Walking away from the merchandise table at the Northern Wrestling Federation show in Ludlow, Kentucky, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed.
I’d just seen an old friend and colleague of mine, wrestler Wildcat Chris Harris. Expecting a joyous reunion, I greeted him excitedly – but he just stared at me and gave me a brushed-off ‘hey’.
Now, granted, some things had changed in the eight years since we’d last seen each other (mainly that I had transitioned), but part of me was surprised by his reaction to me.
I spent the next couple of hours watching the show, with a million thoughts running through my mind, remembering some of the negative reactions I’d received when I came out.
As a trans woman, at that point fairly early in my transition, I realized not everyone was going to be supportive or friendly – you never know how things are going to go when you see old friends – so I just chalked it up to that.
Then, after the show, I was surprised when he ran up to me, gave me a huge hug, apologised and said: ‘You look great. I didn’t recognize you, but I’m so happy for you.’
That moment, all my disappointment melted away. His words meant more than any belt ever could.
I’ve known I was trans since I was four – though I wouldn’t have been able to put a name on it until I was about 10.
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I grew up in an extremely conservative evangelical Christian home. I wanted to tell my parents for years but I was afraid of their reaction, that they’d send me to a conversion camp.
I made the decision to suppress my gender identity and pretend to be masculine. I threw myself into sports and, while I had a lot of friends, I kept them at a distance, afraid they would find out.
I loved wrestling even back then, and I thought if I was a wrestler and worked really hard to ignore my identity, who I was inside would go away.
When I first moved to Cincinnati in 2003 to wrestle, I was lonely.
Searching for a community, a place to belong, I sent out handwritten letters to local independent promoters that were putting on wrestling shows, looking for a foot in the door. The only place to email me back was the Northern Wrestling Federation (NWF).
Before I knew it, I was sharing locker rooms with local legends like Jon Moxley, Karl Anderson, Wildcat Chris Harris and the Monster Abyss. Even our trainer, Roger Ruffin, had refereed at WrestleMania VIII.
I took on the ring persona of mad scientist, Dr. Melvin Winkelman, and went on to wrestle at more than 500 shows across the Midwest and South doing everything from street fights and comedy gimmicks to blindfold matches.
For years, my life was wrestling: work, gym, train, shows, and on off-days, sitting around watching tapes. I took bruises, concussions and even chair shots in wrestling. But behind the bravado, I was still hiding.
My way of masking my trans identity was to lean into the hyper-masculinity that wrestling gave me. Outwardly, I was loud and tough. But offstage, I was quiet, withdrawn, and terrified of anyone getting too close.
In 2008, I made the decision to leave wrestling. I felt it was time to get my life together and grow up.
My wrestling character had started to feel like a chain around my neck, and I felt so unfulfilled creatively. In reality, wrestling and being hyper masculine hadn’t made who I was inside go away.
I thought the American Dream would be the next thing to hopefully make being trans go away, so I got married.
But soon after, little parts of who I am started to surface – things like wanting to learn how to do makeup and dress femininely.
My then wife eventually pushed me to see a therapist. As soon as I started talking about being trans, the big ole wall I had built had started to crumble. It was like a little needle popping a hole in a balloon.
By 2012, however, I couldn’t keep the wall up. No matter how hard I’d tried to suppress it before, it was always there – like a smoke detector with a low battery you can’t ignore, or a tap that won’t stop dripping.
A constant reminder of who I really was inside – a woman.
Pride and Joy
Pride and Joy is a series spotlighting the first-person positive, affirming and joyful stories of transgender, non-binary, gender fluid and gender non-conforming people. Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk
When we divorced later that year, my ex said I had lied to her. I did, but I was really lying to myself.
With nothing else to lose, I relocated with my job to Denver the following year, and began my transition.
A lot of people had moved from other areas of the country to work at the Denver office. Leaders, managers, entry-level workers, people of different religions, non-religious people, straight people, gay people, trans people – we all were new to the city and didn’t know a lot of people. They became my second family.
It was a fresh start, and I was so happy I’d moved away.
Wrestling and Cincinnati had been such a huge part of my life, and everything changed so much after I transitioned.
A lot of people supported me and I could still go back and see them if I wanted to, but they changed too. Most had kids now. They didn’t know Denise. My life had changed.
Coming out to wrestling friends, however, was nerve-wracking. I braced myself for rejection, but most often, I got kindness. Karl Anderson treated me like a sister and, after the initial accidental brush off, Cat was so kind and supportive.
While some people were quieter than others, no one shut me out.
In fact, the most common response I got was: ‘You look happy and finally look comfortable in your own skin. I’m proud of you. If anyone ever messes with you, they mess with us.’
These responses were everything I could have hoped for and more.
Today, my life looks different: I’m now a stand-up comedian and broadcast my debut special, Bougie On A Budget is available to stream now.
But the lessons of wrestling are stitched into everything I do.
It taught me how to be tough and develop a thick skin – an essential for being trans in what, I’m sad to say, is a scary world for us right now – and also the resilience I’d need to live authentically every single day.
Life can still be hard, but I’ve never felt more comfortable in my own skin. I haven’t felt that drip in my head in 13 years. I’m confident and I feel so fortunate to be in a place where I can live life on my terms, to not live in constant fear.
To be myself, because that’s enough.
And that’s better than any championship belt.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jessica.aureli@metro.co.uk.
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