She came from the icy flatlands of Winnipeg, where the winters chew through bone and the sky forgets to be blue. But Sarah Stock never fit the bleak mold. She had the steel of a Valkyrie and the eyes of someone who saw the world not as it was, but as it could be—with grit, gravity, and a shot of tequila on the side.
She wasn’t just a wrestler. She was a chemical equation with a soul: a bachelor of science in chemistry who could dropkick you through the ropes and explain covalent bonds while you were still trying to breathe. Before most women her age were figuring out internships or beach plans, Sarah was out in the Canadian boonies, trading blows with men twice her size in promotions with more duct tape than money. They called her Sweet Sarah, which is like calling a hurricane “polite.”
But there was no glory in frozen gymnasiums and beer-sweaty armories. So she did what any sane person wouldn’t: she packed a bag, moved to Mexico, donned a mask, and became Dark Angel.
And in Mexico, they got it. They saw the fire and gave her matches to light the world with. She bled in Monterrey and burned through Mexico City. She dropped her mask in a 45-minute war with Princesa Sujei, but she didn’t lose anything—she revealed herself. And what they saw was terrifyingly good.
Stock became a fixture in CMLL, one of the oldest wrestling promotions on Earth, slinging moonsaults and armbars in a sea of machismo. She made it her personal mission to prove she could do anything the men could do, and usually better. She even won their bodybuilding contests—eight times. Because why not win everything?
In the U.S., they tried to bottle her magic under the name Sarita in TNA. The name was forgettable. She was not.
Teamed with Taylor Wilde, they were the inaugural Knockouts Tag Champs—a blend of athletic grace and mean-girl vengeance. Later, with Rosita in the politically charged faction Mexican America, she became an unrelenting heel who wore heat like perfume. She could be elegant and sinister in the same breath, a cobra in ballet slippers. Even after tearing her triceps and suffering facial paralysis, she just kept wrestling. When the body gave her lemons, she dropkicked the citrus gods in the throat.
Stock’s TNA stint ended not with a bang but a whisper—seven months of silence and then gone, like a ghost who chose to disappear rather than haunt. But the fire inside her never went cold.
In Japan, she was a revelation. Wrestling as Dark Angel in Stardom, she won the Wonder of Stardom title and went toe-to-toe with Io Shirai before most American fans knew who Shirai even was. In a world of kawaii smiles and joshi pride, Stock was the storm that rolled in from the north with eyes full of war. She made it poetic, too—celebrating her ten-year anniversary with a match that felt like the crescendo of a rock opera written in punches and moonsaults.
Shimmer knew her. ROH flirted with her. Even WWE couldn’t resist.
She never became a TV star in WWE—no grand entrance music or WrestleMania pyro. But she became essential. A trainer. A coach. The one who taught the next generation to hit hard, flip clean, and never, ever apologize for outshining the boys. She was the shadow in the Performance Center who turned rookies into killers.
Then came AEW. Tony Khan brought her in as a coach and producer in 2023. And for two years, Sarah did what she’d always done: work harder than anyone else. No scandals. No ego. Just pure wrestling logic and storytelling wisdom passed down from a woman who’d eaten glass in three continents and still smiled with blood in her teeth.
Until 2025, when they quietly let her go.
No ceremony. No thank you. Just another strong woman shown the door.
But don’t cry for Sarah Stock.
She’s the Dark Angel, after all. A woman who wrestled through countries, injuries, and eras. A fighter who saw the business for what it was—a con, a ballet, a lie, a truth—and danced in it anyway. She survived backstage politics, broken bones, and the stubborn ignorance of promotions that didn’t always know what to do with a woman who didn’t fit the mold.
She was too good to be a diva, too refined to be a brawler, too smart to be a puppet.
She could’ve been a scientist. A sports psychologist. Hell, a spy.
But she chose to suplex her way through life instead. And in that chaos, she made her mark.
Stock wasn’t a shooting star. She was a goddamn comet. And even now, long after she’s left the locker rooms and title matches behind, you can still see the smoke trail in the sky.
And if you’re lucky, you can still hear the echo of her boots hitting the mat—proof that once upon a time, wrestling had an angel who walked through hell and made it hers.