She was born with the name Guerrero—one of those heavyweight surnames that echoes like a shotgun blast through the dusty halls of wrestling history. Shaul Marie Guerrero came out swinging from El Paso, Texas, with a bloodline soaked in frog splashes and tragedy, rebellion and legacy. Her father was Eddie, the low-riding, cheat-to-win ring general who made pain look poetic. Her mother was Vickie, a woman who could summon hate from 20,000 people just by screeching “Excuse me!”
But Shaul? She didn’t follow the script. She lit the paper on fire, danced on the ashes, and took the act to a burlesque stage under the name Miss Nyxon. That’s right. A Guerrero with feather boas and fishnets—raunchy, rebellious, raw. Because sometimes when you’re born into a legacy, the best thing you can do is slap it, strut past it, and turn it into your own kind of show.
Born With Boots in the Blood
Before she ever took a bump or tied up her boots, Shaul was chasing music and modeling gigs in New Mexico, holding onto dreams that had nothing to do with bodyslams or 450 splashes. But that Guerrero pulse always beats loud, and eventually in 2010, she signed with WWE’s developmental territory, Florida Championship Wrestling.
She went by Raquel Diaz, a name that sounded like a telenovela femme fatale—but there was nothing soft about her in-ring work. She managed Rusev before he was the Brute, and aligned with The Ascension before they became a cosmic joke. She was the Queen of FCW. No, really—she wore a crown, carried herself like a diva on a throne of shattered egos, and chalked up wins like she was born doing it. And for 119 days, that crown sat squarely on her head.
Not bad for someone who hadn’t yet figured out whether she was a Guerrero, a performer, or a haunted poem in fishnets.
The Crown and the Curse
Diaz held the FCW Divas Championship for a record 197 days, beating the likes of Audrey Marie and brawling with future icons like Paige. She walked that tightrope between diva and destroyer, where one day you’re lip-syncing confidence and the next you’re hitting the mat with 130 pounds of existential dread on your chest.
When WWE transitioned FCW into NXT, she tried on a new gimmick: the “Ultra Diva” on an “Exfoliating Ugliness Tour.” She mocked her opponents with drawn-on “L”s for loser, but the real L was looming backstage. The pressure was mounting. The weight of expectations, body image, the whiplash of becoming a brand before you’re even a person—it all caught up.
In 2012, Shaul asked for her release. They said she’d been given a leave of absence. Others said she was burned out. The truth? She was battling an eating disorder that gnawed at her confidence like a rat trapped in the walls of a haunted house.
And if wrestling is a haunted house, Shaul was a girl with the lights turned off, swinging in the dark.
From Turnbuckles to Tassels
Then came the reinvention. Because what do you do when wrestling spits you out and chews the bones? You reinvent.
In 2018, Shaul started working the burlesque circuit in Chicago under the name Miss Nyxon. Where WWE handed her a script, the stage gave her freedom. She twirled, she teased, and she told stories without ever taking a bump. The Guerrero charisma translated perfectly—just swap the ring ropes for a feather fan, the ring gear for silk and stilettos.
Her burlesque work wasn’t some detour. It was the sequel. It was still performance, still power, still pain wrapped in glitter and teased hair. Charles Bukowski once wrote, “What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.” Shaul didn’t walk. She danced. On heels. In smoke. While wearing the bruises of both wrestling and womanhood.
Back Into the Ring…Sort Of
Shaul dipped her toes back into wrestling in 2018, working as a commentator for Reality of Wrestling and appearing on Lucha Underground. She later signed with Women of Wrestling as a ring announcer, a move that allowed her to straddle both worlds: the grit of wrestling and the glam of burlesque.
She even stepped back into the ring in 2020, competing in GCW’s Women’s Title Tournament—beating Renee Michelle before losing to Queen Aminata. It wasn’t about wins anymore. It was about proving that you could crawl back into the fire and come out wearing rhinestones.
In between, she showed up on AEW programming as a ring announcer during the Women’s Tag Team Cup, proving once again she could do it all. But she was never just reading names. She was reminding the world that a Guerrero still had something to say—even if it wasn’t said with a suplex.
The Road Less Bodyslammed
Shaul Guerrero’s story isn’t clean. It doesn’t come with a world title, a WrestleMania moment, or a ten-bell salute. But it’s got guts. It’s got the kind of jagged edge that real stories are made from. She got married to Aiden English in 2016, another voice trying to find harmony in an industry full of static.
She’s held titles, lost them, walked away, and came back with glitter in her teeth. That’s not a failure. That’s a fight. That’s legacy on its own damn terms.
Final Bell
Shaul Guerrero didn’t ride her family name to the top. She wrestled with it. She wore it like a leather jacket with too many holes. And when it got too heavy, she turned it into a goddamn burlesque act and let it sing.
She may never headline WrestleMania. But she’s headlined something more honest: the act of survival. Of making your name mean something even when it’s already known.
Because Shaul didn’t just carry the Guerrero name. She rewrote it in eyeliner and red lipstick, in strobe lights and slow burns.
And in this business—or any business—that’s the kind of victory they don’t give you belts for.