As a countdown to my 30th birthday on March 18, I’ve committed to offering 30 people, things and experiences I want to celebrate from the last 30 years. Grab a piece of cake and enjoy reading!

After leaving my grandmother’s funeral yesterday, I mostly wanted to curl up on the couch with a bottle of vino and watch Law & Order reruns. But since I don’t have cable – and therefore no 24/7 access to the series – my husband was able to convince me to hit up the gym.

My experience with sport began like it does for all kids – with trying to walk. And then run. And then by the time I was five, I was signed up for the town’s soccer team (read: running in frightened herds adjacent to the ball). Like most people who’ve played soccer for over 10 years, I have a respectable level of athleticism. I can move through a beautiful vinyasa (my apologies to those who insist that yoga is not sport); I can throw the occasional spiral; I can take down my husband in a game of racquetball; and I can hike in and out of the Grand Canyon in one day.

In looking back over the years at the benefit of sport in my life, I keep circling around variations on the same theme: I feel comfortable in my body. By which I mean I understand how my body moves, what it needs, what it’s like to move powerfully through space, what it’s like to take up space.

I may not have done much at the gym yesterday – what with my mood and a nagging pain in my right ankle. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got 25 years of athleticism behind me, reminding me to keep breathing deeply, to square my shoulders toward the direction in which I want the ball to go and, mostly, to experience the fullness of being a powerful physical presence in this world.