"Siena, are you hearing what I’m saying?" 

My daughter just stared as if she was looking through me. 

Not again. 

ARIZONA WRESTLER BECOMES FIRST GIRL TO WIN HIGH SCHOOL STATE TITLE

I hugged her and looked at her mom. We knew what was coming. Seconds later, she had a seizure. I guided her to the floor, keeping her airway clear. Parents, coaches and teammates surrounded her, blocking onlookers. 

The seizure lasted 36 seconds, with about 90 more seconds until she woke. Fully alert 15 minutes later, she had no memory of her recent North Carolina wrestling state tournament win. 

Two years ago, at this moment in the state tournament, my daughter had one of her first seizures. She had just upset a ranked opponent and needed one more win to make the podium. When she came to, she begged me and her mom to let her wrestle. We said no. 

A year later, medicated to prevent seizures but struggling with brain fog that affected her schooling, and mat performance, she placed fifth, losing matches to a two-time state champ and this year’s state champ at 114 pounds. 

Now, with better meds and having a stellar season, her only loss was to the eventual state champ, and she was fighting to the consolation finals when her seizures returned. 

I fought back tears, holding my fierce little girl, once again robbed of opportunity by something beyond her control. 

And this kid has fought. 

Siena first entered a wrestling competition in 6th grade at the Middle School State Championships. She competed in the girls and boys division so she would get the most matches possible. At that point, she had only wrestled in a class I taught at a jiujitsu school, so everyone in the tournament had more experience.  

She finished 2nd in girls and 4th in boys. After a 6-5 loss in the girls' finals, a biased referee who disagreed with her competing in the boys’ division cut her rest time before her boys' match. With only two minutes of rest, she won that match as well. 

In 7th grade, she finally was allowed to wrestle on the school team. She only lost once that year in the end-of-year tournament finals. COVID-19 took her 8th grade year. 

When she reached high school, her choices were to stop wrestling or to wrestle boys. She chose to wrestle boys. 

While several teams had girls on the team, almost none wrestled varsity, so it was a big surprise to a lot of people when she won over half her freshman matches. Her wins took a physical toll. Unlike in middle school, she was weaker in every match and had to adapt with skill, flexibility, and her strongest attribute: grit. 

Except for the rare schools that embraced girls' wrestling, for the most part, the ladies who wrestled at that time were in a similar situation to my daughter. They were in it for the love of the game. They were talked about, mocked and looked down upon. Nothing had meaningfully changed since the ’90s when I wrestled and the worst thing you could do was "lose to a girl." 

It hurt me to watch her treatment. I can only imagine how she felt. For the most part, she was stoic, wanting to be embraced by her wrestling community. I remember a rare time I saw her "competition face" break at the start of her sophomore season. We overheard the other team talking: 

"Bro, I get to wrestle the girl. Easy day," said her opponent. 

"Dude, that ain’t no girl. That’s that Siena ‘Parmesano’ chick. She’s no joke," his friend replied. 

"Oh, damn. OK." 

She pinned him. 

That same week we found out that girls' wrestling would be approved as a sport in her junior year. This was incredible news. 

It was at this time, when she finally had a real opportunity to compete, the seizures started. They robbed her of the chance to podium at her sophomore state championships, leaving the tournament tied for seventh. And now, two years later, as I held her as she convulsed on the floor of the Greensboro Coliseum, the seizures about to take away her senior year as well. 

"I’m wrestling my next match, dad." My daughter wasn’t asking, but she knew my concern before I even voiced it. 

When she reached high school, her choices were to stop wrestling or to wrestle boys. She chose to wrestle boys. 

Unlike two years before, she was now 18, but I also knew what this meant to her. She wanted to go out on her own terms. 

After a seizure, she is athletically slower for two to three days. Still skilled enough to beat most of the field, but she and I both knew that this was a big handicap. 

She went out and battled a close match. In the last 22 seconds, down on points but still not quitting, she managed a reversal and almost turned her opponent to her back. 

She lost, but she finished on top, fighting to the bitter end. 

This piece started as a private note of recognition for my daughter. Then it became catharsis by expressing what it’s like to be a dad with no control of an unfair situation. And finally, it became an acknowledgment of the young women who may not share my daughter’s health challenges but likely have shared most of the others. I’m proud of all of you. 

When I wrestled, there were 112 girls wrestling nationwide in high school compared to 250,000 boys. Today, there are 64,000, with most of that growth happening in the last few years and carried on the backs of some very tough young women. 

When I was a kid, "Wrestle Like a Girl" was an insult. But after years of watching this generation of girls wrestle boys, be disrespected and finally gain their own place of esteem, it means something very different to me. 

And after watching Siena get off the ground after a seizure with fire in her eyes and dictate that she was going back out there, I want to tell you something else. 

I could never, "Wrestle Like a Girl." 

I’m not tough enough. 

I would have quit.