Let me tell you about the one thing that’s been quietly revolutionizing the way we think about performance, identity, and community: professional wrestling. It’s not just a sport. It’s a cultural phenomenon that’s been hiding in plain sight, thriving on the edges of mainstream acceptance while quietly reshaping itself into something far more inclusive and profound than most people realize. I’ve spent years watching this unfold, and what’s fascinating is how wrestling has become a mirror for society’s shifting values—especially when it comes to who gets to tell their story and how they’re allowed to do it.
Think about this: Professional wrestling has long been dismissed as a niche, even ridiculous spectacle. But here’s the thing—its appeal isn’t accidental. It’s built on a foundation of theatricality, emotional storytelling, and a willingness to embrace the absurd. And yet, for decades, the industry was dominated by a narrow demographic: cishet men, white men in suits, and a script that revolved around hypermasculine archetypes. But what makes this particularly fascinating is how that very exclusivity became its own kind of underdog story. The people who gravitated toward wrestling weren’t the ones in power—they were the outsiders, the misfits, the creative weirdos who found solace in a world where the rules were made up and the stakes were as high as the stunts.
Personally, I think the rise of women’s wrestling in the past decade is one of the most powerful examples of how a subculture can force a paradigm shift. When I first started watching in the early 2000s, the women were relegated to the background, often reduced to eye candy or side characters. It wasn’t until the late 2010s that the WWE began to take women seriously—not just as performers, but as equals in every sense. What this really suggests is that the audience had been waiting for a long time to see themselves represented in a way that didn’t require them to shrink their identities to fit a mold. And when they finally did, the response was electric. I remember watching a live event where women headlined a major show and seeing the entire arena erupt in cheers. It wasn’t just about the wrestling—it was about validation, about finally being allowed to exist in a space that had once excluded them.
What many people don’t realize is how deeply wrestling is tied to the human need for connection. The author of this piece, P. Paramita, describes how their journey as a fan mirrored their own struggles with loneliness and self-expression. That resonates with me because wrestling isn’t just about the physicality—it’s about the shared experience of rooting for someone, of feeling the collective joy of a crowd, of finding a community that understands you. The internet has amplified this, creating spaces where fans can bond over specific wrestlers, storylines, or even the way a character’s face paint looks. It’s a form of fandom that’s messy, passionate, and unapologetically human.
If you take a step back and think about it, wrestling’s evolution reflects a broader cultural shift. It’s not just about diversity in terms of race, gender, or body type—it’s about the stories that are told and who gets to tell them. The rise of LGBTQ+ wrestlers, the inclusion of non-binary performers, and the rejection of harmful stereotypes are all part of a larger conversation about authenticity. What’s even more interesting is how these changes have transformed the fanbase itself. Wrestling isn’t just for the people who used to watch it—it’s now a space where anyone can find a place, whether they’re into the drama, the athleticism, or the sheer unpredictability of it all.
One thing that immediately stands out to me is how wrestling has become a metaphor for resilience. The author’s novel, Appetite, uses wrestling as a lens to explore themes of belonging and self-discovery. That’s no coincidence. Wrestling is a performance of strength, but it’s also a performance of vulnerability. Wrestlers aren’t just athletes—they’re storytellers, actors, and sometimes even therapists for the people who watch them. When they rise from the ashes of a loss or overcome a seemingly insurmountable challenge, they’re not just winning a match—they’re giving their audience permission to keep going.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how wrestling’s theatricality allows for radical self-expression. Think about the way wrestlers use costumes, personas, and dialogue to explore different facets of identity. It’s a drag performance in many ways, a chance to step into a role that’s entirely different from who you are in real life. This isn’t just entertainment—it’s a form of liberation. And when that liberation is extended to people who have historically been marginalized, the impact is profound. It’s not just about watching someone wrestle; it’s about seeing yourself in the story they’re telling.
So here’s my take: Wrestling isn’t just an underdog story—it’s a testament to the power of community, the importance of representation, and the beauty of embracing the weird. If you’ve never watched it before, now’s the time. It’s not just about the matches, the moves, or the drama. It’s about finding a space where you belong, where your story matters, and where the world feels a little bigger than it did before. And if you do, I guarantee you’ll find something there that changes the way you see yourself—and maybe even the way you see the world.
