By the time Kris Statlander walked into the AEW locker room in 2019, she was billed as being from the Andromeda Galaxy and wrestling like she’d been kicked out of it for excessive violence.
It was pro wrestling’s version of “Men in Black,” only she wasn’t chasing aliens—she was the alien. And if you asked Jim Cornette back then, he’d have said something like: “What the hell is this cosplay nonsense?” But the thing about Statlander is that once the bell rings, the gimmick doesn’t matter. Because this woman doesn’t work like a cartoon. She works like a damn hammer.
She was born Kristen Stadtlander on August 7, 1995, in West Islip, New York. Her dad was a car mechanic, her mom a high school music teacher—blue collar and baritone. She’s the kind of hybrid you get when you raise your daughter on show tunes and socket wrenches. She did a year of college in Jersey before bailing for a stunt school in Brooklyn. That alone should tell you she was built different.
Statlander started wrestling in 2016 under the tutelage of Pat Buck and Brian Myers at Create A Pro, becoming their first female graduate. She wrestled around the indie circuit like every other hopeful—losing in half-empty gyms, diving off turnbuckles that shook like loose plumbing, and wearing more bruises than bookings. She even popped up on SmackDown Live as half of the delightfully expendable “Brooklyn Belles,” getting squashed by the IIconics in a blink.
But the independents saw more. She took on Joey Janela in Beyond Wrestling in 2019, ate a loss, but gave as good as she got. It wasn’t long after that AEW came calling. November 19, 2019: her first appearance on AEW Dark. By Christmas, Tony Khan was sliding her a contract. She was green, weird, and fearless—like if Jeff Goldblum taught a wrestling class in Area 51.
Let’s get this out of the way: the alien gimmick was divisive. Bobby Heenan would’ve said, “She’s the only woman I’ve seen pin someone and then probe them for data.” But Statlander leaned into it. “The Galaxy’s Greatest Alien” wasn’t just branding—it was a buffer, a way to be lighthearted in a business that usually eats joy for lunch. But underneath the googly eyes and shoulder boops was a killer instinct you can’t teach.
She beat Britt Baker clean in December 2019 and earned a title shot against Riho. She lost that match thanks to a clown car of interference, but you could already tell she was climbing the ladder—two rungs at a time, barefoot, in a storm.
AEW knew they had something. Not perfect, not polished, but raw and real. Then in mid-2020, Statlander blew out her ACL on Dynamite. Just like that, the momentum vanished faster than her home planet.
Nine months later, she crash-landed back into AEW with a vengeance. She aligned with Orange Cassidy, Chuck Taylor, and the rest of the “Best Friends” crew. But here’s the thing—Statlander was never just “one of the guys.” She was often the best part of the match.
Her second run brought higher stakes, bigger stages. She challenged Britt Baker at All Out in 2021 but came up short again. And just when it seemed like AEW might pull the trigger, she tore her other ACL in August 2022. Wrestling gods have a sense of humor that would make Satan blush.
That would’ve ended a lesser talent. But not Statlander. She healed. She lifted. She quietly morphed.
When she returned at Double or Nothing in 2023, she wasn’t the same googly-eyed space cadet anymore. This Kris Statlander had sandpaper on her soul. She walked out during Jade Cargill’s post-match celebration, stared down the woman with a 60-0 record, and beat her in an impromptu match to win the AEW TBS Championship. It was a star-making moment, and Statlander didn’t just break the streak—she stomped on it.
She held that title for 174 days, fending off challengers like Nyla Rose, Anna Jay, and Taya Valkyrie with a style that blended powerbombs with poetry. The alien was dead, long live the assassin.
But in wrestling, nothing lasts. At Full Gear, Julia Hart pinned Skye Blue in a triple threat, taking the title off Statlander without her getting pinned. That kind of booking is what makes Cornette throw shoes at televisions.
Post-loss, AEW flirted with a new angle. Enter Stokely Hathaway, the snake oil manager with a gold tongue and a Rolodex full of manipulation. He recruited both Statlander and Willow Nightingale. They resisted. Then they didn’t. Then Statlander pretended to push him away—only to swerve the audience and turn heel by attacking Willow after her match at Double or Nothing 2024. It was a move Bobby Heenan would’ve called “a Hallmark moment—if the card was dipped in acid.”
As a villain, Statlander sharpened up her arsenal. Gone were the playful boops. In came “Staturday Night Fever”—an inverted piledriver that looked like it could erase dental records—and a discus lariat that could knock the ink off your tattoos. She was no longer the quirky midcarder with a spaceship; she was a main-event player without a conscience.
Feuds with Willow and Mercedes Moné followed. Wins and losses came and went. But what stuck was her evolution. Statlander showed she could talk, act, work, and turn. She wasn’t a nostalgia act or a novelty. She was a threat.
In late 2024, she dumped Hathaway like a bad Tinder date and started making quiet babyface moves again—though this was never acknowledged on air. AEW didn’t need to explain it. Statlander’s whole aura had changed. She was still cold-blooded in the ring, but she wasn’t trying to cheat anymore. She just wanted to fight.
That brought her to 2025’s Owen Hart Cup. She beat Thunder Rosa in the quarters, lost to Jamie Hayter in the semis, then entered the Casino Gauntlet at All In after a chaotic four-way win that featured help from Death Riders members. She lost that match too. But if AEW’s history tells us anything, it’s that Statlander’s road is never straight—it zigzags like a drunk on roller skates.
Today, Statlander is floating between allegiances. Babyface, heel, maybe somewhere in the middle—pro wrestling’s version of Pluto: not sure if she’s a planet, but damn if she doesn’t orbit some heavy gravity.
She’s a vegetarian, a stuntwoman, a licensed massage therapist, and the owner of a bearded dragon named Boots. She’s also one of the most believable in-ring workers AEW has produced—man or woman.
The alien thing may be gone, but Statlander still hits like she’s from another planet. And when the lights come up and the crowd gets loud, she doesn’t blink. She just stares through you—like she’s calculating the angle, the pressure, and whether you’re worth remembering after the bell.
And nine times out of ten, you’re not.