CM NEWS

Building a home is rarely just about the architecture; for me, it has been a quiet, six-month-long dialogue between my dreams and the reality of a 42-square-meter brick box. When I first walked into this Melbourne apartment, it was “drab”—suffocated by landlord-gray carpets and uninspired oyster lights. Yet, I could see its “good bones” beneath the surface, waiting for a bit of light and a lot of soul.

My creative process began not with a sledgehammer, but with a Pinterest board and a “can-do” attitude. I wanted to prove that a limited budget of $22,000 didn’t have to mean a limited imagination. To make it work, I embraced the circular economy, scouring Facebook Marketplace for treasures that carried their own histories: a round Tulip dining table, a vintage fridge, and a fluted glass door that I feared might shatter my dreams if my drill slipped just an inch

There is a profound emotional depth in the “invisible” parts of a home. I chose to spend nearly a third of my budget—about $7,000—on insulation and replastering. Most people focus on the curtains, but I focused on the “pink bats” in the ceiling and the k17 boards on the walls. To me, true comfort is the apartment holding a steady 20°C even when the world outside is screaming with heat. It is the tactile warmth of cork flooring, a natural, regenerative material that feels like an acoustic embrace under my feet.

Aesthetically, I found my voice in the kitchen. I used Ikea frames but elevated them with premium birch plywood fronts, stained in a soft, “pistachio green”. The benchtop, made of reclaimed timber from Urban Salvage, felt like a bridge to the past. Every time I look at it, I remember the fear of cutting the holes for the sink—the “measure twice, cut once” mantra ringing in my ears.

I’ve learned that a home should be a gallery of one’s life. Instead of a bulky TV, I chose a ceiling-mounted projector to keep the space open. On my shelf, the Samsung Music Frame acts as a heartbeat; it’s a premium speaker that looks like a minimalist frame, allowing me to swap a photo of a bee for a memory of New York whenever my mood shifts. It’s an innovative blend of style and sound that makes the space feel personal and “tailor-made”.

The most emotional part of this journey was the help I received. My 70-year-old father came down to help with the waterproofing and tiling—a gift of “unpaid labor” that I’ll never be able to truly repay. As I look around, I see the small imperfections: a tiny dent in a tap, a smear of paint on a handle I haven’t cleaned off yet. But these flaws are what make it real.

I realized through this process that I am not a perfectionist. I was happy to reach “95%” and simply “send it”. My home is a living, breathing project—a place where my Italian homework sits on a desk made from a chopped-up old door, and where every corner tells the story of who I am and who I am becoming.
Renovating a small space is like composing a poem: you have to make every single word—or in this case, every square inch—count, ensuring that what remains is nothing but the essential truth of how you want to live.