She walked into the indie circuit like it was a beauty pageant held in a back alley—Elizabeth Miklosi, better known to the wrestling world as Lizzy Valentine. A peroxide bombshell in platform boots, dipped in glitter and attitude, she never begged for the spotlight. She lit it herself. If professional wrestling was a dive bar on the edge of town, Lizzy was the woman in the corner booth—flashing a knowing smile and ready to slap the teeth out of any man who called her “just a valet.”
Born August 10, 1983, in Queens or Long Island or maybe just the nearest available tanning bed, Miklosi came into the game with an advantage: she knew how the world saw her. Blonde. Petite. Pretty. But under the lip gloss and long legs, she was a Southside saboteur—a wrestler who trained under Homicide, of all people, which is like learning ballet from a man who fights knife-fights in rain-soaked alleys. She wasn’t in it to look good, she was in it to burn the house down—preferably while wearing stilettos and blowing kisses.
Her early run as Miss Led on the Long Island scene was a punk rock fever dream. Jersey All Pro Wrestling, Liberty All-Star Wrestling, NWA Florida—she zigzagged through them like a punk on tour, managing wrestlers like Dixie and Z-Barr with the energy of a cheerleader who just found out her boyfriend was cheating. She wasn’t just window dressing. She was the window—and she’d throw you through it if you got cute.
Valentine spent the early 2000s trading shots with Alexis Laree, a feud that read like angry poetry scrawled across the underside of a nightclub table. KAPOW!, Dangerous Women of Wrestling, Southern Championship Wrestling—if the East Coast had a ring and a lightbulb, Lizzy was there, throwing elbows and glitter in equal measure. Her feud with Pogo the Clown in XPW proved she had no fear and no filter. Most women in wrestling were trying to be Miss Elizabeth. Lizzy Valentine was more like Harley Quinn after four shots of tequila and a breakup.
By 2005, she hit California and Ultimate Pro Wrestling. She wasn’t just surviving—she was evolving. She hooked up with Adam Pearce, managing the Pro Wrestling Guerrilla world champ with the smooth confidence of a femme fatale. There was always a hint of noir in Lizzy. The platinum curls. The thick mascara. The way she walked into a promo like a cigarette dangling from a dynamite stick. It wasn’t just gimmick—it was instinct.
WWE’s 2005 Diva Search came next. And naturally, they passed on her. She didn’t fit their mold. She wasn’t a model pretending to love wrestling—she was a wrestler who happened to look like a model. Too raw. Too loud. Too real. Vince’s loss.
In TNA, she debuted as JV Love and then mutated into Cheerleader Valentina—part of the all-female stable Bitchslap, a name so on the nose it left a red mark. Alongside Nurse Veronica and Trinity, she attacked cage dancers during TNA’s most hormonally charged era. It was like throwing gasoline on a bonfire of testosterone. But the storyline fizzled, not because of Lizzy, but because TNA didn’t have enough women on the roster to keep the story breathing. So they moved on. She didn’t. She’d return for a dark match in 2009 against Amber O’Neal and win. Quietly. Without fanfare. But Lizzy never needed a trumpet—she carried the noise in her walk.
Wrestling Society X came next, MTV’s bizarre attempt to mix wrestling with nu-metal and pyrotechnics like a backyard barbecue hosted by Satan’s roadies. Lizzy Valentine was tailor-made for it. She played the on-screen girlfriend of Matt Sydal, a heel duo with chemistry like battery acid and champagne. She interfered in matches, left “HATER” scrawled on backs in red lipstick, and stirred up a feud between Sydal and Syxx-Pac that never got paid off because WSX folded like a house of bad poker hands. Still, Lizzy left a mark. She always did.
Then came Wrestlicious. Yeah, that Wrestlicious. The bubblegum fever dream of women’s wrestling meets early 2000s pop parody. Valentine played Kandi Kisses—“The Britney Spears of Wrestling”—who lip synced her own entrance theme before getting booed out of her own debut. She played the heel so well you forgot the show was unwatchable. In a world of paper-thin characters and canned laughter, Lizzy had real venom. She could wrestle. She could talk. And she could turn a joke into a slap across the face.
Even after walking away from the big stages, she wasn’t done. In 2012, she showed up in Juggalo Championship Wrestling—a place where wrestlers and insanity do a two-step with Faygo and barbed wire. She dropped a match to Randy the Ring Girl and then appeared in a five-on-one handicap match against Kongo Kong. You can’t make this stuff up. But she lived it. Every grotesque, glorious second of it.
Her trophy case is modest. A KAPOW! Women’s title. A UPW Women’s title. But her real legacy isn’t in the gold. It’s in the cigarette burns, the bruises, and the fan cam footage of her managing with her whole body, like each match might be the last piece of performance art she ever creates. Lizzy Valentine didn’t become a household name—but that’s fine. Some names aren’t meant for houses. They’re meant for the underside of bridges, the flicker of neon, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume backstage in an indie locker room somewhere between Atlantic City and hell.
She was the punk rock diva in a world trying to sell bubblegum. The girl with a steel chair behind her back and a kiss on her lips. A woman who made being a “valet” something dangerous again.
They’ll forget her name when they write the books. But you’ll remember the feeling. The flash of platinum. The stiletto click. The chaos in her wake.
Lizzy Valentine wasn’t a phase.
She was the fuse.