Wrestling’s Enfant Terrible?

By Julie Miller

When Cheryl Stixx walks into a room, you don’t just notice her — you feel her. For years, women who looked like Cheryl in entertainment — hyper-feminine, blonde, styled to perfection — were expected to play one of two roles: the glossy, harmless sweetheart or the dangerous seductress you can’t quite trust. Stixx has been both — or at least, she’s been told she was. Now, she’s refusing to be either.

With her unapologetic candor, disarming glamour, and a determination that unsettles the system she works in, Cheryl is earning a new label: wrestling’s enfant terrible. But not because she’s scandal-chasing or shock-mongering. Cheryl’s disruption is rooted in something far more dangerous: honesty.

“I made a vow,” she tells me, sitting in front of a mirror with her hands folded, her face makeup-free save for a streak of lip balm. “If I’m going to do this, I’m going to be real about it. I’ll never stand in front of a camera and pretend that looking this way is natural. I’ve had work done. A lot of women do. To lie about it feels dishonest, and it makes girls think they’re supposed to look like this by default. They’re not. It takes effort. It takes help. And I think we need to say that out loud.”

That vow of honesty extends further than cosmetic candor. Cheryl has also been open about her history with cocaine — a chapter of her life she now refers to with a mixture of regret and relief. “I’m sober, and I hope to stay that way,” she says firmly. “I share it because pretending it didn’t happen helps no one. Maybe someone hears me say it and realizes they’re not alone. That matters more than protecting my image.”

This stripped-down authenticity is striking for a woman who, by her own admission, spent much of her early wrestling career chasing an identity that wasn’t hers. “For so long, I thought I had to be one or the other — the sanitized good girl or the nasty caricature. But the truth is, I’m neither,” she says, her eyes lighting up with conviction. “I’m me. Some people will like that, some won’t. But I’m not worried about checking all the boxes anymore.”

That newfound clarity has brought Cheryl back into a feud with Marisa Welch — OCW’s reigning Women’s Champion and a woman often painted with the same brush as Cheryl: hyper-feminine, blonde, impossible to ignore.The two have been trading shots since Cheryl’s return to wrestling, their rivalry simmering with personal digs and sharp words. But Cheryl insists this isn’t just about grudges.

“I chose Marisa because she’s the perfect example of what people assume we are,” Cheryl explains. “The world wants to put women like us in one category: shallow, manipulative, disposable. I don’t agree with her methods, but I see her value. I just want to show that you can look like this, walk like this, be like this — and still be good. Still be kind. Still be strong without tearing down every woman next to you.”

Does this feud lead to a title shot at Lution? Cheryl shrugs, almost amused by the speculation. “Maybe, maybe not. That’s not the point. Gold has never been my north star. At this point in my career, I only want to move with purpose. And right now, my purpose is to try and chip away at a system that says women like me can only exist as villains. If I don’t fight that fight, I’ll never forgive myself.”

And Cheryl is not fighting alone. When I ask about OCW’s women’s division, her tone shifts from fire to warmth. “I’m lucky to be surrounded by so many talented women. Deborah Soto? Incredible in the ring and a real presence. Skadi’s discipline? Inspiring. Sarah Moore — she’s got personality for days, you can’t teach that. Even Perl — for all the chaos she’s caused, almost killing my twin brother included — I can’t deny her wit and grit. And Risa, as much as I dislike her ways, she’s got undeniable qualities. That’s the thing: even the ones I fight with push me to be better. Being close to them elevates me.”

Cheryl knows her mission is bigger than herself, and bigger than wins or losses. She’s candid about the contradiction at the heart of it: the same culture that demands women like her on screen also relishes in tearing them down. “It feels like a personal vendetta sometimes,” she admits. “Like, ‘I want the pretty girls on my screen, but I want them treated poorly because I never got to be close to them, and no pretty girl was ever nice to me.’ It’s exhausting. And it’s a cycle I want to stop.”

She pauses, then adds, “Will I be the one to do that? Probably not. But I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try. I owe it to my girls. I owe it to my younger self.”

For Cheryl, this is not reinvention — it’s reclamation. She’s not interested in being anyone’s sanitized sweetheart or anyone’s sex-metal villain. She’s not chasing gold, or validation, or headlines. She’s chasing something harder, something scarier: honesty.

And in wrestling, honesty might just be the most rebellious act of all.

Edited September 11, 2025Sep 11 by Cheryl Stixx