There was always something about Buggy Nova that felt like she’d been pulled off a Greyhound bus from a dream gone sideways.
Natalie Osman—better known to cult wrestling fans as Buggy Nova, or, briefly under WWE’s glossy lights, Skyler Moon—was the kind of woman you’d find tearing through a thrift store at 2 a.m. looking for a pair of boots to stomp out the world in. She didn’t look like a wrestling savior. She looked like trouble. In all the best and worst ways.
Osman broke in during an era when the indie scene still had blood under its fingernails. Long before every wrestler had a podcast and merch table, she was working in dingy gyms and VFW halls where the popcorn tasted like regret and the locker rooms smelled like desperation and cheap cologne.
She trained under a revolving door of journeymen—Josh Selby, the Ballard Brothers, Van Ayasit. The kinds of names you only know if you’ve ever bought a ticket to a show where the top rope sagged like a broken promise. She debuted in 2009, no fanfare, no pyro—just raw ambition and mascara that bled like war paint.
She wrestled under the name Buggy Nova. The name sounded like a lost Suicide Girl who left a modeling shoot to powerbomb someone through a table. She was lean, ragged, half-punk, half-poet, all fire.
The California circuit was her crucible. She worked for Mach One Wrestling, Pro Wrestling Bushido, Vendetta Pro, IWL, Empire Wrestling Federation. You name a parking lot promotion west of the Rockies, she probably bled there.
She had wars with Candice LeRae before Candice became a household name. She threw down with Christina Von Eerie, Kitana Vera, Claudia del Solis. Buggy didn’t just wrestle—she lived it like a tattoo needle pressed too deep.
She had heart. Not the kind you sell on a T-shirt, but the kind that comes from taking your lumps and still showing up the next day. She was a punch-drunk poet in a ring full of social media influencers. She didn’t care about followers. She cared about respect.
And for a moment, she had it.
She dipped into SHIMMER, part of the SPARKLE division, wrestling alongside Bonesaw and She Nay Nay. She tangled with Su Yung and Veda Scott. The matches weren’t main event material, but Buggy wasn’t there to win trophies—she was there to steal hearts and leave bruises.
By 2012, WWE came knocking. It was like asking a gutter punk to play in a jazz quartet. But she bit. She took the shot. Under the name Skyler Moon, she entered WWE’s developmental system, Florida Championship Wrestling, which was on the verge of becoming NXT.
FCW didn’t know what to do with her. She wasn’t blonde enough to be a Diva, not dangerous enough to be a monster, not polished enough to fit the machine. She was thrown into bikini contests with Summer Rae, tag matches with Paige, filler segments that served no purpose except to chew up time before the next chosen one came out to a theme song.
She tried. God, she tried. She painted on the smile. She danced their dance. But you can’t shine a junkyard soul and expect it to sparkle like Swarovski.
By 2013, she was gone. Released. Quietly, like a whisper of potential that never got to scream.
Buggy Nova came back to the indies, where the ropes still stung but at least they didn’t come with a leash. She worked for Full Impact Pro, tried to make something stick. But the momentum had slowed, and wrestling is a cruel mistress that doesn’t wait for anyone—especially not a girl who refused to play by the rules.
She had moments—brief sparks of glory. She won the Ironman Heavymetalweight Championship in DDT Pro, a title known more for absurdity than prestige. She claimed the PWD Women’s Championship. These weren’t WrestleMania moments, but they were hers. And they mattered.
Natalie Osman wasn’t a failure. She was a casualty of a system that didn’t know how to handle women who didn’t fit into neat boxes. She was too much and not enough, all at once. Too raw, too real, too unpredictable for a company built on controlled chaos and choreographed rebellion.
She was a warning shot fired across the bow of what women’s wrestling would become. A prototype for the weirdos, the punks, the outcasts who didn’t need approval—they just needed a microphone and a moment.
These days, you don’t hear much about Buggy Nova. She’s not front row at AEW. She’s not coaching at the Performance Center. She’s not on OnlyFans or running a Twitch stream. She vanished into the fog of life after wrestling—where the real fights happen. Rent. Aging. Identity. Purpose.
Maybe she’s okay. Maybe she isn’t. That’s the thing about wrestlers like Buggy Nova: they live in the margins, between the high spots and the headlocks, between the cheers and the silence that follows.
But if you ever caught her in the ring, you remember her. The wild eyes. The black lipstick. The way she threw herself into every match like it was her last. She didn’t wrestle pretty. She wrestled like her soul was on fire and her body was the price.
Natalie Osman may not have reached the top of the mountain. But she sure as hell set fire to the foothills.
And sometimes, that’s the only way to be remembered.
