The Floor Is My Bed—and My Reminder

A few years ago, I would’ve said you were crazy.

Back then, I had eight inches of memory foam between me and the earth. I thought I was doing something good for my body—investing in sleep, like they say, mattress jingles lulling me to sleep. But every morning I’d wake up stiff, foggy, and somehow still tired. I've come to realize it wasn’t just the mattress. It was the whole philosophy of comfort we’ve been sold.

These days, my wife and I sleep on the floor.

Not directly on the wood or laminate, but on a thin tatami mat—just enough to keep us off the cold. Oh, and we don't use pillows either.

And every night as I lie down, there’s no mistaking it: this is hard. Not just firm. Hard. And that’s the point.

I didn’t jump straight from memory foam to bare floor. It was a progression. Eight inches. Then three. Then one and a half. Then one. At some point, even that inch felt like too much.

Part of the reason for the switch was the pain. I kept waking up sore—not the kind of sore that comes from a good workout, but the kind that says something’s out of alignment. And part of it was just… curiosity. I’ve always questioned things that the majority accepts as given.

And when you zoom out, you realize we’ve only been living this “modern” way for a tiny fraction of human history—soft beds, ergonomic chairs, climate control, processed everything. And yet, somehow, it’s in this same window that we’ve become chronically ill, anxious, misaligned.

I remember lying there one morning, stiff from sleep and wondering: What if it’s not my body that’s broken? What if it’s the furniture?

That thought cracked something open in me.

You can ask my wife—she’s the one who ultimately said it was time to get the tatami, and that the 1-inch pad was too thick. Thanks, darling.

It’s how I approach a lot of life now—nothing is above reproach. Not even how we sleep. The world taught me to aim for maximum comfort. But the Spirit keeps whispering, What if that’s not the goal?

Jesus never promised comfort. He promised a cross.

And we’re not living in neutral territory—we’re in a war. A real one. Against a real spiritual enemy who would love nothing more than for us to stay weak, sleepy, misaligned, and dulled by luxury. What if the plush, perfect sleep the culture sells us is part of the plan? Not to bless us—but to break us slowly. To keep us tired in body and foggy in spirit. To numb the edge of discernment. To flatten our faith.

And what if, by choosing the hard way—even in something as small as sleep—we start pushing back?

Did Jesus sleep on the ground? Probably.

No pillow-top. No posturepedic. Just dust and cloak and stars.

You might think to yourself, Sure… but Jesus also walked everywhere. Should I sell my car and start walking too, Cameron?

That’s not what I’m saying.
But I do see your point.

What I would ask you is this: Where do you sleep?
Because every single one of us sleeps. In the same place. For the same amount of time. Every day. It’s the most consistent habit we have.

And yet we rarely question it.

You don’t get to the morning any faster on something plush. A softer bed doesn’t make time speed up. It just adds layers between your body and the earth God formed you from. And in my experience, those layers do more for the ego than they do for your well-being.

Now, sure—if you walked everywhere, that would absolutely be humbling. But it would affect your entire life. Your commute. Your job. Your safety. Especially if you live out in the country, like I do.

But sleeping on the floor? That only changes one thing:
Your posture.
And the part of you that protests most is usually the ego.

Here’s why I think it matters.

There’s a principle called the 80/20 rule. It’s used in business, health, productivity—you name it. The idea is that 80% of your results come from just 20% of your actions. A small hinge swings a big door. A little shift—done consistently—has the power to transform nearly everything else.

For me, sleeping humbly is that 20%.

It shapes how I wake up. How I think. How I pray. It reminds me who I am before God—and who I’m not. It’s one of the few times I choose discomfort not because I have to, but because I want to align myself with something deeper than culture’s expectations.

It’s one thing to talk about humility in theory. But when you actually put your body on the ground, night after night—it becomes real.

The other night, still sleeping on cardboard—just a few layers thick (our tatami was in the mail, but we couldn't stay on the plush pad any longer)—my wife turned to me in the dark and whispered, “I’ve never felt so stable. So close to God.”

And I knew exactly what she meant.

That makeshift bed, in a quiet room, came during a season when everything in our life was being stripped down. And I remember lying there, thinking—this is closer to the ground than I’ve ever been. And strangely… closer to Jesus too.

I’m blessed beyond words to share this with a wife who sees it the same way I do. We didn’t drag each other into this—it was mutual. Organic. Both of us pulling in the same direction, toward the hard surface. Some people think it’s weird. But Jesus doesn’t.

That’s the part no company advertises—because there's no money to be made. The blessing of lack. The alignment of simplicity. The grace that waits not in a spa, but in the silence of a hard floor and an honest heart.

Sleeping this way has changed more than my back. It’s changed my mornings. I don’t roll around. I don’t press snooze. I just rise—because there’s nothing soft holding me back. It’s become a small but sacred act of remembering: I’m not here to chase ease. I’m here to walk upright. Awake.

There’s something spiritual about choosing a harder way, even when you don’t have to. Every night, I lower myself. I humble myself. And every morning, I rise. Not metaphorically. Physically. Intentionally. Slowly.

It reminds me where I came from.
And who I follow.

We were made from the dust.
And sometimes the dust is the only place quiet enough to hear God speak.

The culture tells us to pile on—more comfort, more luxury, more layers. But the kingdom calls us downward. Down into the manger. Down into the dirt. Down where we’re not in control anymore.

But of course, accepting to live simply means you have to face the uncomfortable truths within yourself. You can't ignore them anymore if you have nothing to distract yourself with. But that's a conversation for another day.

I’m not here to tell you to ditch your mattress. That’s not the point.

But maybe, just maybe, the ground has something to teach us.

Sleeping humbly on the floor has rewired something in me. It’s made me more grateful for everything else. A warm bowl of food. A quiet morning. A roof overhead. I don’t take these things for granted the way I used to.

The ground reminds me that I’m not here to indulge. I’m here to carry a cross. To embody Christ in every waking breath. Not just with words, but with my posture. My choices. My rhythms.

And somehow, lying low each night, I feel lifted.
Not by comfort—but by conviction.

So, do you think our pursuit of comfort is quietly shaping the way we live—and rise?