You don’t expect a six-foot-tall woman from Sydney, Australia to be the best women’s wrestler in the world. You don’t expect her to dominate a sport built on broken dreams and tighter glass ceilings than Wall Street in the ’50s. But Madison Eagles doesn’t care what you expect. She was too busy racking up wins, collecting belts, and limping through airport terminals with joints screaming louder than the crowd ever did.
Born Alexandra Ford, she wasn’t molded in some performance center petri dish like half the plastic robots on cable. She trained the hard way—bruises on top of bruises, suplexes in echoing warehouses, dropkicks thrown in front of thirty drunk guys and a broken vending machine. At 17, she walked into International Wrestling Australia and said she wanted in. That was 2001. She’s been kicking the door down ever since.
She started as a bodyguard—fists clenched, eyes scanning for trouble like a nightclub bouncer on her third Red Bull. It wasn’t glamorous, but wrestling never is when you’re doing it right. Her first match came against Katherine Nixxon, and by the time the bell rang, Eagles had made it very clear: she wasn’t here to play the cute underdog. She was here to beat you down and make you like it.
Eagles had range. She wasn’t just stiff kicks and slams like a human earthquake. She could chain wrestle, fly, brawl, and twist your limbs into pasta. She trained with everyone—Chikara, ROH, OVW—and made all of them better just by being in the room. She soaked up knowledge like whiskey in a bar rag. It showed. She could take a greenhorn and make them look like gold, or step in with the best and leave them blinking at the lights.
But she didn’t just want to be great. She wanted to create something bigger. So with her then-husband Ryan Eagles, she founded PWA and PWWA in Australia, building a foundation for women’s wrestling in a country that barely knew it existed. This wasn’t marketing fluff or press release feminism. This was steel chairs, sweat, and the kind of vision that keeps you up at night questioning your sanity. She gave women a place to fight, and she made sure they knew how to do it right.
The world noticed, eventually. Shimmer called. That all-women’s mecca in the States where the best of the best came to scratch and claw their way to some semblance of respect in a business that had long treated them like eye candy with knee pads. Eagles and Jessie McKay showed up as The Pink Ladies. Cute name, killer intent. They didn’t win the tag belts, but Eagles caught fire on her own. In 2010, she beat Cheerleader Melissa—another walking wrecking ball—for the #1 contender spot. Then she went through MsChif like a buzzsaw to win the Shimmer Championship.
Her first reign? Try 539 days. That’s longer than most marriages. She defended that title against everyone who mattered—Melissa, Hamada, Serena Deeb, Hiroyo Matsumoto, Mercedes Martinez. These weren’t squash matches. These were symphonies of violence—epic, exhausting wars where the only rule was: survive.
Then her knee gave out. Not in some bloated stadium with lights and pyro, but in the same kind of gritty indie hall where she’d made her name. A bad landing, a sickening crunch, and suddenly Madison Eagles was just another broken warrior on the shelf. Most would’ve packed it in. Said thanks for the memories and moved on to commentary gigs and podcasts. But Madison? She’s got barbed wire in her veins. She came back. After kids. After pain. After doubt.
Her second act was just as ruthless. She went through Athena, Kana (later Asuka), Havok, Shida—you name it. Broke her wrist mid-show and still wrestled again that night. Who does that? Someone who knows the mat isn’t a stage—it’s a confession booth. Someone who knows pain is a privilege in this business.
She won the Shimmer belt again in 2015, setting a record. Then she lost it in 2016 to Mercedes Martinez. No shame there—Martinez hits like a truck full of spite. But Eagles had already proven what needed proving: that she wasn’t just the best wrestler in Australia. She was the best women’s wrestler on the goddamn planet.
Forget the mainstream. Forget WWE’s TikTok-ready roster or AEW’s shiny new toys. Madison Eagles did it the old way—hard, heavy, and hungry. She trained generations of stars. She carved out a scene with her bare hands. And she never stopped being terrifying in the ring—a walking skyscraper with a head full of murder and boots soaked in receipts.
Her run in Shine was less decorated but no less punishing. Battles with Havok, Kong, and Su Yung showed the depth of her toolbox. Su Yung might have the gimmick, but Eagles had the grit. She didn’t need face paint or ghost brides. She had scars. Real ones.
Even at home in Australia, she never coasted. She helped launch women’s wrestling into the national spotlight, holding titles in PWA, Pacific Pro, and more. She built an empire without ever calling herself a queen. That’s the thing about Madison—she never needed to scream her credentials. She let her elbows do the talking.
Outside the ring? She’s a mother of four. Try that on for size. Four kids and still tossing suplexes like a demolition crew. She married again, this time to fellow wrestler Michael Spencer. Life goes on. But you get the feeling that even if she’s folding laundry or making school lunches, she’s still thinking two steps ahead in a match she hasn’t even booked yet.
Her theme song is AFI’s “Prelude 12/21”—a gothic dirge soaked in dread and defiance. Fitting. Eagles always felt like someone who knew the world was cruel and came to make it just a little crueler for her opponents.
Madison Eagles didn’t redefine women’s wrestling. She detonated it. Made it impossible for any federation, critic, or fan to pretend that “good for a girl” was a relevant phrase anymore. She was just good—period. And in a world full of cartoon characters and corporate champions, that kind of raw, bloody excellence stands out like a gunshot at a tea party.
She wasn’t the most famous. She wasn’t the most marketed. But for one golden stretch of time, she was the best damn wrestler alive. And deep down, every woman who laces up boots today knows it—because they’ve all been walking a trail that Madison Eagles paved with fire and bone.
