Some stories in wrestling read like Shakespeare; others like a Bukowski bar tab scrawled on the back of a cocktail napkin. Brianna Coda’s journey is the latter—gritty, messy, occasionally beautiful, always bruising. She entered the squared circle with eyeliner as dark as her odds and fists full of indie grit. Wrestling fans came to know her by many names—Elayna Black, Cora Jade—but the rhythm was always the same: pain, persistence, and the pulsing beat of rebellion.
Born in 2001, just outside Chicago’s cracked sidewalks and cold gymnasiums, Coda grew up the kind of kid who kept her heroes close and her dreams closer. She wasn’t supposed to be a star. She wasn’t groomed in the polished NXT labs like others. She clawed her way in from the backrooms of indie shows where the ropes smelled like mildew and your opponent might also be the ticket-taker.
The Black Beginning
Coda debuted as Elayna Black in 2018 after training at the Freelance Wrestling Academy—a haven for hopefuls and hardheads. At 5’3″, she didn’t tower, but she moved with a kind of caffeinated confidence that said: “You’re going to remember me whether I win or not.”
She grabbed her first tournament win in 2019—the Zen of Women’s Athletics Tournament—proving she wasn’t just a hoodie-wearing goth gimmick from the Midwest. She worked her way through Rise Wrestling and Shimmer, where she tangled with the kind of women who sharpen their elbows and don’t bother with pleasantries.
By 2020, she was taking bumps in AEW’s “Dark,” the digital proving ground where potential careers go to die—or simmer quietly until someone up top catches wind. She didn’t win, but that wasn’t the point. She left welts and echoes. Enough for WWE to offer a deal.
Dust, Dreams & Dusty Classics
WWE debuted her as Cora Jade, a Gen Z punk-rock princess with skater shoes and something to prove. She teamed with Gigi Dolin in the 2021 Women’s Dusty Rhodes Tag Team Classic. They lost in the first round, but Jade got over in defeat—there was vulnerability in her game. That rare, priceless currency in a business filled with pretenders.
By WarGames 2021, Jade stood on the precipice of legitimacy. She scored the winning fall for her team, pinning pin-up pain on the women who had written her off. You could hear the approval in the crowd’s thunder—it wasn’t piped-in. It was earned.
At New Year’s Evil in early 2022, she challenged Mandy Rose for the NXT Women’s Championship in a triple threat. She didn’t win—but the way she bumped, the way she fought—it was poetry in bruises. A small-town kid had kicked her way into wrestling’s biggest developmental brand and left blood on the mat as proof.
Tag Gold, Trash Cans, and Turncoats
In July 2022, she and Roxanne Perez, a duo built on sugar, smiles, and synchronized suffering, took the NXT Tag Team Titles from Toxic Attraction. It felt like the start of something pure, something lasting.
Then came the twist.
A week later, Jade turned on Perez, tossing her title belt into a trash can like yesterday’s leftovers. It wasn’t just a heel turn—it was a cultural reset. Gone was the skateboarding sweetheart. In her place stood a dagger-tongued bruiser with mascara running down her cheeks like warpaint in the rain.
She wasn’t here to play nice. She wanted solo gold, and she’d tear the mat apart to get it.
The Rise of Jade, the Return of Black
Feuds with Perez followed. Matches that felt like therapy sessions held in public. Chairs were swung, barbs exchanged. Jade’s in-ring work became tighter, nastier. Her promos now dripped with venom, not sugar. This was no longer the punk kid looking for a break—this was a woman disillusioned by friendship, corrupted by ambition.
By late 2023, injuries caught up. A torn ACL in January 2024 shut her down for nine months. The mat got cold. The spotlight shifted. But Jade—hell, Brianna—she doesn’t just fade.
At NXT Deadline, she returned like a vengeful ghost, eyes locked on Lyra Valkyria and the NXT Women’s Championship. And even if she didn’t win, she made sure people remembered why she ever mattered.
But by May 2025, WWE released her. No final act, no pyro. Just a silent exit from the machine. In the end, even a punk princess can be replaced.