I’ll never forget the day I moved into my first “proper” London flat after university. Calling it small would’ve been the understatement of the century. At just under 380 square feet (or 35 square meters if you’re fancy), it was essentially a glorified shoebox with impossibly high rent that somehow managed to accommodate a bedroom area, living space, kitchen, and bathroom. Standing in the center, I could literally touch opposite walls with my arms outstretched. My mum took one look at it and said, “Well, darling, at least you won’t need to spend much on the hoover.”
She wasn’t wrong, but that tiny space taught me more about how to live meaningfully than any larger home ever could. It forced me to make decisions—proper, intentional decisions—about what actually deserved to take up the precious little room I had.
I’d always considered myself reasonably tidy, but this flat demanded a completely different approach. It wasn’t just about being organized; it was about being ruthlessly selective. Each item had to earn its place through regular use or significant meaning. There simply wasn’t room for anything else.
The first few months were a disaster, if I’m being honest. I tried cramming in everything from my previous shared house—the full-sized desk, the armchair I’d found at a charity shop, the collection of houseplants that had somehow multiplied like rabbits. The result was a claustrophobic mess where I’d bang my shins on something every time I turned around.
“This is bloody ridiculous,” I muttered one Saturday morning after knocking over a stack of books for the third time that week. Something had to give.
That afternoon, I hauled three bags of clothes to the donation bin, sold my beloved but massive desk on Facebook Marketplace, and gave half my plants to a neighbor. It was painful, yeah, but what happened next surprised me. I felt lighter. I could breathe. And most importantly, I could actually use my space rather than just navigate around piles of stuff.
This was my accidental introduction to what I now understand as functional minimalism. Not the sparse, cold aesthetic you see in design magazines with their empty white rooms and single artfully placed vase, but a practical approach that prioritizes how spaces work over how much they contain.
Over the next two years in that tiny flat, I developed strategies through sheer necessity that I still use today, even though I’ve since upgraded to a marginally larger space (I can now stretch out my arms without touching walls—progress!).
First off, I learned that in small spaces, everything—and I do mean everything—needs to earn its keep through multiple functions. My coffee table had storage inside. My sofa converted to a bed when friends visited. Even my cutting board doubled as a serving tray when I entertained. Multi-functionality became my religion.
I remember my dad coming to visit and asking where I kept my ironing board. I pointed to my dining table, which had a heat-resistant top that worked perfectly for ironing. He looked at me like I had two heads, but eventually nodded approvingly. “Clever girl.”
The vertical space in small flats is criminally underutilized, I discovered. When you can’t go out, go up! I installed floating shelves near the ceiling in every room, which stored items I needed but didn’t use daily. Seasonal clothes, extra bedding, those kinds of things. The wall space behind my door held hooks for jackets, bags, and an over-door shoe organizer that, controversially, I used to store cleaning supplies and toiletries. Not pretty, perhaps, but effective.
Speaking of pretty—I found that in tight quarters, visual clutter is just as problematic as physical clutter. My brain couldn’t relax when everywhere I looked was… stuff. So I invested in matching storage boxes, decanted pantry items into uniform containers, and kept surfaces as clear as possible. It wasn’t about having less necessarily, but about seeing less.
The kitchen presented particular challenges. I love cooking (therapy without the hourly rate, innit?), but my kitchen was essentially a wall with about two feet of counter space. Hanging pots and utensils saved precious drawer space. A magnetic knife strip eliminated the need for a knife block. I installed a fold-down countertop extension that I could put up when cooking and fold away when done.
The hardest thing to accept was that certain activities just needed rotation rather than dedicated space. I enjoy painting, but there was no room for an easel to remain permanently set up. So I created a “painting kit” in a plastic tub that I could quickly take out when inspiration struck, and tuck away when I needed the space for something else.
Digital minimalism became an unexpected ally. I scanned old photos and documents, reducing boxes of memories to a hard drive. I ripped my CD collection (showing my age here) and donated the physical discs. My bookshelves were subject to brutal culling—if I hadn’t read it in a year and it wasn’t a particular favorite, out it went. Now I use the library extensively and only buy books I know I’ll revisit.
The bathroom was another challenge entirely. With literally just enough room to turn around, storage was non-existent. I hung a shower caddy, installed narrow shelving in an unused corner, and discovered the miracle that is Japanese-style skincare—small, concentrated products that take up minimal space while delivering maximum results.
The most counterintuitive lesson was that sometimes, one larger, well-chosen piece of furniture works better than several smaller ones. My initial instinct to fit in lots of small storage units created a visually chaotic space that actually felt smaller. Replacing three small bookcases with one wall-spanning unit gave me more storage and made the room feel larger and more cohesive.
Colour played a surprising role too. While I never embraced the all-white minimalist aesthetic (I’m far too messy for that level of commitment), I did find that limiting my color palette made the space feel less cluttered and more intentional. I chose blues and greens—colours that made me happy—and allowed those to dominate, with white serving as a canvas to prevent overwhelm.
The most important thing I learned, though, wasn’t about clever storage solutions or multipurpose furniture. It was about reimagining my relationship with stuff altogether. Each purchase became a carefully considered decision, not just about whether I could afford it, but whether I could afford the space it would occupy.
“Do I need this?” transformed into “Does this deserve the space it will take?” followed by “Could something I already own serve this purpose?” I became adept at finding alternatives to new purchases—a skill that saved both space and money.
This approach doesn’t mean living without comforts or beauty. In fact, the opposite is true. When you’re selective about what occupies your space, you can invest in higher quality items that truly enhance your daily experience. My splurge-worthy coffee machine takes up precious counter space, but the daily joy it brings me makes that space well allocated. The art pieces I’ve kept are ones that genuinely move me, not just fillers for empty walls.
Friends sometimes describe my approach as minimalist, but that’s not quite right. Functional minimalism isn’t about owning as little as possible—it’s about making sure everything you own serves a purpose, whether practical, emotional, or preferably both. It’s minimalism with breathing room for real life.
The irony is that many of these strategies work brilliantly in larger spaces too. My friend Sarah, who lives in a three-bedroom house in Manchester, adopted several of my small-space solutions and found they made her home more functional and peaceful as well. The principles of intentionality and purpose transcend square footage.
Five years on from that tiny first flat, I’m still ruthless about what comes into my home. Before buying anything, I consider where it will live, what problem it solves, and whether that problem could be solved by something I already own. I ask if it’s worth the space it will occupy—not just physically, but mentally. Because that’s the hidden benefit of functional minimalism: when your space works better, your mind often does too.
Some people find this approach too restrictive, and I get that. There’s a certain privilege in having space to spare, in not having to think about every square inch. But I’ve found that even with more room now, I prefer the lightness that comes with owning less but loving what I own more.
My mum, visiting my current flat last month, looked around approvingly. “You’ve still got your knack for making small spaces work,” she said. I smiled, knowing that what started as necessity has become choice. “It’s not about making do with less,” I told her. “It’s about making more with what matters.”
And in a world constantly telling us we need more, bigger, better, newer—that might be the most radical approach of all.
