They called her “that big Amazon woman” before they ever bothered to call her by name. That tells you everything you need to know about the wrestling business and how it handles women built like brick shithouses instead of swimsuit models. But for a few sweaty summers in the mid-2000s, Jaime Dauncey—better known to wrestling fans as Sirelda—was a wrecking ball in boots, a 5-foot-10, 200-pound freight train sent to clean up the mess the men couldn’t.
Born in Windsor, Ontario, trained by Scott D’Amore and Tyson Dux, Dauncey wasn’t some musclebound gimmick hired off a casting call. She put in the work. She paid the toll in blood and broken cartilage like the rest of them—taking her lumps in Border City Wrestling before stepping into the fluorescent madness of TNA.
She wasn’t just some heatless valet or eye candy with a weak slap. Sirelda hit like she meant it. She was built for impact—literally. And in a business that often forgets the bruisers in favor of the bombshells, Sirelda carved out a spot for herself, if only for a flicker, before the machine spit her out like it always does.
The Gut Check Cinderella
TNA’s “Gut Check Challenge” was supposed to be wrestling’s version of American Idol. What they got in 2004 was a human battering ram in Jaime Dauncey. She crushed the squat challenge, nailed the promos, and back-bumped her way into a $4,000 payday and a developmental deal. It was one of the few times TNA ever put their money where their mouth was—and for a hot second, it looked like they had a female monster on their hands to rival anything WWE had cooked up.
But you don’t get to choose how the world sees you. Sirelda was never given the full spotlight, just a slice of it. She showed up at Slammiversary 2006 like a fever dream on protein powder, chokeslamming Gail Kim and deadlifting her like a gym bag. Jim Cornette called her “that big Amazon woman,” and the moniker stuck—not because it was flattering, but because it was easier than spelling her name.
At Victory Road, she teamed with A.J. Styles and Christopher Daniels—two future Hall of Famers—and held her own in a six-person tag against America’s Most Wanted and Kim. But wrestling is rarely fair, and after losing a forgettable singles bout to Gail at Hard Justice, Sirelda was quietly shuffled out the back door.
She came back briefly at Bound For Glory, throwing a few strikes before getting dumped over the top rope in a battle royal that was more circus than sport. The company never knew what to do with her. And so, like so many big men and women in this business, she was labeled “too much” and quietly erased.
The Exile Years: Japan, Diana, and Dirty Gyms
What came next was a globetrotting journey into the purgatory of professional wrestling: Japan, where respect is earned and pain is currency. She beat Nanae Takahashi to win the AWA Japan Women’s Championship, a title that mattered to the few who still understood what real work looked like.
In the United States, she became “Klondyke” in Women’s Extreme Wrestling—a name that sounded like a frozen treat but fought like a prison riot. She didn’t smile for the cameras. She didn’t shake hands with indie darlings. She just bruised her way through matches the way linemen crash through trenches: no finesse, just brute truth.
Somewhere in the haze of 2009, Dauncey linked up with the ghost of wrestling’s past—Superstar Billy Graham—who saw something worth salvaging. But even legends can’t reanimate a body broken by years on the road, empty promises, and indie checks that bounce higher than a lucha dropkick. Graham’s efforts fell short.
So Dauncey did what few wrestlers have the courage to do—she went back to school. Not academic school, mind you. She enrolled at Team 3D Academy under the guidance of the Dudley Boyz, looking to reboot. Reinvent. But wrestling has no mercy. Whatever spark she hoped to reignite never caught fire.
One Last Run
Between 2015 and 2017, she wrestled in Florida under Afa Anoa’i’s World Xtreme Wrestling banner. She picked up hardware—Women’s Championship, Hardcore Championship—and even traded forearms and profanity with Mercedes Martinez in matches that barely made it to YouTube. There were no pyro entrances, no national television deals. Just two women in a ring, swinging for redemption.
It was here, in the muck and undercard, that Dauncey found her groove again. Not fame. Not glory. But something better: a sense that she still had it. Until, one day, she didn’t.
In 2017, Sirelda walked away. No farewell tour. No final bow. Just a quiet retirement and a résumé of matches that most fans don’t remember but every opponent damn sure felt.
The Heavyweight Ghost
What do you do with a wrestler like Sirelda?
She didn’t fit the mold. Too big to be a diva. Too underpushed to be a monster. She was caught in the no-man’s-land of women’s wrestling—before Rhea Ripley made muscles cool, before Jordynne Grace made mass marketable.
Sirelda was ahead of her time and out of time, all at once. In another era, she might’ve been a dominant champion. In another promotion, she might’ve been the gatekeeper, the enforcer, the queenmaker. Instead, she was a footnote. A trivia question. A “hey, remember her?”
But to those who saw her chokeslam Gail Kim like a sack of wet cement… to those who watched her suplex through the smoke and pain in Tokyo… to those who stood across from her in the ring and felt the thunder of every slam—she was no joke.
Jaime Dauncey never became a household name, but she mattered. To the business. To the bruisers. To the lost girls with big arms and bigger dreams who were told they were too different for the spotlight.
And somewhere out there, in a garage gym or a fading VHS tape, Sirelda still lives. Big, bruising, and beautifully out of step with the world that forgot her.
