There’s a certain kind of grit that doesn’t get washed off in the shower. You don’t inherit it, you don’t train for it. You’re born with it—somewhere between busted knuckles and busted dreams. Peyton Prussin, now called Kendal Grey in WWE’s Evolve brand, was forged in that kind of fire. Not the fire they sell you on TV—real fire, the kind that leaves scars that don’t show up under stage lights.
Born in Las Vegas in 2001, Prussin grew up in a city where people go to disappear or pretend they matter. But she wasn’t there to gamble. She was there to win. By the time she was in high school, she was already taking scalpels to stereotypes. She wasn’t just wrestling boys—she was beating them. A ten-time High School All-American, the first girl to qualify for Nevada’s boys 4A state tournament, and a finalist in every damn event that mattered. She was a walk-off punchline to anyone who ever said, “this sport ain’t for girls.”
At fifteen, she was suplexing doubt into the mat. By seventeen, she was trading holds with killers at the Yoshida Saori Cup in Japan, placing third and leaving her name etched in the minds of coaches who couldn’t pronounce it. And while most high schoolers were worrying about prom, Prussin was out chasing gold medals and choking out complacency in a singlet.
She graduated from Life University with a degree in Biology—a reminder that brains and violence can share the same ribcage. Her early life was part science, part war, and all grit. Bukowski once said, “Find what you love and let it kill you.” Grey didn’t just find it—she put it in a rear-naked choke and made it tap.
The WWE Era – Where Real Meets Scripted
In January 2023, the WWE picked her up through the NIL program—their shiny new pipeline for NCAA athletes with legit backgrounds and social media sparkle. But Grey wasn’t a TikTok babyface. She was a wrecking ball with a lab degree.
She debuted in March 2024 on NXT Level Up, teaming with Carlee Bright in a losing effort, but nobody remembers the L—they remembered the presence. Something in the way she moved, the way her eyes didn’t blink under the lights. Like she wasn’t new to pressure. Because she wasn’t. She’d been forged in rooms with no cameras, only mats that reeked of bleach and ego.
By June, she had her first singles win over Izzi Dame. A small crack in the glass ceiling—but enough to let the sunlight leak in. And then came Myles Borne—trying to throw his weight around like a leftover from a 2005 SmackDown tape. Grey suplexed him on the outside like yesterday’s trash, a reminder that the ring doesn’t care about your gender, just your timing.
At The Great American Bash, she tangled with Jaida Parker and lost, thanks to another interference from Borne. But she suplexed his ass again. It wasn’t about wins or losses. It was about saying, “I’m here. And I don’t need permission.”
In August, she entered a six-woman gauntlet match to decide the number one contender for Roxanne Perez’s NXT Women’s Title. Grey eliminated Brinley Reece before getting taken out by Parker again. Call it a setback if you want. But real wrestlers know—it’s just the second act of a three-act play.
The Evolve Era – A Revival and a Reckoning
March 5, 2025. Evolve was reborn under the WWE banner. The first match? Grey and Bright beating Kali Armstrong and Dani Palmer. It was fitting. The revival of a brand led by a woman who made her career reviving herself after every knockdown.
By May, Grey was in a fatal four-way to crown the first-ever Evolve Women’s Champion. She didn’t win. Didn’t make the final two. But there she was—banged up, bitter, but standing. Because Kendal Grey isn’t a hype train or a marketing gimmick. She’s a quiet storm. No pyro. No gimmick. Just tape on her wrists and hell in her gut.
You don’t watch Kendal Grey wrestle because she’s flashy. You watch her because she feels real. Like someone you could run into at the gym—who would politely shake your hand, then break it if you ran your mouth. She’s not built for Instagram. She’s built for legacy.
Give her time. Give her room. Because Kendal Grey isn’t just the future of women’s wrestling—she’s the ghost of its past, dragging it into the modern era with a chain around its neck. And when the smoke clears, she might not be holding the belt—but she’ll be the reason the belt means something.