If you’ve ever doubted that chaos could be harnessed inside a five-foot-something teenager in torn tights and Doc Martens, allow me to introduce you to Billie Starkz. Born Lillian Bridget in New Albany, Indiana, on December 8, 2004, she started bumping before most kids start driving. While her classmates were figuring out TikTok dances, Billie was throwing herself off top ropes and taking chair shots in dimly lit gyms that smelled like mold and legacy.
She trained in Jeffersonville at thirteen—an age when most parents warn their kids not to jump off furniture. Billie was jumping off turnbuckles. No gimmicks. No pedigree. Just passion, bruises, and a teenage stubbornness that made her immune to doubt.
By the time she was fifteen, her teachers were pulling her aside to ask about the black eyes and bruised arms. She told them the truth: “I’m a wrestler.” And when they looked at her like she’d said “I’m a lion tamer,” she doubled down. Because Billie Starkz wasn’t interested in explaining herself. She was interested in making the wrestling world take her seriously—even if it meant graduating high school with a 4.0 GPA and a spine lined with steel.
Her first real national exposure came through Game Changer Wrestling. In 2020, she stepped into the chaos of Joey Janela’s Spring Break battle royal, not just surviving but making people stare. She wasn’t just a kid in gear. She had timing. Awareness. That raw, instinctual ring IQ you can’t teach—you either bleed it or you don’t.
From there, Billie became a barnstormer.
H2O Hybrid Champion.
BLP Heavyweight Champion.
She didn’t need an asterisk beside her name to explain away the wins. She beat men, women, monsters, veterans—anyone foolish enough to underestimate the bubbly blue-haired kid with the sweet smile and the violent tendencies.
But her biggest break came in 2022, when All Elite Wrestling booked her against Red Velvet on AEW Dark. She lost, of course. Most rookies do. But the match turned heads. AEW saw what indie crowds already knew: Billie wasn’t a novelty. She was a future pillar.
On April 11, 2023, AEW made it official—Billie Starkz was signed.
They didn’t even wait for her to finish high school.
In Ring of Honor, AEW’s sister brand and storytelling lab, Billie found her stage. Her feud with Athena was career-defining. She started as the Minion in Training—a glorified sidekick role meant for giggles. But Billie didn’t play sidekick. She played chess. And by the time she challenged Athena twice for the ROH Women’s World Championship—in Final Battle main events no less—she proved that the teenage tornado had grown teeth.
Then came her coronation: the inaugural ROH Women’s World Television Champion. She beat Queen Aminata at Supercard of Honor and held that belt for 112 days. That’s not a placeholder run. That’s a statement.
She lost the title to Red Velvet at Death Before Dishonor. But by then, Billie had already done the damage. She’d arrived. And AEW knew it.
She returned to Dynamite in March 2025 to challenge Mercedes Moné for the TBS Championship. She lost again. But with Billie Starkz, it’s never about the loss—it’s about what you remember when the match is over. And you remember the speed, the impact, the defiance.
Billie then entered the Owen Hart Cup. The prize: a shot at the AEW Women’s World Championship at All In. She was eliminated by Jamie Hayter in the first round. And yet, her name stayed in the headlines. Because by this point, Billie Starkz wasn’t an underdog anymore.
She was inevitable.
Then came CMLL. In April 2025, Billie replaced the injured Taya Valkyrie in a tag team tournament. She and Lady Frost beat Las Infernales in Arena México—wrestling royalty in the building—and lost the next night to Zeuxis and La Jarochita in Arena Coliseo. It didn’t matter. The crowd felt her energy. Billie wasn’t just learning lucha libre—she was digesting it, absorbing it, turning it into another gear.
And somewhere in that storm of flights, gear bags, and suplexes, Billie graduated high school—with honors. A full 4.0 GPA. While wrestling full-time. While flying cross-country. While getting kicked in the face for a living.
Billie Starkz is a unicorn with tape on her wrists.
A twenty-year-old with the résumé of a ten-year veteran.
The kind of wrestler that promoters dream of and opponents dread.
She still teams with Athena, the “Minion” storyline having evolved into something weirder, darker, and more compelling. She teases independence but keeps getting dragged back into the chaos, like a babyface trying to crawl out of her own shadow. It’s messy. It’s layered. It’s real.
Billie Starkz is the future—but not in the way wrestling usually means it. Not a promise. Not a prospect.
She is the present. Wrestling’s Gen Z hurricane. A girl who should be figuring out student loans and instead is figuring out how to steal the damn show.
So go ahead. Doubt her.
And then watch her pin your favorite wrestler while you’re still forming the sentence.
Because Billie Starkz isn’t waiting for your approval.
She’s already booked
