New York apartments are notoriously small, and my cute little

When Rachel Sklar said, “New York apartments are notoriously small, and my cute little studio is no exception — space is at a premium, which is one of the reasons that I only have a mini-fridge. Great for leftovers, cheese, and chilling Diet Coke,” she was not merely describing her home — she was revealing a truth about simplicity, contentment, and the quiet art of adaptation. Beneath her casual tone lies the spirit of one who has learned to make peace with limits, to find joy not in abundance, but in efficiency and gratitude. Her words, light as laughter, carry the weight of an ancient wisdom: that happiness is not found in how much we have, but in how gracefully we use what we have been given.

The ancients spoke often of restraint as a path to virtue. The philosopher Epicurus, though much misunderstood, taught that pleasure is most profound when born of simplicity. A cup of water after thirst, a morsel of bread after hunger — these, he said, bring more joy than any feast. Rachel Sklar’s “mini-fridge” becomes, in this light, a symbol of mindful living: a small vessel that holds enough, but not too much; a reminder that fulfillment does not grow in vastness, but in sufficiency. Her New York apartment, cramped yet beloved, mirrors the human condition itself — our finite bodies and bounded lives, within which we must learn to cultivate infinite wonder.

There is a quiet heroism in her acceptance of limitation. The modern world, ever hungry for more, urges us to expand, acquire, and fill every space with possessions. Yet in the narrow rooms of the city, as in the chambers of the heart, there is wisdom in choosing only what matters. Her joy in “leftovers, cheese, and chilling Diet Coke” reminds us that contentment need not be grand. It can be found in the cool taste of refreshment, the comfort of familiar things, the serenity of order amidst chaos. The ancients would have called this ataraxia — the untroubled mind that comes from moderation and clarity of purpose.

Consider the story of Diogenes of Sinope, the philosopher who lived in a barrel. When Alexander the Great, curious about his austerity, offered to grant him any wish, Diogenes replied simply, “Stand out of my sunlight.” He possessed nothing but freedom — freedom from excess, from desire, from dependence on things. Though Sklar’s modern life is far from the cynic’s barrel, her spirit bears a trace of the same truth: to own less is to be owned by less. Her mini-fridge, in its humble space, represents this freedom — the ability to live lightly, to thrive not by accumulation, but by discernment.

And yet, there is warmth in her words — not austerity, but affection. She calls her studio “cute,” her life “no exception,” her smallness a kind of charm. This tone is vital. For it is not through rejection of joy that one becomes wise, but through appreciation. The wise do not scorn comfort; they cherish it in measure. A piece of cheese, chilled and ready, becomes a small celebration. A can of Diet Coke, cold and waiting, becomes a companion of delight. In this, Sklar reminds us that simplicity and joy are not enemies but allies — that one can live small and still live fully.

Her reflection is also a meditation on the nature of space — not only physical, but emotional and spiritual. To live in a small apartment is to learn to prioritize, to arrange life carefully, to value what is essential. So too with the heart: when space is scarce, one must choose wisely what to keep and what to let go. Many fill their inner rooms with clutter — grudges, regrets, excess desires — until there is no room left for peace. The mini-fridge, modest and organized, becomes a metaphor for the well-kept soul: it holds what nourishes, discards what spoils, and keeps cool what brings comfort.

Let this, then, be the lesson: do not measure your life by its size, but by its savor. Embrace the small spaces, the modest tools, the quiet joys. Like Rachel Sklar, fill your world not with everything, but with what truly serves you — the essentials that feed your body and soothe your heart. Cleanse your life of excess, and you will find that within the smallest of rooms, the spirit can stretch boundlessly.

For happiness is not found in the expanse of your dwelling, but in the expansiveness of your gratitude. Whether your home is a palace or a studio, whether your fridge is vast or mini, the same truth endures: a humble life, lived with love and awareness, holds more abundance than any empire built on want. Thus, remember this ancient wisdom clothed in modern simplicity — the fullness of life is not in having more, but in needing less.