So make it irresistible. Make it the best part of your day, even if it’s just five minutes before you start your evening routine. Once you have your physical space cleared, we need to talk about atmosphere. Light is everything. Fluorescent lights are the enemy of sanctuary. They scream efficiency. They say, ‘Get to work.’ Instead, look for warmth. Warm light bulbs, dimmers, lamps with fabric shades. I’m obsessed with the idea of layering light. Don’t rely on one overhead fixture. Use floor lamps, table lamps, maybe some string lights if you’re feeling playful. Create pools of light that invite you in. Then, consider sound. In a small apartment, sound travels. You hear your neighbors, you hear traffic, you hear the fridge humming. Can you soften that? A rug helps absorb sound. Heavy curtains help too. But more importantly, introduce positive sound. A small speaker for low-volume jazz or ambient rain sounds. Or simply the sound of your own breathing. I love the ritual of lighting a candle before I sit in my micro-sanctuary. The flame is mesmerizing. It forces you to slow down. You watch it flicker, and suddenly, your mind stops racing. It’s a sensory anchor. It tells your nervous system, ‘We are safe now. We are home.’ Smell works similarly. Choose a scent that is distinctly yours. Not something generic from a mall store, but something that feels like comfort. Sandalwood, vanilla, fresh linen. Scent is directly linked to memory and emotion. When you smell it, your body relaxes before your mind even catches up. These aren’t frivolous details. They are the architecture of peace. You are building a cocoon. And every thread counts. Here is the hard part. The part that requires guts. You have to let go of things that don’t serve your sanctuary. This isn’t just about dusting off old shoes. It’s about emotional baggage disguised as objects. That shirt you haven’t worn since you were twenty-five? It’s taking up space. The gift from an ex that you keep hoping will change its meaning? It’s blocking your path. Let’s be radical about this. Your environment reflects your internal state. If you are holding onto resentment, your space will feel tight. If you are holding onto hope for a past version of yourself, your space will feel stuck. I remember donating clothes that no longer fit, and I cried. Not because I missed the clothes, but because I missed the person I thought I’d be. But keeping them didn’t bring her back. It just cluttered my closet. Releasing them made room for who I am now. Ask yourself: does this object add to my peace, or does it subtract from it? If it adds stress, if it reminds you of failure, if it’s just ‘maybe someday,’ let it go. Donate it. Trash it. Gift it. There is no shame in simplifying. In fact, it’s an act of self-respect. You are saying, ‘My peace is more important than my possessions.’ And it is. You are enough, even with fewer things. Even with empty shelves. Especially then. This isn’t about deprivation. It’s about freedom. Freedom from the burden of maintenance. Freedom from the guilt of ownership. Freedom to just exist in your space without managing it. Finally, let’s talk about maintenance. Creating a sanctuary isn’t a one-time project. It’s a daily practice. Think of it like brushing your teeth. You don’t brush once and forget it forever. You do it because you want healthy teeth. You maintain your sanctuary because you want a healthy mind. At the end of each day, spend five minutes resetting your space. Put the remote back. Fold the blanket. Wipe the counter. It takes less time than you think. And it sets the stage for tomorrow morning. Imagine waking up to a clean, calm space. No visual panic. Just soft light and clear surfaces. How would that change your day? It would lower your cortisol before you even got out of bed. It would give you a head start on feeling grounded. This is sustainable self-care. It’s not about buying a new organizer or hiring a professional stylist. It’s about showing up for your space every single day. It’s about respecting the sanctuary you’ve built. And if you slip up? If you leave dishes on the table? That’s okay. Life happens. Forgive yourself. Reset the next day. Perfection is not the goal. Presence is. You are building a relationship with your home. And like any good relationship, it requires attention, kindness, and regular check-ins. You deserve a home that loves you back. A home that holds you when you’re tired. A home that whispers, ‘You’re safe here.’ That is possible. It starts with one cleared surface. One lit candle. One deep breath. You have everything you need to begin. Right now. Wherever you are. Thank you for letting me into your space today. I’m so glad you’re here. Take care of that sanctuary. I’ll see you in the next one. Bye for now.