There’s something tragic about a smile that won’t quit. The kind that sticks around even after the world stops laughing. Kylie Rae—born Briana Rae Sparrey—entered the wrestling world with that kind of smile. Not the calculated smirk of a heel or the pageant-trained beam of a hopeful. No, Kylie’s smile was something else entirely. It was armor. It was defiance. It was a bright yellow raincoat in a thunderstorm made of steel chairs and broken promises.
She didn’t walk into the ring. She bounced. Chicago girl. Softball player. Stuntwoman. There’s a flicker of Hollywood in her past—she tumbled through scenes in Divergent and Shameless, blending danger and background noise, earning bruises on behalf of others. But that wasn’t enough. Kylie didn’t want to be behind the glass. She wanted to be in the storm.
She trained, she fought, she gritted her teeth through the indie wrestling underworld, earning belts like scars. Reality of Wrestling crowned her their Diamonds Champion on her first night. That’s how she rolled. Not with arrogance, but with velocity.
The indie scene became her home—Warrior Wrestling, Freelance, GCW, wherever they handed out beatings and envelopes half-full of gas money. She brought her trademark sunshine wherever she went, but behind the smile was someone walking the razor’s edge of vulnerability. You could feel it in her matches—how she’d eat a stiff forearm, pop up, and flash that mile-wide grin like she was grateful for the pain. Maybe she was. Maybe it helped keep her grounded in a world that spins too fast for dreamers.
Then came AEW.
She debuted at Double or Nothing in 2019—a match against Britt Baker, Awesome Kong, and Nyla Rose that felt like she’d been tossed into a meat grinder wearing a Girl Scout sash. Still, she smiled. Still, she got up.
But not for long.
She was scheduled for Fyter Fest, and then she wasn’t. Rumors swirled. Mental health, breakdowns, friction backstage—no one really knew, and she wasn’t saying. Tony Khan called it “amicable,” which is corporate speak for “we don’t want to talk about it.” The truth, like a folding chair to the back of the head, landed unseen and unspoken.
She disappeared.
And then, just like that, she reappeared. Bound for Glory. Impact Wrestling. A surprise entry in the “Call Your Shot” gauntlet match. It was like seeing someone rise from a grave with lipstick on and fire in their eyes.
This time, Impact gave her room to breathe. And Kylie bloomed.
She aligned with Susie, tangled with Taya Valkyrie and Rosemary, and eventually earned a shot at the Knockouts Championship. It was supposed to be her coronation. Bound for Glory, 2020. Rae vs. Purrazzo. The workhorse vs. the technician.
But Rae never showed.
No injury. No explanation. Just silence. In an industry built on illusion and control, that kind of quiet is deafening. A week later, she posted a goodbye.
Wrestling had taken too much. The business that promised her an escape had become its own cage. So she did what few ever do—she walked away.
But she came back. Again.
That’s the thing about Kylie Rae. She’s a walking contradiction. A comeback queen who doesn’t seem to want the crown. A crowd favorite who never quite stays in the spotlight long enough for the confetti. She signed with NWA, tagged with Taryn Terrell, wrestled Thunder Rosa and Melina, fell short against Kamille and Mickie James—but always with that wide-eyed optimism that made fans cheer like children at a circus.
She was every bit the babyface—more than a gimmick, it was who she was. Or who she tried to be. But no matter how many times she pulled herself out of the dirt, the shadow always followed. Rae was Sisyphus with pigtails, pushing the boulder of expectation up a hill of panic attacks and missed calls.
In 2022, she tried again—this time with WWE. Another tryout. Another match, under the name Briana Ray. Enhancement talent fodder. But she was there. Still fighting. Still trying.
By 2024, she finally signed with WWE’s developmental wing, WWE ID. In March 2025, she debuted for Evolve, where old habits died harder than her ring rust. She shook hands with opponents. She accepted teddy bears from Wendy Choo. She played the underdog in feuds that mirrored her real life—bright-eyed newcomer versus the weight of the world.
She lost the match for the inaugural Evolve Women’s Championship. But the crowd still cheered. Because Kylie Rae doesn’t need belts. She is, and always has been, the story.
Now, in July 2025, she stands one match away from glory once again. A triple threat to crown the first WWE Women’s ID Champion. Her opponents—Zara Zakher and Zayda Steel—are hungry, sure. But Kylie? Kylie’s fighting for something else. For redemption. For proof. For the girl who quit wrestling in 2020 and thought the story was over.
Outside the ring, she’s no gimmick. She’s Briana. She’s a fiancée, a mother. She gave birth to her first child in October 2023. Named him Breccon. Sounds like a bruiser. Sounds like someone who’ll grow up hearing stories of how Mom flew too close to the ropes and kept flying anyway.
Kylie Rae will never be the best wrestler in the world. She’s not a killer promo. She’s not a physical freak. But she’s something rarer—a fighter with nothing left to prove who keeps showing up anyway. In an industry built on egos and kayfabe, Kylie gave us authenticity. Not the social media kind. The gut-punch kind.
Some wrestlers are legends because of what they accomplished. Kylie Rae might be a legend because of what she survived.
And still, she smiles.
Because sometimes, the biggest victory is walking back through the curtain at all.