If pro wrestling had a tropical fruit section, Yuna Mizumori would be the bruised coconut glowing with radioactive cheer. She doesn’t just wrestle—she erupts into the ring like a piña colada spiked with nitroglycerin. Part idol, part bodybuilder, part fever dream—Mizumori is what you get when a karaoke machine and a powerlifter fall in love in the middle of a Gatoh Move mat.
She’s not subtle. Subtlety packed up its bags and fled the building the moment Yuna struts out with those flower leis, crooning to an audience that half-believes they’ve wandered into a children’s variety hour—until she body slams the soul out of some poor girl like it owes her money.
She’s Tropikawild personified.
But behind the fluorescent colors and her Hawaiian cyclone aesthetic lies a bruiser who’s been grinding her way through the grimy, lovable gutters of the Japanese indie scene since 2017, earning every cheer, bruise, and dropped elbow with a force-of-nature tenacity that won’t let up.
The Gatoh Move Genesis
Yuna Mizumori was born August 2, 1989, but she didn’t hit the wrestling radar until Gatoh Move Pro Wrestling’s Japan Tour #319 in 2017. She debuted in a 12-person costume battle royal, because of course she did. That’s just how Emi Sakura rolls—breaking you in with confetti and chaos, the way a mother bird tosses her chick out of the nest and hopes it lands in a pile of bubble wrap.
She wasn’t polished. But she had presence. And in Gatoh Move, presence counts for more than a thousand hours in a dojo. This is the promotion that gave the world Mei Suruga, Lulu Pencil, and the windowless world of ChocoPro—where matches are fought in a tiny room with padded floors and zero ropes. It’s not wrestling. It’s a fever dream. And Mizumori thrived in it.
She formed Tropikawild with Saki, a tag team that sounds like it was named after a juice flavor for children but hit like a bag of oranges. They snagged the Asia Dream Tag Team Championship in 2018 and held those belts like sacred coconuts for 500 days.
Mizumori may have had the sugar-high energy of a kids’ show mascot, but once the bell rang, she fought like a linebacker trapped in a sailor scout costume. Her style was equal parts sumo, powerbomb, and musical theater—all delivered with a grin wide enough to make you forget she just suplexed someone through a stack of plastic chairs.
Indie Spirit, Joshi Muscle
You don’t last long in Japanese wrestling unless you’re willing to show up, shut up, and take your lumps. And Yuna did. She wandered through SEAdLINNNG, Ganbare Pro, WAVE, and TJPW like a kaleidoscope storm, eating losses to Nanae Takahashi and Yuka Sakazaki but never once blending in.
Watch her tag with Suzu Suzuki and Kohaku in 2022—she doesn’t just fill space. She owns it. The ring becomes her island. You either get swept into her typhoon or you wash up dazed on the apron, wondering what the hell just happened.
This is where Mizumori earned her bruises—the kind of matches where you’re paid in bumps, bent egos, and cold showers in drafty locker rooms. She became a working-class hero of the joshi underground, her neon antics masking a blue-collar ethic that never flinched.
Stardom: The Coconut Cracks Open
Then came Stardom.
On March 27, 2022, she entered the Cinderella Rumble at World Climax 2022. It was a 18-woman chaos-bath with names like Mina Shirakawa, Unagi Sayaka, and Lady C flying around like confetti in a blender. Yuna didn’t win. But she made people look. That’s the first battle in Stardom—a promotion where even the mid-carders could headline in any other company.
Later that year, she went one-on-one with Himeka at the Hiroshima Goddess Festival. She lost again. But that was never the point. Mizumori’s value isn’t in victory—it’s in the wake she leaves behind. Opponents walk out of matches with her nursing injuries and existential confusion. It’s like wrestling a rainbow-colored bulldozer that sings.
That’s her magic. She shouldn’t work. On paper, she’s absurd. But in reality, she’s the embodiment of what pro wrestling is supposed to be: larger-than-life weirdos doing violent theater with heart and guts. She’s the 21st-century answer to Bull Nakano if Bull had a ukulele and a blender full of Gatorade.
Cosmic Angel or Trojan Horse?
Yuna’s currently aligned with Cosmic Angels, Stardom’s spiritual sorority of glitter, eyelashes, and inexplicable dance-offs. But make no mistake—she’s not here to be a background dancer. She’s a sleeper cell. A pastel war machine with a killer instinct.
Under the sequins and smiles, Mizumori has the eyes of a woman who’s body-slammed her way through every bingo hall, culture center, and drafty gym in the country. And she’s tired of being the sideshow. You can see it in the way she plants people. The way she guts opponents with those surprise bursts of power. She’s not just here for the vibes anymore.
She’s here for blood. Glittery, fruity, camera-ready blood.
The Future Is Tropikawild
At 35, Mizumori isn’t the rookie anymore. She’s not the underdog. She’s the veteran who survived five years of indie hell and came out smiling. She has all the tools: the charisma, the power, the experience. All she needs now is a promotion willing to hand her the mic and let her show what tropical destruction really looks like.
And if Stardom is smart, they’ll stop treating her like the funny girl in the corner and start booking her like the sleeper powerhouse she is.
Because Yuna Mizumori isn’t just a mood. She’s a movement.
A technicolor brawler with island rage in her fists and sugar in her soul.
She doesn’t need your permission. She just needs a bell. And a beat.
And then, God help whoever’s standing across the ring.
