She walked into wrestling like a woman walks into a bar fight she didn’t start—but damn sure intended to finish.
Sara Del Rey, born Sara Ann Amato, didn’t come from the land of glitz, nepotism, or locker room politics. She came from the cold silence of her own doubts. A shy, awkward kid from Martinez, California, who didn’t fit in high school hallways and didn’t want to. She wasn’t handed wrestling. She stole it from the edge of the abyss.
There were no easy roads. No second chances. Just a busted mat, fluorescent lights, and a few old hands who didn’t think she had “it.” Tommy Drake, one of her early trainers, once said she had no natural talent. But wrestling has always had a thing for late bloomers and bloody knuckles. Sara trained like she was trying to outrun a ghost. Hours in the gym, the ring, the hellholes where dreams go to bleed.
She wasn’t born with a crown, so she welded one out of steel and stubbornness.
By the mid-2000s, Del Rey had made herself undeniable in the places that matter—places with names like IWA Mid-South, Chikara, and Ring of Honor. She fought under a mask in Mexico as “The American Angel” and as “Nic Grimes” on MTV’s ill-fated Wrestling Society X, a storyline sister to a man who looked like he’d been banned from three states. Her moves were crisp, her elbows stiff, and her expression the cold mask of someone who’s seen too much and trusted too little.
She didn’t pander. She punished.
In Shimmer Women Athletes, she wasn’t just a presence—she was the axis the division spun around. Del Rey took on Mercedes Martinez, Cheerleader Melissa, Daizee Haze, and Nikki Roxx in the kind of matches that didn’t sell T-shirts but made the business better. She didn’t scream. She didn’t smile. She didn’t need a catchphrase. Her body told the story—like Bukowski’s typewriter, worn but goddamn honest.
In 2007, she became the inaugural Shimmer Champion, a reign that lasted 329 days. That wasn’t a title run—it was a declaration of war on anyone who thought women’s wrestling was a bathroom break.
The indie world kept her busy—Ring of Honor, Chikara, JAPW, and more. In Chikara, she even joined the monstrous stable BDK (Bruderschaft des Kreuzes) alongside names like Claudio Castagnoli—her real-life partner and fellow wrestling anomaly. Together they worked matches that were part Kabuki theatre, part demolition derby.
And then came the unthinkable.
In a business built on blonde bombshells and silicone smoke screens, Del Rey did the impossible. She got hired by WWE—not as a Diva, but as a trainer. A teacher. A general in the trenches of NXT, where new blood is forged or forgotten.
They gave her a title: Assistant Head Coach. But make no mistake, she was the ghost in the machine—the voice in a greenhorn’s ear whispering, Plant your feet. Breathe. Again. She was what every suit in Stamford claimed to want: tough, smart, no-nonsense. She didn’t care about the cameras or the Hall of Fame.
She just wanted the match to matter.
Del Rey helped shape the next generation—Bayley, Sasha Banks, Becky Lynch, Charlotte Flair. The so-called Women’s Revolution wasn’t born in a boardroom. It was built in the Performance Center, rep by rep, bruise by bruise, under her watchful eyes. Like some phantom matriarch, she offered no comfort, only truth.
And that’s what she gave to this business: truth. No gimmicks. No vanity. Just an obsession with doing the damn thing right.
In 2012, Pro Wrestling Illustrated did something rare—they included her in the PWI 500, a list usually reserved for men with more muscles than cardio and fewer bumps than backup dancers. She was the fourth woman ever to make the list. A quiet validation for the fans who saw her not as a woman in wrestling, but a wrestler, period.
She wasn’t interested in glitter. She was made of grit. While others built brands, she built bridges—for women who didn’t want to sell sex, just violence and heart.
These days, you won’t see her in the spotlight. But if you watch close—if you pay attention to the detail in a good lockup, the pacing of a match, the quiet confidence of a woman who knows she belongs—you’ll see her fingerprints.
She’s the reason some of your favorite wrestlers found their footing. She’s the shadow on the wall when a rookie makes her debut and hits the ropes right. She’s the ghost in the ring gear, whispering lessons between bumps.
Sara Del Rey never needed pyro or catchphrases. She needed space. She needed respect. And when no one gave it to her, she earned it, one stiff forearm at a time.
Like Bukowski wrote: “What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.”
Del Rey never flinched.
