There are wrestlers who step into the ring like it’s a job. Then there’s Jessie McKay—Billie Kay to the unconverted—who entered wrestling like she was kicking the front door off the hinges of fate. She didn’t walk into the sport. She strutted, winked, posed, and turned every hard bump into an act of theater with the drama of a Shakespearean diva and the comedic timing of Lucille Ball in knee-high boots.
Born in 1989, McKay was just another Aussie kid shooting hoops and watching larger-than-life men and women bodyslam each other into oblivion on TV with her brother. But while the other girls her age were dreaming of netball championships and Neighbours cameos, Jessie was watching Madison Eagles and planning her escape. Her ticket came wrapped in spandex and swagger—and she cashed it in at age 18 with a debut win in Pro Wrestling Australia. That’s right—her first match was on her birthday. Most people celebrate with cake. She celebrated by pinning someone’s shoulders to the mat.
And so began a slow-cooked rise through the backwoods and backrooms of wrestling’s indie jungle. McKay ruled the PWWA ring twice, dodging punishing kicks from Kellie Skater and handing beatdowns to Tenille Tayla and Shazza McKenzie. She wasn’t the biggest. She wasn’t the baddest. But she was the craftiest—outsmarting veterans, selling pain like a Broadway understudy, and throwing forearms with the elegance of a ballerina on a vodka bender.
In SHIMMER, she didn’t just wrestle. She studied. She absorbed. She evolved. She racked up wins and ate losses like a true indie warhorse, learning the ropes by getting choked out in them. If Billie Kay was going to get to the big leagues, she had to earn it the hard way—by trading holds with Sara Del Rey, getting her ribs compressed by Ayako Hamada, and taking chop shots to the soul from Nicole Matthews.
And then came the call from Vince’s House of Cardio.
WWE’s Performance Center is less a school and more a glittered meat grinder. Some come out shiny. Others come out broken. Billie Kay came out with more personality than half the main roster. She debuted under the name Jessie—likely the result of some intern’s lazy brainstorming—but eventually found her groove as Billie Kay, all exaggerated vowels, dramatic screams, and a face that could sell outrage like a televangelist sells guilt.
It wasn’t until she linked up with Peyton Royce that the alchemy began. Together, they were The IIconics—though they should’ve been called “the best damn comedy duo since Abbott and Costello, if Abbott wore leopard print and Costello superkicked people in the mouth.” Imagine if Statler and Waldorf got gym memberships, learned to bump, and started calling out Charlotte Flair on live TV. That was the IIconics.
While others treated wrestling like sport, Kay treated it like theater with a concussion. Every promo was a monologue, every tag a chance to flail her limbs like a silent film actress in peril. She made losing look funny, made winning look inevitable, and made being annoying into an artform.
When The IIconics finally snagged the WWE Women’s Tag Team Titles at WrestleMania 35, it wasn’t just a win—it was a payoff to years of being overlooked, underbooked, and mocked by armchair critics. Billie Kay pinned Bayley and laughed like she’d stolen Christmas.
But in WWE, momentum is about as trustworthy as a ladder in a hardcore match. Within months, they were back to being comic relief, and eventually, discarded like old merchandise in a discount bin. They lost the titles, lost screen time, and in a final cruel joke, lost each other—forced to split on RAW because apparently friendship violates the WWE Draft.
Billie Kay’s final run in WWE was like watching a brilliant stand-up bomb in front of a room full of accountants. She tried pitching résumés. She tried teaming with Carmella. She tried being The Riott Squad’s awkward bestie. But WWE didn’t know what to do with her, and when Vince can’t figure you out, you’re about as useful as a three-legged folding chair.
On April 15, 2021, Billie Kay was future-endeavored. But she didn’t fade. She rebranded.
Reuniting with Cassie Lee (fka Peyton Royce), the pair became The IInspiration and debuted in IMPACT Wrestling like a pair of disco ball Valkyries—winning the Knockouts Tag Titles in their first night and proving once again that charisma beats choreography every time.
They didn’t need five-star matches. They were the attraction. They brought absurdity, attitude, and a sense of camp so potent it could’ve made John Waters blush. Their promos were part Mean Girls, part Benny Hill sketch. And their matches? Well, they knew their limits and stayed just behind them—letting personality do the heavy lifting while their boots did just enough stomping.
After a run with the belts and another trip through wrestling’s revolving door, the IInspiration stepped away in 2022. But wrestling retirement is like saying you’re done with tequila—eventually, something brings you back.
In June 2025, they returned to the newly-rebranded TNA to confront the Knockouts Tag Champs with more sass than a Real Housewives reunion. It was like watching two storm clouds roll in with microphones and better outfits. Wrestling didn’t know it needed them again until it did.
Outside the ring, Billie Kay’s dabbling in film—playing a swinger wife in a project called The Charisma Killers. Because of course she is. If you can cut a promo in a WWE ring while wearing rhinestones and screaming about “iiinspiration,” you can act. She’s already got the range—comedy, tragedy, absurdity, and melodrama wrapped up in one Aussie-accented cyclone.
So what is Jessie McKay? A wrestler? A comedian? A throwback to when characters mattered and timing could get you over as much as technique? Yes. All of that. And if wrestling ever wants to have fun again, it better make room for the return of Billie Kay—because when she walks through the curtain, it’s not just a match.
It’s a show. And we’re all just the supporting cast.