Pro wrestling never promised you clarity. It’s a smoky dive bar of a business, where broken dreams hang from the ceiling like forgotten lightbulbs, and truth wears a lucha mask. But if there’s one performer who’s crawled out of the shadows and made a home in the underworld of suplexes and scar tissue, it’s Holidead. Born Camille Ligon in the rust-slick streets of Cleveland, Ohio, Holidead didn’t come to smile for the cameras. She came to carve her name into the coffin lid.
She didn’t ask for your love. She demanded your attention.
Standing at 5-foot-4 and built like a thunderstorm stuffed into a leather corset, Holidead doesn’t fit the mold of the mainstream wrestling sweetheart. And she’s never tried. She’s not here to be the cover girl on a beach towel. She’s the nightmare lurking in the boiler room—one part goth priestess, one part chainsaw ballet. Her entrance music should be a slow dirge played on broken bones.
Trained under the likes of Gangrel, Rikishi, and Reno Anoa’i at Knokx Pro Wrestling Academy, Holidead debuted in 2013 and immediately screamed one thing to the world: I am not here to play nice.
She clawed through the independent circuit with names like Blue Holiday and Osore, but it was Holidead—part undead vigilante, part crimson-eyed poet of pain—that stuck. Japan got the first taste of her unholy gospel at Stardom’s 2015 Mask Fiesta where she went by the name Kairian 2.0 and lost to Act Ranger. The loss didn’t matter. Her presence did. She was weird, brutal, charismatic in that way a haunted forest is—beautiful until the sun sets.
In Ring of Honor, she was both villain and victim of circumstance. She debuted in 2017, tasted early defeat at the hands of Sumie Sakai, then entered the 2018 Women of Honor Championship tournament only to get tied in knots by Deonna Purrazzo. But Holidead doesn’t break. She multiplies. She kept coming, match after match, like some vengeful slasher movie final girl who just wouldn’t stay buried.
She returned to ROH in 2021, this time sharper, darker, more precise. You could see the experience written across her style—less wild, more lethal. She entered the revamped Women’s World Championship tournament and collided with Max the Impaler in a bout that resembled two locomotives meeting on the same steel rail. Max pinned her, sure. But it took a hell of a wreck to do it.
Holidead would continue to haunt ROH rings—trading shots with Rok-C, scaring crowds, and breaking the line between performance art and pure punishment. Then, like a ghost, she vanished.
When she re-emerged, it was in Major League Wrestling. A new stage. A new division. The lights dimmed, the crowd waited—and Holidead stepped forward like a plague in fishnets.
She was announced as one of the inaugural stars of MLW’s featherweight division in 2021. Featherweight? That was a joke. Holidead doesn’t float—she crashes. She collides. She consumes. The division wasn’t big enough for her orbit.
She was slotted to face returning favorite Taya Valkyrie for the first-ever MLW Women’s Featherweight Championship at Kings of Colosseum in 2022. Valkyrie won, but the match? That was Holidead’s eulogy for anyone who thought women’s wrestling had to be pretty to be powerful. She bled fury in every move, every stomp, every scream. Her body is a battleground and every match is a sermon.
But Holidead was never built for the corporate machine. She’s too wild, too honest, too much like the wrestling business before it got scrubbed clean for sponsors. After a short stay in MLW, she faded back into the night, returning to the indies with the same mystique and madness that made her unforgettable in the first place.
She racked up gold along the way—like a crypt keeper collecting bones. Mission Pro Wrestling crowned her champion. So did Renegade Wrestling Alliance, Crossfire, and Resistance Pro. Her match with Jennacide in 2021 was so savage it got dubbed Match of the Year. In 2022, she repeated the feat with LuFisto in a No DQ spectacle that looked more like a war crime than a wrestling bout. And she walked away with the MPW Wrestler of the Year Award—not because she smiled for the camera, but because she tore through everyone who stood in front of her.
Her tag work with Thunder Rosa? Forgettable to the untrained eye, but pure poetry for those who understand what it means to fight beside someone as twisted and talented as you. Together, they won tag gold in Shine and Vendetta Pro/NWA.
But Holidead isn’t about titles. Never was. She’s about impact. She’s about taking that spot in the card they told her she couldn’t have and dragging it—clawing and biting—into the spotlight. She’s about proving that you don’t need a Barbie doll physique to be the scariest, strongest, most captivating damn thing in the building.
She’s often ranked—PWI put her at #82 in 2021—but numbers can’t contain her. Stats don’t tell the story of what it means to be the walking embodiment of your own trauma, in facepaint and fury, throwing dropkicks like you’re exorcising demons.
Holidead is punk rock in a business full of pop songs. She’s blood on velvet. Her career isn’t a climb—it’s a storm. She’s not trying to make it to the top of the mountain; she’s trying to blow the mountain up and dance in the rubble.
She’s been overlooked, misunderstood, miscast. But she keeps showing up. Keeps kicking down the door. Because Holidead isn’t just a character. She’s a protest. A growl in a world that demands a smile. A thunderclap for every woman who was told she was too weird, too dark, too intense.
And if you don’t get it?
That’s fine.
She didn’t come for your approval.
She came for your soul.