By the time Mariah May—part glam, part chaos—was sipping champagne on the Stardom tour bus or sneaking lipstick into AEW locker rooms like a femme fatale in a noir flick, the wrestling world knew it had something they couldn’t categorize, package, or contain. She was equal parts ingénue and assassin, a velvet buzzsaw slicing through promotions on both sides of the Atlantic.
They used to call her “Sexy Dynamite Princess.” That’s what she was in Japan—part cosplay dream, part grenade with the pin half-pulled. But Mariah May didn’t stay cute. She evolved into something far more dangerous: “The Glamour.” Not a nickname, but a full-blown ideology. If Toni Storm was wine-soaked Old Hollywood, Mariah was the Vegas showgirl who set the bar on fire after last call.
This is the story of the Islington girl who grew up loving Arsenal, mourned her grandmother, and turned grief into glitter, heartache into heel heat. If you’re looking for a nice, clean Cinderella tale, you’re in the wrong dressing room. This is pro wrestling—where the tiara’s bent, the mascara runs, and the prince usually turns heel.
Before the Glitter Bombs
She started as a ring announcer. Just a girl with a mic and a dream, calling names she’d one day fight. Then on February 2, 2019, she stepped into the squared circle herself, facing Nina Samuels and taking the kind of loss that gets tattooed on your soul. She lost that match, sure—but like any good noir, it wasn’t about the first fall. It was about how far she was willing to climb to get back up.
WWE sniffed around early, offering a three-day tryout in Enfield. They passed. She didn’t. She picked up her boots, booked her own indie dates, and started stacking belts like they were poker chips in a seedy South London pub.
Then COVID hit. Wrestling froze. But Mariah didn’t. When she came back, she teamed with Zoe Lucas as the Dream Dollz. And just like that, the matches got meaner, the stakes got higher, and the heels got sharper.
The Stardom Seduction
Japan didn’t know what hit it. Stardom brought her in like a lost Spice Girl, and she morphed into the sexy footnote of Club Venus—a trio of glitter, attitude, and eyeliner sharpened into weapons. She was no longer just a performer. She was a statement piece. A punk cabaret dream from across the sea.
She teamed with Mina Shirakawa, forming “Rose Gold,” the kind of tag team that could make cherry blossoms bloom or wither, depending on their mood. They won gold. Then they bled pink across the canvas, both literally and metaphorically.
In Stardom, she tried everything. Cinderella tournaments. Dreamhouse Deathmatches with weapons dipped in Pepto-Bismol and heartbreak. Even commentary gigs when the boots came off. She wasn’t just playing wrestler—she was rewriting the damn role.
AEW and the Method Madness
Enter Toni Storm. “Timeless.” A broken film reel of a woman who looked like Bette Davis on bath salts. Mariah didn’t just idolize her—she embodied her. Literally. Adopted her gimmick. Wore her clothes. Took her entrance music and made it her own. Wrestling is weird like that. Sometimes your mentor becomes your mirror, and then you realize the mirror wants to shatter you.
Mariah May turned. Because of course she did. The understudy always does.
She broke Toni. Beat her at All In for the AEW Women’s Championship. Held it like a cigarette between two blood-red fingernails for 174 days. Defended it with the kind of reckless charm that makes security guards sweat and fans swoon.
She was lover, betrayer, and champion all in one. In one stretch, she kissed Mina Shirakawa on Collision, pinned Nyla Rose on Dynamite, and sold heartbreak to every arena that dared look her in the eye.
Eventually, Toni got her revenge. In a Hollywood Ending Falls Count Anywhere match, no less—because this wasn’t just pro wrestling. It was theater with bruises. A saga soaked in mascara and betrayal.
And then, Mariah vanished.
Enter Blake Monroe
But no one stays gone in wrestling. They just change names.
On June 3, 2025, she waltzed into WWE’s NXT as Blake Monroe. Still sparkly. Still venomous. Still two steps ahead of whatever plan they had for her. Within weeks, she turned heel on Jordynne Grace, proving again that loyalty in wrestling lasts about as long as a champagne flute in a bar fight.
She doesn’t need a faction anymore. Doesn’t need a pink weapon match or a kiss spot to own the spotlight. She’s Blake Monroe now—a woman with a new name, but the same twisted fairy tale vibe. If Mariah May was the heroine in a pop-punk tragedy, Blake Monroe is the villain in a gothic romance. And the crowd? They’re still eating it up.
Epilogue in Sequins and Scars
Mariah May once said her name was a tribute to her grandmother, the woman who gave her her middle name and her fire. You can see that fire still flickering, even under the harsh lights of the NXT soundstage. It’s in the way she poses, the way she turns on partners, the way she turns heartbreak into heat.
In a world of cookie-cutter gear and promo-school warriors, Mariah May—Blake Monroe, Sexy Dynamite Princess, The Glamour—remains a strange contradiction. She’s a wrestler and an actress. A heartbreaker and a hugger. A heel who makes you cheer and a babyface who makes you wince.
She isn’t just a wrestler. She’s a Bukowski poem in thigh-high boots, a love letter to the business scrawled in eyeliner and sweat. And wherever she ends up—WWE, Hollywood, or sipping whiskey at the back of a busted ring truck—you can bet the spotlight will follow. Because in this carnival of broken dreams, Mariah May doesn’t just play the game.
She rewrites the script.